tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-222047842011-09-05T05:59:44.950-07:00Ruminations about writing, living and loving.Tomi Shawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09114064572095573486noreply@blogger.comBlogger71100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22204784.post-1142615288450253342006-03-17T09:04:00.000-08:002006-03-17T09:08:08.476-08:00

Opposites At the tender age of ten and a half in her elephant bell bottoms and orange Steven’s Funeral and Crematory powder puff football jersey, Alexia stepped on sidewalk cracks and cooked giant black ants under a magnifying glass. The adults in Vanceburg indulged her, the men with “cute little monkey” and the women with “jackanapes.” She smiled sweetly. It was 1976. Andrew on the

Tomi Shawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09114064572095573486noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22204784.post-1141190803797262672006-02-28T21:11:00.000-08:002006-02-28T21:26:43.826-08:00

Horrorist extraordinaire, John Skipp breaks the rules. His recent book, Stupography, is a collection of essays that covers a wide range of topics and concerns. His energy is infectious, his humor as audacious as it is fun. He’s one of the good guys, and one I’m pleased to know. We spoke in NYC about Vonnegut’s quote “literature is in fear of being swallowed up its own ass.” In what

Tomi Shawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09114064572095573486noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22204784.post-1140247003970535052006-02-17T22:58:00.000-08:002006-02-18T16:11:12.563-08:00

Born in 1947, Ms. Molly Peacock said of desire “it doesn’t speak, and it isn’t schooled.” She and I, we’re of different schooling. I grew with my hands: in the soil feeling the nurture in its moistness, in the felt and juice of a peach, in the slide of skin on skin. And I grew with my voice: an alone song only heard right in my ears, lullabies for my flesh passed on, whispers constructed

Tomi Shawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09114064572095573486noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22204784.post-1140028500276168912006-02-15T10:31:00.000-08:002006-02-18T16:10:14.293-08:00

I don’t remember how I got to work today. I mean I know I drove, but I don’t remember any cars I passed, which traffic lights I had to stop at, whether or not the geese were swimming on the pond. I had one of those soft, secret smiles on my drive this morning and my head filled with images of my man. It wasn’t because when I came home yesterday—February 14—there was a beautiful yellow rose (

Tomi Shawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09114064572095573486noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22204784.post-1139761137712695112006-02-12T08:11:00.000-08:002006-02-18T16:20:05.560-08:00

Every time your husband, Tim, pulls Mistress Avon into the water box, does a smoky burnout, trips the yellow lights of pre-staging to staged and sets the transbrake, you chew on the inside of your jaw. Heat blazes. Track temperature is a liquefying 130 degrees. The ground shakes with the power from 454 cubic inches bored to 477, generating 800+ horses. You worry the flesh of your mouth

Tomi Shawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09114064572095573486noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22204784.post-1139636135510114882006-02-10T21:27:00.000-08:002006-02-10T22:01:56.516-08:00

Last summer I had a chance to interview Jason Sanford, editor of storySouth. Before the nominations for this year's Million Writers Award are opened on February 15th, it seems only fitting to dedicate this POINTING to Jason, his journal and award. The Million Writers Award was a mammoth undertaking, garnering 600 nominations from 51 editors of online magazines, readers and writers in its

Tomi Shawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09114064572095573486noreply@blogger.com128tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22204784.post-1139510426733693362006-02-09T09:14:00.000-08:002006-02-18T16:03:35.570-08:00

Weekends are for friends: cook outs, jaunts to ironic restaurants steeped in shtick, the drag strip in my ‘Stang, or sometimes simply watching The World Poker Tour or cake decorating. It’s our time to catch up with each other, find out who’s leaving whom, whose parent is ailing, look at the most current vacation pictures or—rarely—discuss politics, religion or child support…albeit gingerly.Unless

Tomi Shawhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09114064572095573486noreply@blogger.com6