Eva Moe

Author: Eva

  • November 21st, Poem 4

    Of the many poems I wrote yesterday for NaNoWriMo, this one was my favorite.

    I hit 30,000 words a few days ago. Hopefully on this long weekend I can catch up!

  • Tornado

    So moody. It looks like something a teenager would write on the inside cover of their wide ruled notebook.

  • bloated

  • What should I do with my life right now? (Part 1)

    Hello everyone,

    This weekend I went to the Big Water Film Festival in Ashland, Wisconsin, as the film I worked on made it into the festival. Long story short, I forgot all about my money-making job (which doesn’t pay me what I’m worth and doesn’t allow me to utilize my strongest skills) and fell completely head over heels back into my creative brain. I breezed through conversations, initiated debates, made people laugh and included every person in our group into all of it. I experienced what it truly means to be in my element. I was among my people: creatives with ideas.

    And now it’s Sunday night. I’m faced with the dread of returning to a job that kills my soul. For most of us, it’s a familiar feeling. Somehow by returning to work tomorrow, I feel that I’m letting myself down. What is my true potential? I should be questioning everything around me, making art in whatever medium I want. I should be playing.

    This isn’t an idea that generates much sympathy. After all, in Corporate America, a balance of work and play is the formula for happiness. This idea has poisoned American workers for generations.

    Work and play. How about work that feels like play? Play that is actually work? Something actually enjoyable that stimulates your mind and brings your inner strengths to the surface on a daily basis? That sounds like my type of job.

    This isn’t an argumentative essay about the realities of “work”. Rest assured, it’s about me. Maybe you will find something useful in my anxious, panicked rant.

    Current Equation
    Work + Play = Balanced life.

    My Equation
    Play + Time = Balanced life.

    Here’s the thing.
    I have so many ideas addressed to my attention
    coming from a place of panic.
    I don’t have to change the decade to feel I’m being bold.
    2017, you see me at my parent’s house
    forced to invent my own job.
    I should record poems and put them on bandcamp,
    quit the bosses and publish a book,
    get on stage with my violin -> give everyone some music
    whether they wanted it or not.
    Where did the idea that work is not enjoyable
    come from?

    To be continued.

  • NaNoWriMo Begins!

    I’m eager to begin this year’s NaNoWriMo! This year, I’m working on a new volume of Sort of Super as well as continuing my book of random stories from my life.

     

  • From the Notebook: Emails

  • Breakfast with Mom and Sister – October 15 2017

    This morning while having breakfast, my mom and sister asked about my poetry book.
    “What even is a poetry book?” My sister asked. So I pulled a bunch of books off the shelf in my bedroom and returned to the kitchen. I pulled Pablo Neruda, Buddy Wakefield, Shel Silverstein, Robert Louis Stevenson.
    Then I showed them Rupi Kaur’s book “Milk and Honey”.
    “This one is a New York Times bestseller,” I said.
    “Maybe that will be you!” Mom said.
    My mom honestly thinks that I’ll finally have money if I publish a book. Like all it will take is one publication, then I’ll be famous and the dough will roll right in. LOL MOM NO.

  • Re: Housman

    I to my perils
    came not like A.E. Housman
    “clad in armor by stars benign”
    I swam to them in my PJs
    hair kinked, water logged
    and trouble was a bonfire.

    Trouble was the thing he kept his mind on huh
    Trouble was the thing he took to supermarkets
    hoping This was the day
    right by the spinach
    he could be a true and worthy victor
    ‘cause his mind was in the game.
    Did he want to prove himself stronger than us
    the mortals who wished for everything sweet

    I wished too hard for time to pass
    and passing is the great gift and curse of prickly knees.
    I tugged myself through marshes by tufts of leg hair
    to which I gleamed a shining eye to Hope
    I’d not trifle with a fleeting love
    or luck money or mock fame.

    Turns out every part of me is mortal fool,
    and Housman, he’s under the stars
    Hands behind his head, grinning
    because he left out a stanza.

  • Small differences

    Trying very hard to have interesting handwriting. 

  • From the Journal: Angry rewrite of The Road Not Taken