So, i wrote...
if you were a grain of salt
i would rub you on all of my wounds,
and you laughed-
master of pain
causing eruption of light
in dried veins of my love,
i'm rarely right
when talking to you
but
so are you
when talking to me,
we both know
words are not for free
and neither is love.

if you were a grain of salt
i would create a new god
to pray every night
to turn all the salt in the world
into sugar
and make me sick with the lack
so I could swallow you up
and feel in my blood
this streaming presence of you.

-you say, it is not safe
true
but so is the life
i'm obliged to liv...

Shelter of my heart was robbed
I let someone too close
without thoughts
of possible bedlam
not caring for the locks
on doors
and bam!
all stolen
even from the swamped
places of my mind,
petty thief
in skin of holy sheep
with face
of angel
true
without wings
stomped across
the piece
of my bloody art
flagrant,
a destroyer
of shelter of my heart

I have too many flaws to live a passive life if such kind of life can be called a living.

All goes according to the plan!

I repeated this phrase so many times that even walking blindly ahead started taking a shape of some plan. I did not have plan though, not really. I just had a list of things next to the list of books ‘to read in 2020’ and my willingness to take one tiny step after another tiny step towards something more meaningful.

You will be surprised to know that most of the things I had on that list turned out to be so easy that I still catch myself laughing thinking about them.

Signing for one-hour session with a psychologist was one of those ‘turned to be so easy’ things.

But don’t get me ...

I remember good days like a vague outline of the bridge which I enter on the days, dark like night sky.

It affects my writing. It affects me. It affects people, I care about. And even though there is no way to dispel clouds from life once and for all, there is still a way to help yourself stay on both feet in the storm of dark days.

Journaling yourself out of anything!

I was 10 years old when I first met people involved in business, self-development, mental/physical health and all of them in one voice were telling about the power of journaling. I was so wired up with their energy and even though I was just a ten years old girl and hardly could tell if I needed to journal myself out of anything (I was writing in my diary sometimes, but most of the ...

We are living in times, when everything has a price but this price is not always reasonable.

Who would not want to save some money if there is a chance to? Especially, when we talk about Book Translation.

Don’t get me wrong. There are no witless toilers ready to translate your book for a hundred of bucks. Book Translation takes time and money, and time is one of the main things that can help you to save some money! Another thing that might be useful regarding saving is Reason. About this we will talk in a moment, but before, let’s have a look at how price for Book Translation is formed.

1. Book Length

In my previous posts on ...

It’s like a battlefield,
I don’t want any of you in my room
Searching for place to enjoy
In the pour of the Moon
And then as soon
As the light dims
Flee.
I don’t want any of you any close
Any of your voices
Any of your words
Born in a plain, ugly need
To rejoice.
It’s like a battlefield
I don’t want to stand among crowds
Stiffened air and empty lungs
Reaching hands in attempt to scratch skies
Vainly. 
Or maybe, I am sick of the fact
That among all of these smiling faces
I am the one who is not living a life. 

Good translator is not a unicorn. Surely if you know where to look, you will find plenty.

The most common way – Translation Agencies. But even though it is one of the easiest ways to find a translator for your book, it will cost you times more as well.

So if you are an Indie Author on a limited budget, what do you do? Where do you search? And the most important question: how to do you find a right translator for your book?

If you have ever asked any of those questions, you are in the right place. The answer is Freelance Translators.

Choosing between Translation Agencies and Freelance Translators, it would be unfair to say that one is better than the other, cause bot...

If depression had teeth
It would be tiny little knives
Meant to pierce
Meant to tear
You and me, and that boy on the street
Sometimes skipping a fight
Sometimes screaming in fright
And not knowing that we are the same.
If depression had a smell
It would be a scent of smoke
Meant to choke
Meant to cloak
You and me, and that girl in the store
Counting dimes
Counting twice
Not enough
Unware of me and you.
If depression just knew
Would it talk?
Would it silently wait on the porch?
Would it drink stinky scotch in a welcome of feverish days?
Would it name you a fail?
Would it tell you, don’t dare?
...

There is only one way to turn one book into many, and it is to TRANSLATE.

Yet, the amount of books that never get a chance to be translated is enormous. It is even more so in the world of Indie Authors and their baby books. If you want to taste how truly dramatic this is, imagine ocean of books, drifting away from the starving hearts of its potential readers.

Imagine Shakespeare, drowned in among those drifting away waters of words.

Imagine Kafka, never crossing the border of Germany.

As a Russian/English speaking person, I’ve read dozens and dozens of books, some of them written by my favorite American/British Indie Authors, that will more likely never ...

Her bones smelled like petals of roses
Her skin – a transcendent ivory cream
Lips – soaked with moist ocean
Reflected in her bottomless
Endless eyes – a vicious gleam.

Her hair – a delicate work of Gods,
Fingers tracing the remains of nights
Left to remember
And crave,
Meant to be touched
Her bones that would always lie fragile
On destroyed grounds
Of shameless peasants.

In loneliness, I keep my chair,
In it I breathe, in it I pray.
For every other being there,
I leave a note, a word on it. 
For those, who come,
For those who leave,
I offer temporary seat. 
For those who fight,
For those who cheat,
I offer death on blowing wind.
In loneliness, I keep my chair,
In it I live, in it I sleep,
For every guest, 
For every visit,
I shred to piece my scrawny wings. 

The last thing I ever planned or wanted, for that matter, was to write poems. But occasionally things happened on their own and for past years I've written quite a few dozens of them. Don't get me wrong, most of them are not good at all, but some... 

This 'He forbids smiling, no laughing...' Poem is one short piece from my collection I think you may like.

***

He forbids smiling, no laughing, this can be hard,
In his mind everything is a lack of light.
He scowls, nothing real, this makes him strong,
No pressure, no meaning, he is a thorn.
He never gets warmer, never gets kind,
No sense of humor, he is a bug.
Created by people and spoiled by ...

Okay, my current WIP is not about a world where Death does not exist. What a senseless world it would be where no one dies, right? But the story is close on the tail of ‘what if there was someone who would be able to defeat Death for good and maybe, if lucky enough, to bring all the dead back to life? Would not it be fun to have dead risen from their graves and turned back to their homes and families?

Mmm, and while you're trying to imagine it, here is my little POEM inspired by this 'possible' world.

Don’t call it angel – it has no wings,

It comes and goes as autumn winds.

Don’t call it monster – it has n...