Nicole Sharp


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Into the madness…

LC-DIG-ppmsca-01697 "SP.M.0911" / Angela de Rosette.

There are clashes and rumblings. The noise is deafening. The silence is threatening. I feel like I’m trapped on Willy Wonka’s boat, toward the end of the tour. Where violent images flash and scream. When everything the man is crumbles and become shadows of goodness that once might have been. The moment when everything is tilted.

And nothing will ever seem as it was once before.

The disruptive noise taunts; a shadow of arid despair sucks the watery blood from life.

The tornado of vocal destruction swirls and whirls inside my self. Each energy receptive nerve flushes the noise outward. Only to become trapped in a different area of this human’s body. And it builds up. Bubbles up. And I whisper the pondering wonder, are we going mad? Am I going mad?

And the noise grows.

Splashes of paint on canvas, a hurried sculpture or two, some spliced pictures pasted together. A poorly thought out poem. A rushed fictional hand job. The guts of artistic endeavors bleed out. Into the world. Into the void. In an effort to silence the mounting racket.

And I can’t figure out if I’m going mad or if it’s the rest of them or if it’s a little of both and if the madness is part of a symbiotic something and if it matters and if anyone can stop it.

Or should it be split open wide? Should it be ripped open wide? Should containment be wadded up into a ball and thrown in the trash?

We’re are all mad here…worked for the Hatter. A little.

To Bemoan….

I have been known to bemoan the writing process. Well not all the parts of the process. I love the writing. Sitting in my own space, creating strangeness. Creating characters. Creating extensions of myself. Getting lost in the story. Love it.

Now, the editing. I can deal with that. It’s not always easy. But getting to the editing is the hardest part. Once I begin, I can see the forest a bit more clearly and have a better understanding of what can remain and what most go; all in the name of conflict and story arc and stuff like that.

Outside the scope of sitting down to a pen a paper, a computer…the business side of it…that shit I bemoan.

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a wee Irish tale…

Amid the rolling green hills of Country Cork Ireland, tiny villages dot romantic landscapes every now and then. Mountains rise and fall, and “inlets along corroded coast lines” (I stole that one) give the southwestern coastline of Ireland the look of a land ripe with legends.

It was in one of those little villages, a fair distance from the coast line, but within the confines of County Cork that our Irish ancestors lived. You know, a great grandparent, some great aunties and uncles, random cousins who have become unnamed faces in old black and white photographs. Well, perhaps the names haven’t survived, but some of the folk-lore has. And what better day to dust off the stories handed down from generation to generation and breathe new life into them once more than St. Patrick’s day.

My dad has been telling me this story as long as I can remember. St. Paddy’s rolls around and at some point, he reiterates the tale handed down to him by his grandmother and a great-aunt.

The story goes like this…

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Unapologetically Woman…


I was born upon the slowing tide of women’s rights.

Surrounded by the dying breath of poems about Rising and art work depicting womanly strength.

I was inundated with perfect ads for perfect hair and perfect skin and perfect weight and perfect clothes and perfect teeth and perfectly perfect perfectness.

I ate a steady diet of lists depicting The Sexiest Woman Alive and how to look ten pounds thinner.

I keep afloat while the swells of what society decided I ‘should be’ ebbed and flowed.

I was tossed about in a pubescent tornado while grandmothers insisted reliance on a male was still a girl’s best option.

Directionless ideas itched and pushed, attempting to break free from stagnant casts. Tempting me to stand.

I dug my heels in and closed my eyes and screamed inwardly as I endeavored to dream pioneer dreams. As I tried to go the way none of my ancestors before me had gone.

I was enlightened by Maya and Gloria and Virginia.

I was inspired by Susan and Zora.

I was emboldened by Rosa and Marie and Oprah and Madonna.

I was educated by Ursula and Margaret and Madeline and George.

I was scared. I was wobbly. I was frantic.

Still…I took stuttering steps forward. Forward. Forward.

I was set free by Toni and Jane. By Alice and Silvia. By Willa and Lucy.

I have fallen. I have been bruised. I have been kicked. I have been shunned.

I have given up. I have sinned and repented.

Still…I go forward. Forward.

Judy and Frida, Georgia and Alice taught me about beauty.

I have toasted dreams and basked in the glow of laughter at a table designed for life.

I have been violently supported by my mother.

I have been treasured by my sister.

I have been held up by dear friends.


Forward was the only way to go.

I have fought. I have raged.

I have prayed. I have won.

I am not a success. I am not a failure. I am not a commodity nor a product. I do not need to be patted on the head or demonized.  I am not more and I am not less.

I am a breath of life in an infinite space.

Moving forward.

But of all the things I am and am not.

Mostly, I am not sorry.



So, there is this guy who is going around the world with this idea. The idea being that amid the horrors and difficulties many of us face on a daily basis, kindness abounds.

I needed something to watch for like five minutes while I was pretending to rest and be getting over my cold last night. I stumbled on this show on Netflix called The Kindness Diaries.

Leon Logothetics is the man behind this show. An Englishman who went to the right schools, got the right job, and was living the life society sold him.  But after he achieved everything he was ‘supposed to’, he found this horrific truth. He wasn’t happy. Actually, he was downright depressed and miserable.

So he did something amazing. He decided to go away. Actually, he decided to walk across America with only five bucks and the generosity of strangers. That experience resulted in a book and a TV show called “Amazing Adventures of a Nobody.”

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Rejection and the Writer

Since my blog is heavy on the daily ins and outs of the writer’s life; you know, the accolades and the challenges I face as a writer. It only seems apropos I talk about one of the stranger elements of this process. The rejection. I have willingly chosen to follow a career path that leads, more often times than not, to rejection. I wanted to talk about that today, but not just the normal run of the mill rejection, but rejection from a literary agent.

The dream of finding a real live literary agent to gush about has been swirling for a few years now. I dream of the day I’m able to gush wildly across my personal inter web spaces, “I have an agent! I have a downright, honest to God, Literary Agent!”

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To Quote…again

Today, I just want to have one breathing moment of powerful, lovely, happiness in one place. I am in the need of beauty. Beautiful words, beautiful images, beautiful ideas.

Joy is its own kind of rebellion. – Chuck Wendig

Monteriggioni Italy

“You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I’ll rise.”

– Maya Angelou

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Susan B. Anthony’s place setting from Judy Chicago’s Dinner Party

My hope. My soul. My passion. They are all mixed together in my love of prose and poetry. In literature. In lovely groupings of words. And in language.

As a writer I think about language quite often. How it can be simply functional. “I see a tree. Do you see?”

It can be lyrical. “I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was a hurricane.” John Green Looking for Alaska.

It can be playful. “At least once a fortnight a corps of caterers came down with several hundred feet of canvas and enough colored lights to make a Christmas tree of Gatsby’s enormous garden.” -F. Scott Fitzgerald.

It can be memorable. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” – A Tale of Two Cities.

And of course language can be moving, “We cross our bridges as we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and the presumption that once our eyes watered.”
—Tom Stoppard, Rosencratz and Guildenstern Are Dead.

And language can be rebellious.

Good lord, language can be a form of rebellion.

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What’s in a name…

This will be fun…

With the dawn of a new…whatever the hell this is about to be, one of the things in danger (on a very long list of things in danger) are the arts. So in the name of creativity and art, here is a list of monikers for the Orange Monster in the Golden Tower. You know, in honor of today’s madness. Some names I’ve heard; other’s I went in search of. I tried to give credit where it was due, if I messed up, please excuse; I’m human.

(In no particular order.)

  1. Short-fingered Vulgarian – Graydon Carter chief editor for Vanity Fair.
  2. Orange Anus – Rosie O’Donnell
  3. Golden Wrecking Ball – Sarah Palin (who was reportedly not trying to be funny)

Jon Stewart offered the following:

  1. Fuckface Von Clownstick (a forever favorite!)
  2. Man-baby
  3. Comedy Entrapment
  4. Unrepentant Narcissistic Asshole

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Hope is an interesting thing these days, isn’t it? I am stuck in a harsh wash cycle of hoping things work out and hoping I can fight the good fight for the long haul and hoping things will just somehow ‘work out’ over the next few years. The waxing, waning mess is akin to a gaggle of teenage hormones. Screaming and crying one minute; happy go lucky with a plan of action for their future the next.

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