My book is out.

My erotic novel has just been released this week. This is the blurb. It is available in ebook and paperback.

 

If you are on Twitter please find me and rt for a signed copy. 5 lucky winners.

 

The Wanting is an intimate account of Serena and Teddy’s sexual awakening. They undeniably have a magnetic pull and connection that leads them to each other. It is an erotic tale of relationships and their internal struggles as told through dialogue with themselves. One night, Serena and Teddy are out at a bar and they both meet and fall for another person. Serena meets Ben, an attractive eBook writer and Teddy meets Melina, a sexually charged school teacher. The story that unfurls, is a roller coaster ride of two erotic journeys. Questions arise…Are two people meant to be together? What is serendipity? Do soulmates exist? The Wanting is a book about the confusion between sex and love. It is a modern romance into the mysterious world of sex and the power it holds over our minds.

Anais Nin

We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospect.

-Anais Nin

Born on this day in 1903.

She is and will always be one of my favourite writers. Her journals are brilliant. She makes me feel as if I am not alone as an artist and a woman.

Celebrate #feminism and being a writer.

Thank you for all your support and encouragement.

I took this photo last week when I was swanky.

#selfie for @jwprebich @authordkollat @dstudioarts @catederham

Thanks for tags.

Tagging you to show me your favourite quote.

#quoteoftheday #anaisnin #anaisninquotes #christinastrigas #poetry #journalwriting

From my Instagram post

The Wanting

My book release is today. I am very excited to share my new novel with the world. It is published by MuseItUp Publishing and is available on paperback and ebook format. It is an erotic /romance novel.

Woodnotes

Last night I fell asleep

before you came home.

I dragged the dog out for a walk

but he hates the cold as much as I do.

He pissed all over the kitchen floor,

he despises being alone.

He ate snacks before bedtime

wallowing in loneliness.

You wanted to have sex

while I had creative writing on my mind.

My blue journal sprawled between

my thighs,

I want my head there, you said.

My pens took precedence

Patience was playing from my phone

I ignored you. I fought your lights.

You take it personal, but I’m a writer

and you know that I can’t interrupt

my flow. Sex came and went,

making love is for another lifetime.

I took the kids out for dinner

ate avocado rolls

veggie burgers

St.Louisbourg burger

with onion rings.

I said, it’s hard to be an artist

to be in a relationship,

I am preparing them

for the heartache, but it’s

Too late.

If the one you’re with

does not understand what a woodnote is

or what defines you.

It’s a natural musical tone

or the song of

some bird

no one cares about trees

nature is becoming extinct.

The young and old have their heads

filled with useless information

school shootings

young wolves writing poems

academia taking the back seat

poets knocking on your door

I am locked in;

dead children

another statistic.

Here we are sleeping together

never at the same time

chaos in our fear.

Writing prompt: word: Woodnotes

#februaryfalls18

Drowning in Carnations

You said write a poem

about New York moments

we almost had in our arms.

I ignore you

only focus on the times

we had;

the walk hand in hand on Ste-Catherine street

the xmas gifts I gave you

in April—

you forget everything I remember,

that is how memory prevails

I could never be true to you.

I apologize for the past,

present, and dead future.

I apologize for being cruel

for changing when you could not.

You were not who I thought you were,

I wasn’t who you wanted me to be.

Bitterness is not changing

aging is ice skating on my dreams.

I held back

this is why I am not in muddy love.

I gave you corner bits

you wanted me whole.

I apologize for not loving you,

when I said I did.

At the time I felt love.

I am not a global liar.

I was drowning in red

carnations,

the smell suffocating me.

I wanted to melt in your arms

instead I was alone again

amongst five day old flowers

and a fake necklace story.

#januaryfalls18

Ariel Poets on Twitter

Ariel Poets is a Twitter Poetry and writing account that was created by Alexandra Meehan and myself. We run the account and help writers and poets around the world by inspiring them with our tweets. Twitter has sone phenomenal poets and writers. We have writing prompts that we are featuring on a monthly basis. Use the hashtag #arielpoets and write a poem about betrayal. For the month of January, betrayal is the theme. Follow us on Twitter @ArielPoets to read our daily inspirational writing tweets. Our inspirations are Sylvia Plath and Anne Sexton.

This tweet on Ariel Poets is our most popular one yet. Take a look https

https://twitter.com/arielpoets/status/918067714769457152?ref_src=twcamp%5Eshare%7Ctwsrc%5Eios%7Ctwgr%5Ecom.apple.mobilenotes.SharingExtension

You can also find Ariel Poets on Instagram.

Take a look at what we are doing there too.

Thank you,

In the bones

Most times I try to hide it under my grief

but when I think of how eleven years pass

and how scientifically the skin and body

becomes all bones and maggots, this

freaks the fuck out of me. I think

of how his skin once touched mine and

how his love made me feel completely

human. Most days, I struggle to get

out of bed and feed my medical

condition. I hate the daylight

it sucks up my dreams. I hate the night

time, it eats up my worries. I hate

locks, they control me. I know how

my mind works under this umbrella,

it takes hold of all my bones

and caresses them while I’m alive.

You are not scared of death

he had told me, while lying there

dying from a freaky accident

that he should have never

even had. It was my fault,

I wanted him to get me

a burger and fries at eleven at night

on a slippery Montreal night

and the police officer said

all the things you don’t want

to hear, while waiting for

your husband and the food

and the love he will bring.

Death has holes.

The funeral was a blur

as are the memories now

and the sound of his voice

which I have long

forgotten.