Kern Carter's Blog

Hello friends, this is an email I never wanted to write. As much as I hate to say this, CRY Magazine will be shutting down.

I want to thank all of the incredible contributors. Your writing has made this magazine one of the greatest experiences of my life. I asked you to be vulnerable and dig deep and you’ve always delivered.

To all of you who have read any of the pieces on CRY Magazine, thank you! You’ve helped us create a community that we are more grateful for than you’ll ever know. I love what we’ve been able to build together.

This is not a final goodbye. Those of you who subscribe to our newsletter will be transferred to our WRITERS ARE SUPERSTARS newsletter. We’ll also keep this page up for a couple more weeks. We hope you still decide to follow us at WRITERS ARE SUPERSTARS but if not, we really appreciate your support for CRY Magazine.

Until next time.

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No more CRYing was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Poetry

Continue reading on CRY Magazine »

Did you RSVP yet? If not, what are you waiting for?

This Saturday, I’m hosting a workshop on how to blog to your first book deal. Blogging is what essentially led to my first of three book deals. I’ll be discussing the tactics I used to make that happen. I’ll also be sharing different strategies that you can use to blog to your first book deal.

Here is the link to RSVP. You know all of our workshops are free, so if you have some time, come level up with us.

CRY

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Writing Workshop this Saturday was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Photo by Danie Franco on Unsplash

Biologically speaking, the lacrimal gland in our eyes produces three types of tears — basal, reflex and emotional. Basal and reflex tears act as protection from external stimuli and prevent the eyes from drying out. Emotional tears, a prerogative of humans only, are produced as a reaction to any emotional situation and stimulate the body’s release of endorphins — the feel-good hormones. In short, crying is a form of stress relief.

Contrary to biology, many people feel crying is a show of weakness. My maternal Aunt has two kids — both boys and almost 8 and 10 years younger than I am. When they were kids, I often had an occasion to spend a few days at a stretch at their house. The boys were naughty and would often get into small skirmishes for which they both would be punished, but they were not allowed to cry. To quote their parents, “Why do you have to cry like a girl? Are you weak?”

Though I love my Aunt and Uncle, I have never been able to accept this barbed criticism and often questioned the logic of their anti-feminist approach. When the boys were infants and shrilly cried their lungs out because of hunger, pain or whatever reason took their fancy, they used to be coo and shushed. Why now, because they have spent 5 years on the earth and have graduated to being addressed as boys, do they suddenly need to be reproached for demonstrating their emotions?

Sometimes, the outburst of emotions became a tad exhaustive when the waterworks happened more often than not. I had several encounters with a few clingy relatives and friends where a minuscule argument led to huge drama, comparable only to the Ekta Kapoor soaps on Hindi television. By the end of a crying episode, when both parties meted out an equal number of insults, emotionally blackmailing each other out of sheer exhaustion, would they call a truce, each feeling victorious in their exploits. The silent bystander cried too — inside.

It is a struggle to be able to withstand such theatrics and maintain a solemn face, all for the purpose of goodwill — when one is well aware that the reasons for all the expletives and bawling out loud is but a mere misunderstanding that could have been easily resolved as mature adults.

And then there are the cathartic books, novels, music, and movies which trigger a strong sense of realistic connection to the environment woven into the stories, transporting us into that realm. Sometimes the characters, their fate, loss, sorrow, and conversations become so poignant — as if they are one among us—living and breathing, their actions and their souls become intertwined with ours. They stop being inked words in the pages of a book or some scenes in the movies — It seems as if we are living their lives via the stories. Their loss becomes ours; we unhesitatingly transfer our entire life on to those characters and feel their pain.

Anyone who has watched Titanic or Forest Gump or had the chance to read “The good earth” and managed to walk away dry-eyed deserves a standing ovation. While I have tried my best to maintain my composure when watching or reading these tear jerkers, I have never been successful.

For my part, the circumstances when I shed tears varies. My father had suddenly taken ill and as his condition continued to deteriorate, there was a point when we all feared the worst, especially after my father, himself a doctor, raised self-doubts of surviving the ordeal. Those months were a living nightmare. He was in and out of hospitals and the very air in the house smelled of medicines and helplessness.

During this entire period, never a day went by when my mom did not cry. She cried so much that I was afraid she might harm her eyes. She cried that nothing went well and if something went right, she would cry again anticipating that it might not stay right for long. I was too numb to be able to give assurances, my brain fuzzily trying to work out options. All I could do was be with her. In all that time, if I reflect back, I think I have not given way to tears much except for once or twice — when I was all alone with my thoughts. Either because I was so focused on acting and doing something, anything to improve the situation, or it was the constant buried fear of disaster ringing in my mind that shocked my brain enough to stop it from sending emotional pings to my tear glands.

If I am asked to rate my crying category on a scale of 0–5 (5 being the highest), I would be a 2.5. When I started out on my own in the big bad city of Mumbai trying to make ends meet, it was an eye-opener. Fresh out of college, coming from the ensconced home environment, the city that never sleeps was not one to mollycoddle me. The city and its people shocked me to start with. It was a ruthless teacher, it made me struggle and it made me understand the harshness of hunger, the pangs of rejection in seeking jobs, the pains of betrayal by co-workers, the tussle of surviving on a meagre salary — all of this was a bit too much for me to take in and I dare say I did break down more often than not.

It, however, taught me life lessons — never to lose hope, to keep trying, to keep your head down and do your work, be honest, be punctual (a few missed trains and buses did the trick). I learnt that putting a bit of love in what you do made the work easier, I made few friends, I dared to dream and try for better jobs, saved money. In the midst of all this, one of the people I crossed path with told me something which I am going to carry with me for the rest of my life - “Cry, if you must. But refocus and act the next day”.

Crying is no benchmark to the weakness of a person. Anyone who says otherwise is underestimating the scientific machinery of the humans. Crying is healthy since it releases the stress hormones and toxins and balances the body and mind. Asking of one not to cry or belittling one for sobbing is like asking one not to drink water. Each one of us cry in our own way. We cry because we are humans. Some cry in public and some seek solace in solitude. Life is unfair and gives us ample reasons to cry. My mantra — Make the most of it but be sure never to cry again for the same reason.

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We’re All Crying was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

A few poems that didn’t make the cutPhoto by Imani Bahati on UnsplashThe Weird Games Children Play

The kids play Marco Polo
without a pool
Their little hands flail wildly
in the October sun
No one is IT
Everyone chases the sound
of voices unsure
of what they’re trying to find

The Delivery Guy Is Dyslexic

243 is 234 to a keen set of eyes
buried in the head of an
amazing human being yet
try as I might
I can’t be in two places
at one time

However, he doesn’t know this
My food sits in front
of a neighbor’s door waiting
for me to retrieve it
I send a message through the
app explaining the dilemma

The digital approval of
a refund chimes in
I really just want to eat
what I ordered
without the hassle
|but I’m also empathetic to
the plight of one’s struggle
I’ll order again tomorrow

The Dog Does Not Approve of the New Arrangement

I was feeling frisky the other night
so I decided to rearrange the
living room furniture
Afterward, I cleaned and
noticed the dog focused on this
new maze inside her home

She does not approve

I nod satisfied with what I’d
accomplished and my little
friend huffs in disgust
She sniffs the furniture for clues
of sameness — I explain
everything is still here

She tilts her head up to
look in my direction and I can’t
help but feel as though I’m
being graded on my performance

I did not pass her test

This Is Not Bravery

I don’t think it brave to
exist in skin the color
of spilled lies and wake up
to a face that never changes

I didn’t ask to bleed the same
blood yet I do
and authorities Other me before
I can utter a word

It is not bravery knowing I
can die for making a sharp
right turn without a signal
in a car registered in my name
with all the updated paperwork

One false move and I
could be hashtagged

The type of privilege that offers
safety is what I envision
for everyone but centuries of
racism begs to have its
face at the ball of life
No one’s dancing . . .
we’re all too afraid to move

All poems were written in October 2021.

©Tremaine L. Loadholt

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Previously Submitted was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

New workshop — Blogging to your next book deal

Hello friends, it’s that time again. I’ll be hosting another workshop in a couple of weeks. This time, we’ll be talking about something I know applies to you: how to blog to your next book deal.

During the workshop, I’ll tell you the story of how I essentially blogged to my book deal. I’ll also give you strategies that have worked for others who have blogged their way to book deals.

If this sounds like a workshop you’ll benefit from, sign up here. You know all our workshops are free, so if you have the time, come learn with us.

CRY

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New workshop — Blogging to your next book deal was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Photo Credit: Author

hey little me,

it’s almost 5am & you should be sleeping, but it seems like neither of us is able to do so at the moment. not sure why i can’t think of you without crying right now, but i’m gonna try to turn those tears of sadness into ones of happiness, ok?

firstly i want to tell you how gorgeous you are. you’ve set the standard for kids in my mind for a loooong time; i even carry your baby pic in my wallet, right alongside Gma. and it’s not just because you’re cute. you are loving, and kind, and intelligent. you’re beautiful just by virtue of being YOU.

Photo Credit: Author

you no longer have to hide under the bed, reading to escape — you write your own stories now. it’s still a lil shaky because i’m just starting out, but i think you’d be happy with what i come up with. you’d be surprised to know that you’re actually a creative! crazy, i know. while academia was the “easy” & seemingly only path for you, it wasn’t really who you are. i mean, looking back, your artistry was always there — ’cause you definitely used your hair & wardrobe to express yourself over the years — but you never had anyone explain that that was an option. for that, i’m sorry. but we’re doing it now! look at us!

and you don’t have to worry about beatings anymore. that’s been over & done with for a while. unfortunately people have hurt you in other abusive ways over the years, too. but guess what?? you’re able to speak up for yourself now & you do it with relative ease! you have the power to leave when you want, cut off who you want, and go wherever you want…within reason. we still haven’t made it financially yet, lol.

you are so, so precious, and so, so good. you deserve goodness. and you ARE loved. you are special. don’t let ANYONE convince you otherwise, ESPECIALLY yourself. you are more than the things that have happened to you. you keep your head up, okay?

it’s a long, rocky road ahead but you do get to have some fun, don’t worry. and i’ll be here with you the whole time, even if you can’t see me.

Photo Credit: Author

i want you to remember to floss & brush your teeth regularly and to hug Gma really, really tight every time you get the chance. don’t get an attitude when she asks you to scratch her head, or roll her hair, or soak her feet. one day she won’t ask you to do them anymore & you’re gonna miss it more than you can imagine. and i know some of them are yucky, but eat more vegetables…i’ll be thankful you did.

so. now that i’ve cried all my night moisturizer off my face — no worries, they’re good tears! — i’m gonna end here. i’m not sure who needed this little talk more, you or me, but i’m glad we had it either way. it’s 5:15am & i don’t want future me (you, us) fussing about under eye bags.

i love you, lil mama.

— me
a.k.a big you

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a talk with my little self was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Yellow dandelion in bloom. Image by Alesha Burton

Dandelions bloom in my backyard again. They grow in folds, long and yellow, peeks of sunshine poking through trees. They grow over the ant bed at the bottom of my backyard and cover it up. When the grass dries up, the mound will poke out like a pimple. I wonder if the ants dry up too.

At my elementary school, I imagine dandelions make up the entire field. A sea, bobbing in the wind. When I used to attend, that’s how it looked. Like a field of untouched snow in the winter. It felt like the dandelions are infinite, covering every inch of ground in their yellow petals.

Dandelions have two major stages of life. Yellow flower and white seed. Sunshine and golf ball. No matter the amount of videos I watch on the transformation, it still amazes me how quickly it shifts from form to form.

White dandelion. Image by Alesha Burton

White dandelions used to rely on the wind to reproduce. Nowadays, white dandelions rely on children who love to pluck their seeds and throw it to the wind. They rely on children to blow the seeds off of their stems. Perhaps, if the children are as curious as I was, they’d rip the changing seeds from their protective wombs to see what’s inside. To get a good look.

I know that the children roaming my old elementary school yard, through the ocean of yellow dandelions, are going to get a good look. They don’t know where the seeds go. They only know that when the white dandelions show up, the lumpy bulbs will be more than enough.

Maybe they will also pluck the dandelion stem off. Tear it in half and squeeze it. If you were lucky, there would be a milky substance running out of the broken stem. None of us kids wanted the substance to touch us, but we all wanted the substance to come out.

The white substance is latex, produced by a defense mechanism. Now when I think of latex allergies, I think of bodies fighting hoards of dandelions, watching them float away to be reborn in the skies above. I think of skies being covered by white dandelion seeds like parachute soldiers.

Dandelion in the stage of developing seeds. Image by Alesha Burton

A dandelion’s shifting form is almost like the shifting form of water. From ice to snow to mist to clouds. All changing. All transforming.

A few days ago, the sky transformed too. It grew misty. The misty sky greeted me as I stepped off of the bus to begin walking home. The sun shone orange. I noticed the change in the sun, but didn’t remember the cause. It is a currently infrequent event.

The sunset sun is a burning red. Crayola red. I can stare straight into it and feel no pain towards my eyes. It stares directly back at me. The sun is transforming as our world does the same.

There are no rain clouds in the sky. Only smoke clouds.

There are major and mostly uncontrolled wildfires a few provinces over. The smoke rises so thickly it travels on wind currents like rivers to us here in Masadam-Yae.

It’s surprisingly early for such major wildfires to be occurring. May just began. We still have June, July, August — hotter days and hotter months are yet to come. I figure that, as I grow older, the smoke-filled skies and poppy sunsets are going to be much more regular in the summer. I wonder how much I can take before the soot grows dandelions in my lungs.

The dandelions and the smoke are quite alike in their eagerness to fly. To rise above everything and float, watching the luminescent city and the congested highways as they find a new home. Runaway stories and free bird stories have their origins in dandelions and smoke. Stories of those who wish no home on themselves.

I envy them sometimes. I cannot float freely and unobstructed. I am not a bird. I am not a faeri.

The shifting dandelion is our world. The wildfires are the bells of change. As are the rising sea levels and melting glaciers. I don’t have the solution nor the authority to speak on the issue. But I can speak on the freedom of the dandelions. They will stay free, long after we have disappeared into the ocean currents.

In the dandelions and the smoke, I see freedom and life. Maybe if the dandelions drown in the ocean’s high tides, then our eyes will widen at our losses. I wonder who will jump to catch the last dandelion seed, blowing to the ocean to join its siblings in arms and sleep of the ebb of the sea floor against the flooded pier.

Until then, I can wait for the yellow dandelions to bloom white in my backyard.

— Heleza

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Dandelion Sun was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

On being exposed and vulnerable as an introvert, new writerPhoto by Jessie McCall on Unsplash

70 followers, yup. Not 700, not 7k.

Only 70 at the moment, and I am already freaking out.

I woke up with an email last night –

“ xxxx + (plus) 1 followed you.

A few days before that — -

“You have a response from xxxxx.”

“You are now added as one of our writers…”

Oh my God, they do reply, clap, comment, and follow. So, these are really real, legit people?

I am aware that not all followers necessarily read or appreciate one’s published articles. But checking my stats and realizing that a few indeed, even just one other human being read my posts made my heart skip — I felt like a kid with cones of strawberry ice cream in both my hands.

I am new to Medium; a middle-aged, low-tech, introvert who is trying to go back to writing after decades of responsibilities and life experiences — to seek shelter, joy, and expression in the magic and power of words.

My country is not qualified in Stripe, I am blessed to be gainfully employed so although monetization is a delight, it is not the main motivation. I am here because I enjoy reading and learning from the stories of others, and I love the sound of the keyboards scribbling my own tales.

Yes, I did ask to be a writer in some publications that I feel suit me.

I have also been following and clapping for writers — amazing talents who bravely share themselves with the unknown.

My attitude in the past few weeks — “hey, no big deal, I am not even a tick in this humongous Mediumniverse. With the hundreds of popular, top-earning wordsmiths here — no one will notice me. I will be safe and unknown in my insignificant little corner….”

Vulnerability is the birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy, and creativity. It is the source of hope, accountability, and authenticity. — Brene Brown

But then my followers began to rise, very slowly, from zero, and so does my serious concerns about being open and exposed to a world of criticisms, judgments.

Can I handle this? Am I ready for this?

I mind less the ripping of my innards to strangers, but my pieces reaching family, friends, and acquaintances make me edgy. These are the people in my small world — most of them may identify themselves in my stories, and a few may not be pleased.

At a family gathering last week, I received various feedback from loved ones about my “new hobby.”

“Be careful what you write about- you may be offending some people who do not agree with your insights and narratives. There are the kids, our family, your relationships, and people reading you who know us”, my Mom reminded me after she read my last article, sipping a lukewarm jasmine tea on a humid Sunday evening. I felt her restraint in trying not to scold me, but she meant to reconsider this diversion I have landed on. To stop this, to end this, to reroute and find other activities that will not endanger our privacy or shake our associations.

I told my Mom I have not purposely invited nor shared my page with anybody in our circle, not yet at least.

Raising her eyeglasses to me,” Well, would you, in time?” I did not reply. Putting down her teacup in silence, she knew that she cannot restrain her most stubborn daughter on the matter.

“Diche, (elder sister in Chinese) … English is not even our native tongue; we have a national language and our regional dialect. Are you sure you can give justice to your stories in a foreign vernacular?” a niece asked me.

I understand these concerns. Ours is an Asian nation of sensitive people, everybody knows everyone in a community, relatives are close-knit, families are clannish, and people talk about every other household in the neighborhood. Public reputation and social image matter down to the least kin and the last generation, washing our dirty linens in public is seriously discouraged, never corrected, and never forgotten.

My sisters have different opinions —

“It is time for you to get out of your cave, write and flourish. You have long been cocooned, buried in your cage….”

“Many will learn from your experiences; use it to be a torch so that others may learn.” to those who are like you.”

And so, I must take a stand.

“It is in your moments of decision that your destiny is shaped” -Tony RobbinsPhoto by Ivan Aleksic on Unsplash

I came from a secluded family, and a dysfunctional one too. I am the second of five fatherless daughters, raised in our grandparents’ house in the suburbs. I was a young wife, a teenage Mom, and a single working parent. I have a small farm, but I live alone and work in the city. I have been broken and made whole, I have been lost and found, and I have miserably failed and won in the evolution of my existence.

“You have been very quiet all these years, and you are very private, Ma.” My daughter told me. We were at her swimming practice, paddling by the poolside, sharing our days during a short, lazy weekend.

“You hate visitors at home. You avoid neighbors. You don’t attend parties and events. You do not have a core group of social circles, much more people outside your work and your sisters.”

Why write, and why write just now?”

It is accurate, my daughter’s remarks. I am not usually heard or seen in public. I am only on Facebook, and I start trimming down my friends’ list once they get to 500. I am a recluse, an introvert; solitary and alone for most of my adult life.

Before that afternoon was over, as I was watching over my daughter taking on her 3km target lap, I grasped an answer to her question.

“I have been in a heavy, deep, and long gestation”, I told my daughter. We were having our snacks by now; tall, icy-cold milk teas and cheese-full tacos, distracted only by the rowdy toddlers in the kiddy pool wailing for their mothers.

“As much as I was given the compulsion to write, I first strayed far from the time and opportunity to do so. Instead, I was played by life in many directions, thrown to the abyss of darkness, pulled to the light, the process repeated, and so on- so I may observe and watch, grow and learn. I was in incubation, being harnessed, being polished, so that when the time has ripened — my expansion shall be aligned with the purpose that the Universe may have in store for me. That is, how I see it, why I should write and why now. Maybe, just maybe?.… .”

“Oh, profound, Ma. You were being taught what to write about, and you were made to remember them all, I get it”, my daughter replied.

“But you do not have to use your real picture nor your real name”, my daughter added, seated beside me in our car this time. We were slowing down and stopping in heavy traffic, passing through a big shopping mall along the way, going home.

“Well, it is not like I am going to be famous, not at all, I guess. Also, if I want to go out and write, however small I may be, I might as well be the real me — the authentic me, where I am, who I am, right now”, I thought hard before I replied.

I felt my daughters’ hand reach out for mine, then clasped my shoulder tightly, before putting on her music headset while road congestion was raging on.

Although I have not professionally published any work, I have been a writer and an editor during my school days. The passage of time has made my bolts and knots dusty and cranky; I do have so much to learn, but I think I have the basic tools to commence, to begin again.

I have something to write about.

I love writing, I love reading.

I may be scared, but I know I can write.

As women, we have given much of ourselves for the service and benefit of others. Our youth, our time, our talents, and our resources — we have offered to our family, to our work, to our community. It is expected of us, conditioned in us, we are born and raised to be nurturers, regardless if we are acknowledged or not. Our role is to offer comfort and support, to give up our needs, to ignore our wants, and to disregard our dreams for the sake of our loved ones. Going against the grain is frowned upon, telling our versions and standing up to our bench is not always approved.

Well, I have paid my dues and delivered my duties. I now deserve my voice, my bliss.

I cannot think of what other people think of me anymore — this has to end.

For friends who will be lost, good riddance.

For relatives who may disown me, goodbye.

For schoolmates, acquaintances, and townmates who will gossip about me- please enjoy.

For the villains in my stories — as long as I am modest and gracious, love and light to you.

For my conservative, traditional Mother — be proud of the courage a daughter is trying to become.

Photo by Thought Catalog on Unsplash

And so, I am deciding to continue writing, I will write my Truth as long as I find peace and pleasure in doing so — with no intention of damaging the names and identifiable details of others.

I will write my stories whether or not they are read, appreciated or not. I will write from my heart, from my soul, at my own pace and rhythm — and if another human being finds resonance, seeds of wisdom or nuggets of inspiration from them, then let those offset the ones I may have displeased and add them up to my absolutions.

Wherever this endeavor of writing may take me — I will submit to the journey, honor the path laid ahead of me, take the small steps in front of me, listen to my instincts moving on, heed the whispers of the Universe, and follow my fate and destiny.

My followers are slowly growing — I should not be scared anymore. Bring it on.

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My Audience is Growing, I Am Scared was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Chapter 1

And the son of the Sea sang to lord Moon;
He sang a song of lonely sorrow;
so the Moon gave Loves’ kiss to the Wind
and Wind gave it to the Sea;
and used the love to create the fish that we now know to be.
And the lord of Fire smiled,
and the lord of Sin’s mouth grew wider,
and it did so in silence.

And daughter Earth had been working,
ceaselessly, with undeniable passion.
And so came the hills, and canyons,
and the mountains, and the caves.

And when she was done,
she asked lady Love for love
so the very fish from the sea could come to her and live with she.
And the lady Love granted her wish.
And the lord of Sea smiled,
and the lord of Fire smiled,
and the Sun and Moon continued to dance,
and the lord of Sin started into what cannot be comprehended,
and his mouth grew wider,
and it did so in silence.
And for a time, it was this…

Till the son of Wind convened with the son of Sky
and deemed that earthly birds should fly.
And the son of Wind smiled, and the son of Sky smiled
and daughter Earth looked above with love for her birds;
and lady Love felt a singe in her heart;
and the lord of Sins mouth grows wider,
and it does so in silence.

And the animals grow,
till the humans appear — 
and with them the son of the People.
And daughter Earth cries of joy,
and lady Love sings,
and the lord of Fire burns
and the sun and moon danced;
and the people built their homes,
and the people loved and feared the Gods.
And the Gods revered and feared the Lords;
and the lord of Sin’s mouth grew wider,
And foreboding teeth erupted from his maw,
and no longer could he ignore,
and no longer could he be silent,
and with a heinous laugh (of gratitude)
he vanished.

And the gust of wind in a place no wind could be
knew this place was not for he,
and so, a gust of wind went to a place no wind could be,
and swallowed himself, and sat in his chair,
where he forever resides staring into what cannot be comprehended — 
by any other than he. (And for all time, it is-)
This, and all the more.

Photo by Davide Cantelli on Unsplash[image error]

Story of Creation was originally published in CRY Magazine on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.