Writing My Own Myth(ic Life) – A Guest Post on Parchment and Quill

I find it interesting that this came to me, the words flowed, at least on this theme (hopefully more!) on this day that many (not all, I know) celebrate Mothers.  I personally celebrate the day before my son’s birthday.  I call it Mahmah’s Day, and I (try to) take it as a day for me, visiting a local botanical garden and a museum of natural history, as I did the day before he was born.  He was “late” and I did not want to be induced, so I tried to relax.  It had been raining for about a month.  It is raining (and snowing) today.  I don’t really celebrate today for myself as it is often around, if not on, my own birth-day.

But today words were born.

And maybe a new part of me and my life is too.

And that is something to celebrate.

Kerrie McNay, May 12, 2019


Last year I was asked to write a guest post for my friend H.E. Curtis’s blog, Parchment and Quill, about my experience as a parent and my involvement in the arts with my child.  It took me a few months to find the words, but I began as I do… with a list of KeyWords.  (See below.)

I found myself jotting down the names of mothers and daughters from stories, especially from the pantheon of Greek goddesses and my favorite fairy tales.  I thought of the fun little speech I made at our school’s open house, where I used some of my new circus skills (learned after my own child went to circus camp) to invite parents to join the Parent-Teacher Partnership, especially the importance of balance, and how it’s okay to “drop the ball” when juggling our lives.

In the end, I just let the words flow, writing them down as they came.

I hope you enjoy them, and definitely explore the rest of Parchment and Quill for more inspiring writing!

Guest Blog: Kerrie McNay- Writing My Own Myth(ic Life)



Parchment and Quill KeyWords

Words from the well…

And so I’m back…

Words have not been flowing so easily, yet the old well is full.  Perhaps a draught, a draft, a 17 year old vintage to slake our thirst…


We are the music makers,

We are the dreamers of dreams

— Arthur O’Shaughnessy

Colors, costumes and castles– my life as a ceremony, a celebration.  Endless images imbued with the water– a fountain of fantasy, a seductive spring in a real realm- of myth and man, magic & meniality, marvels & mediocrity.  Two worlds as one, but broken by boundaries.  The sane & the sleeping, awake and dreaming, haunted by heaven– a heavy hell indeed.  Dreams draped in orchid organza and olive organdy, as empty as the o’s that they begin with, or the notes that rise from an organ–there, but not; full of feeling, but not tangible.  A story with no end, a journey with no bend– always new beginnings, always reaching that point that was beyond sight, beyond reach– never settling down at a destination– that is our destiny.  Simple Solutions Slip from our sight, from our fingers– difficult to grasp.  Stars soften to swirling snowflakes, descending as dancing dust particles, perhaps persons on another plane.  These pearls of poetry & prose, word building upon word, images form, dimensions unfold, kingdoms land at my feet– each gem raw & radiant, waiting to show their worth– some are cast aside, some forgotten.  Prizes for a princess, memories for a maid.  Colors muted as they struggle to shout their sagas; stones with stories silenced when there is sight, but no vision; beauty lies in details, seen and unseen.  Truth is subject to who, wealth, & whimsy- fact just is.  With all the whimsy of my world, there is winter in a walnut, streets in a seashell, gold in a grape, all true for a moment, for me, no more.  Moment means milenium, month, and microsecond, as time is relative as it relates to me– a manchild to mold, a parent to provide, a crone to chronicle all I cast off– a family given to me, though often not what I need, but there when I do.  Ah, solitude, not silent, but screaming– things to do, though still I sit.  Too much time tempts me, halts me, holds me– no longer the parent, but the paramour– presenting pleasantries a plenty, too many to pick from that I lose my place– where am I?  What to do?  The words don’t come as easily now, not for randomness.  Images return, organized stories wish to be heard.  Shall I listen, shall I look, shall I restrain them by writing them in a book?

Golden verse, flowing from a fountain pen,

Jeweled words, smooth, faceted, each stone letter placed in its own finding,

Finding its place in a piece,

Finding harmony in a whole

The color fades



Only a hint of glimmer as stones drop from their settings,

Stars sleeping in the skies, blinking as the light of day dawns,

And the orb outshines her adornments

(c)  2000  Kerrie Colantonio (not yet McNay)