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Marri Champie
Kuna, Idaho
I'm a writer
Recent Activity
THE RANCH GIRL COMMENTS ON Fifty Shades of Grey: So I don't even know where to begin with a response. My first response of course is as a writer. I can remember in our workshops reading and making fun of paragraphs pulled out of 50 Shades of Grey because the writing is just so incredibly clichéd and awful. Beyond that, I have had great relationships in my life and I don't need to read erotica. Because of that, I have not read the novel and really had no desire to do so. I tr...y to read things that will help... Continue reading
Posted Feb 22, 2015 at Idaho Writer
YES, I DO WRITE WHAT I KNOW Ranch Girls and Shape-changers are not much different Sometimes I wake up with dreams in my head that rattle the windows of my world. Sometimes I wake up with a song in my head that plays all day. Today I woke up with an idea I couldn’t shake. I am a writer in my dreams, in my soul, in my heart, and in my daily life. Most of my friends know this, and though only a few have read my fiction, they are slowly coming around since my job as a journalist ratifies... Continue reading
Posted Feb 22, 2015 at Idaho Writer
I have had an experience this month which alarms me. I have eight novels and chapbooks published through Createspace, all of which are available on Amazon. Because of recent writing awards, and public exposure, I have begun to sell a few more books lately. An aquaintance purchased five books this month, 4 of one title to send to friends and family, and 1 of another title to read for herself. She had the order sent straight from Amazon to me, so I could sign all the books. I signed five books the day they arrived and sent them on to... Continue reading
Posted Jan 29, 2015 at Idaho Writer
Do you love fantasy author Robin McKinley’s books Blue Sword, Sunshine, Pegasus, The Hero and the Crown, Spindle’s End, and others? SHADOWS is coming in September 26th! http://tinyurl.com/RMcKSHADOWS #RMcKSHADOWS Tweet it, Facebook it, blog it to enter a drawing for a signed copy http://robinmckinleysblog.com/contest/ Repost to share with fellow book lovers. Continue reading
Posted Sep 15, 2013 at Idaho Writer
TRACKS The Original Essay, Written in 1993 It was one of those early November days when winter is a certainty yet the memory of summer still clings in warm fall golds to the Aspens and willows bunched in bright clumps on the hillsides and in the hollows. The first snows had whitened Idaho's majestic mountains, driving the big bucks down from their summer haunts in the rugged, windswept high country. The land and sky were brilliant and deer season was at its peak. It was the best time of the year. It was, in fact, the closing day of deer... Continue reading
Posted May 5, 2012 at Idaho Writer
Wear a mask, get a flu shot, and then take your friend some medical weed. Continue reading
Posted Oct 31, 2011 at Idaho Writer
They’re two eggs ready, waiting in the pan for a little oil, a little heat, breaking fast eagerly hungry for the first meal you provide the empty belly. The way of your eyes resting on children my breasts makes for weak legs and softened yolks and will seal us into each other no matter where we wander how far we stray from the other in this life, this world two faces sunnyside up gazing at us like a postcard of our perfect moment. Continue reading
Posted Aug 15, 2011 at Idaho Writer
I wrote my first book in second grade. I would have started it in first grade, but I couldn’t write yet, so I waited until I’d conquered the fundamentals of ABCs before I started the novel. I wrote in pencil on newsprint. It was the story of a girl and boy who ride their horses from Patagonia to Alaska—or that was what it was supposed to be about. The book didn’t get past the whole packing the gear part and leaving home, but you know, it’s almost as hard to leave home as it is to write a novel, especially... Continue reading
Posted Jul 4, 2011 at Idaho Writer
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My novel can be acquired at: https://www.createspace.com/3603072 Continue reading
Posted Jun 8, 2011 at Idaho Writer
The hung moon circled the pine branches an orange hole in the otherwise imperfectly black night. I expected no light, no waking from the costumed and scripted dream. Are you as puzzled at the sudden brilliance or is it something you expected when you branched illusion hooking sap to fingers, nailing your intention on the arrow threading pinecones and stars as if they were just small change pocketing a jingle that promised payment. And so much more. Alone, surprised at that, disoriented over what might cause the night to catch such a fire in the coalbucket conjuration I asked for... Continue reading
Posted Jan 17, 2011 at Idaho Writer
Who sees the hungry owl twist from the branch, or his black remiges finger the round, white moon? Who wakes to feel the precious knot loosen, or watch the untied ends float free and rime with frost? I dream of the fire you are as the solstice moon is shadowed by the earth. We never imagine ourselves prey. We don’t hear the mountain lion come up behind until our heart is gone. I was so hungry when I came to this feast I did not see the kitchen boy take the plates or hear the cook take off his hat... Continue reading
Posted Jan 3, 2011 at Idaho Writer
Some hear moonlight. Some feel the white full light creep into penumbral clutch bewitched by crickets’ amazement. Some touch fire. Semi-conscious in opiated embrace, skin against skin frying in the night’s belly. Resisting salvation. When it untangles, some grasp for the small cosmos of pogonip drift-scattered through the dark fall. Dry leaves cling to the curtained willowbranches, a pendulant sway back and forth, heartbeat easily traced with fingers, like the bate of the hawk into the night from the high limb. Some hear the moonspray return in a prickle of regret that raises hackles of unforgiveness for failing to expect... Continue reading
Posted Dec 22, 2010 at Idaho Writer
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I’ve wandered over hill and dale Through rain and snow and cold Prospecting for a fissured vein That carries a lot of gold. Bill Zogg; from "The Prospector’s Song" In spring of 1940, news drifted across work-starved Idaho and the world’s gold-mining community that the Silas Mason Company of New York was building a gold dredge on the Yankee Fork of the Salmon River in Custer County, Idaho. Dorothy McKenzie traveled to the construction site with her husband Ken, "because there were no jobs anywhere else." Ken was hired to help with construction and eventually he became a wenchman on... Continue reading
Posted Nov 9, 2010 at Idaho Writer
We imagine that each year the Perseids come to us so we lie on the lawn and gaze upward, wrapped in a quilt, to the delight of the dogs who believe we’ve come there just to be with them, and the mosquitoes who come to snack. We imagine the arc lights of the meteors are stars falling as shivering we strip and step carefully from rock to rock along the inky river and slide into a mountain hot springs to feel timeless and slightly boiled until the surge of freezing river reminds us we’re still very much human. We imagine... Continue reading
Posted Aug 29, 2010 at Idaho Writer
He was ghost steps across her resignation and she had no choice but to sweep away the accumulated reasons she’d given up —the anger, the resentment, the sadness— or stare forever on the indelible marks he burned across her emptiness. She almost believed he was light because sudden blinding light magnified the recollection of warmth stirred by a man’s hands, and recalled the thing that twisted inside, the thing that made her hungry. What she desired would tear her mantle of indifference and allow death to come more fiercely but now she craved the light. Continue reading
Posted Aug 10, 2010 at Idaho Writer
—I would take a thousand steps a day and perhaps in this lifetime I could walk around the world, one step at a time, one day at a time. One hundred steps a day would not work for the world is more steps around than I own days. If I could —I would pull a thousand weeds a day and each year remove all the weeds on this place one weed at a time, one day at a time. One hundred weeds a day would not work for they grow fast and tough and resistant. If I could —I would... Continue reading
Posted Aug 4, 2010 at Idaho Writer
—is clear June Saturdays, light on lake like hammered gold coins dogs splashing mossy shallows where dragonflies condense summer to bottle-blue fire. —speaks frogged wetland melodies, shot with dazzled light, untangled solitude where worms and fish are simple sacrifice. —requires a good friend, a book of twisting lines, a couple of sandwiches, a tub of worms to crucify for summer’s sake. —squanders sunshine, recalls the long breath, piscatory time travel unravels reflections of sky and mountain. —nets wrecked souls, casts disappointments a stretched line, flexed reel into quiet water jumping with salvations of hungry cutthroat. Published in “Standing” Poetry By... Continue reading
Posted Jun 25, 2010 at Idaho Writer
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The appearance of things changes according to the emotions, and thus we see magic and beauty in them, while the magic and beauty are really in ourselves. Kahlil Gibran 2009 was not a good year. I’m tempted, even compelled to add, “for me” to the end of that sentence but I don’t; I have no copywrite or exclusive on the physical, emotional, and psychological hard times the people of this country have gone through for the last eighteen months. In some ways, it’s a relief to know I’m not alone in my misery and my financial distress. In other ways... Continue reading
Posted Apr 2, 2010 at Idaho Writer
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Come, lie down against my breast. Don’t speak again for only I can hear above the slow breath of roots and stones, bass notes of ashed time and bloodbeat of earth’s slow, slow pirouette. I embrace you, lust greenclad, pine-tinged —your irrefutable suitor— and bed you down whitely beneath a smooth, star-webbed cloak. Draw the mist-smoke curtain across break-blue sky and I’ll cover you to keep pogonip from biting your cheeks and sundogs from nipping your eyes. I’ll wrap you in a shawl braided of bird-song and morning thread, tasseled with sun-twists, knot the end at your bosom as you... Continue reading
Posted Mar 17, 2010 at Idaho Writer
In case you think I sit around and do nothing but write, you should know about my real job. When the Federal Highway Department decided to turn the goat track that ran through town into a road, my friend, Sharra and I went to work on the project as flaggers. At lunchtime, we’d sit in her old blue and white Ford F250 and make plans. I loved my job. Now she owns the flagging company and I hate my job. The two facts are unrelated. Sharra won’t let me quit because she hates her job too and I’m the only... Continue reading
Posted Mar 9, 2010 at Idaho Writer
This one's a tear jerker, you're right. But it's the way it is. Little things. It's always about the little things.
Toggle Commented Mar 3, 2010 on Footprints at Idaho Writer
Also--Princey boy was cheating on Di with that cow of a woman Camilla who's about as interesting as a mud bog. What does that say about his virility? He was just using Diana to begat his heirs--everyone knows that. Thank god for England, otherwise they would have to put up with children from the ugly prince and the cow. Now, fortunatley they have princes to inspire them.
We considered Di a tragedy, and Tiger a cheater. Why is that? It has a lot to do with our uptight, Puritanistic view of sex. We want to pigeon hole sexual behavior into a narrow and very rigidly controled behavioral pattern when it is far deeper and less well understood than that. Studies and thousands of years of example make it clear that sexual behavior is drivin by instincts purely designed to guarantee survival of the species. And the male of the species has a different approach to this behavior and attitude that displays itself in a way that people react to differently (usually) than they do to a woman's similar behavior. This is one of the most interesting and motivating human charastic. Sexual behavior is interesting to explore as a driving force in character development when I'm writing.
A better question would be why don't we consider it a sexual scandal?
It isn’t birds squabbling over nest boxes nailed to the post, nor clouds of pink crab apple blossoms that I love. It is the tracks across the patio. I sip my coffee and conjure them back into their foot prints. We worked and they played. We worked in gloves and mud boots with shovels and trowels. They played under the oak tree, the boy, and the half-grown Labrador, chasing the yellow ball, climbing and tugging the swing—laughing and barking and laughing. We poured the patio concrete and my husband, Garrett floated it until it was smooth. When the concrete was... Continue reading
Posted Jan 30, 2010 at Idaho Writer