Storyteller of the Week

Laura Stamps

 

Laura Stamps at 18

Laura Stamps began making, writing, and illustrating little handmade books when she was five years old. She would stitch the pages together with thread from her mother’s sewing basket. In high school and college her English professors told her she had writing talent and she was accepted into all the honors classes in literature. But being dyslexic, telling stories with paint was easier. Plus, she was winning all the art awards in school. That gave her plenty of incentive to major in Fine Art as a career. When she was a senior in high school, she began selling paintings at art festivals, and continued to do that for the next twelve years. After college her paintings were selling in galleries across the country. Prints of her paintings were published by Haddad’s Fine Arts, Inc. and sold worldwide in galleries, frame shops, and chain stores like Bed, Bath, and Beyond, Target, K-Mart, etc.

One day she bought a “Writer’s Digest” magazine at Waldenbooks, read it cover to cover and loved every word in it, especially Judson Jerome’s monthly poetry column. That column inspired her to write a poem. It was awful, she says.. But for the first time she was satisfied creatively. That was the day her art career ended. After that, she dug out all her college English grammar text books, studied like crazy, and ordered at least fifty books from the Writer’s Digest Book Club on how to write everything from poetry to fiction to nonfiction. She read, studied, wrote every day, submitted to countless magazines, and eventually overcame dyslexia.

Thirty-five years later, she’s published over 65 novels, novellas, short story collections, and poetry books. Many of her novels and novellas have spent months or years on Amazon bestsellers lists. Her stories and poems have appeared in almost two thousand literary magazines and anthologies worldwide.

In 2005, she received a Pulitzer Prize nomination for her poetry book “The Year of the Cat” She has also been nominated for numerous Pushcart prizes.  The only painting or drawing she does now is an occasional cover for one of her chapbooks (like “Dog Dazed”).!

Her most recent poetry books are: It’s All About the Ride: Cat Mania (Alien Buddha Press, 2021), Dog Dazed (Kittyfeather Press, 2022), The Good Dog (Prolific Pulse Press, 2023), and Addicted to Dog Magazines (Impspired, 2023). You can find her every day on Facebook (Laura Stamps) and her website: www.laurastampsfiction.blogspot.com  

 

Comments by Sharon Waller Knutson

When I read Laura Stamp’s “Dear Elaine” poems, I knew she was my kind of poet because she was funny, smart, clever and she dared to be different. She epitomizes what this site is all about: being ourselves and telling stories no matter what obstacles get in our way. For her, it was dyslexia.

I asked Laura how she came up with the Dear Elaine poems and if they were part of a book and this is what she wrote:

“As for the Elaine poems, first I am a novelist, so new characters are always presenting themselves and their stories to me. Second, all my poetry is narrative and fictional. I never use myself as the subject.

The Elaine poems have been great fun to write. Elaine loves buying pretty postcards and sending them. She used to have a poet friend out on the west coast who would make handmade postcards with snippets of his poems. They wrote postcards to each other for years. But he passed away. Since then none of her friends have wanted to exchange postcards with her. They'd rather email or text. So she decided to send postcards to herself, one or two every week, filled with things she would like to remember, things she's thinking about, or odd things she sees every day.

These poems are part of a new chapbook of prose poems called POSTCARDS TO HERSELF. Currently, that manuscript is out in chapbook competitions.”

I am proud to publish five of her “Dear Elaine” poems.


Sunburn

“Dear Elaine,” she writes on a new postcard. “I used to drink in high school. I did. Not my fault. The drinking. It was JoBeth. She started it. Best friends in high school. That would be us. Went to Daytona Beach together our senior year. Spring break. I’ll never forget it. Two days in the sun, and we were burned to a crisp. Lobsters. Oh, yeah. That would be us. JoBeth said bathing in milk was good for sunburn. Prevents peeling. Okay, then. Off to the 7-Eleven we went. JoBeth bought a carton of milk and two beers. I bought a jar of Noxzema. (I’d heard that was better for sunburn.) She gave me one of the beers in the car. Said she bought it for me. I didn’t drink. But we were eighteen. And legal. Okay, then. Why not? That first beer. Tasted like pond scum. (How could I be so stupid?) Three days later I was drinking like a pro. Tasted great. All of it. Beer (lots of that). Drinks with tiny umbrellas. Wine spritzers. Margaritas. Anything. Everything. I tried it. Loved it. All of it. By the end of the week JoBeth looked like a tanned goddess. Not me. I was peeling like an orange. Noxzema? Total fail. A year later I stopped drinking. Started dating a drug addict. (How could I be so stupid?) No brain cells back then. None. Obviously. I blame it all on the beer.”          


Now I’ve Seen Everything

“Dear Elaine,” she writes. “You’ll never guess. Never. At the liquor store. King’s. One of his stores. The one down the street from my apartment. He’s got a new product. Saw the sign this week. On my evening walk. With Holly. Big sign. Right next to the road. Can’t miss it. This new product. You’ll never guess. Never. Ice cream tacos. Can you believe it? I mean. Whose idea was that? Crazy. Totally. For any store. But a liquor store? Come on. Think about it. No one goes to a liquor store to buy ice cream. No one. And yet, and yet. I can’t help wondering. You know. What does it look like? This ice cream taco. So we did it. Me and Holly. We stopped. Tonight. On our evening walk. We did. We came. We saw. We couldn’t believe it. Ice cream tacos. Right there. In the frozen section. Just a big blob of ice cream. Vanilla. Stuffed in a taco shell. Topped with a few sprinkles. And that’s it. I mean, seriously. How boring! Crushed. That’s what I was. And Holly too. So disappointed. Totally. Had to fix this. Had to. So we went to the grocery store. Bought a Milk-Bone for Holly. And a pint of Haagen-Dazs Double Belgian Chocolate Chip for me. You know. Real ice cream. Ate it. All of it. We did. Yeah. We’re feeling much better now. Much, much. Thanks for asking.”

Green

“Dear Elaine,” she writes. “You’ll never guess what happened. To me. Driving down Tucker Road. To the post office. The traffic lights. You should have seen it. Every light was green. One right after the other. No kidding. I mean. You know how many there are. Seven or eight. Those traffic lights. And most are red. Always. They are. For me. But not today. Green. Every one of them. And all the way down. To the post office. Odd. Don’t you think? I wonder, wonder. Is the Universe trying to tell me something? I mean. This never happens to me. Never. All those green lights. One right after the other. This is a sign. Isn’t it? Has to be. Has to mean something. It does. There’s a message in here somewhere. I can feel it. But what? What? Who knows? Although. When I think about it. Go. That’s what green means. Go, go, go. But where? Go where? Go shopping? Hey. Great idea! Shopping. Always good for the soul. It is. Shopping. But where? Where to go? Well, there’s PetSmart. And all those doggie sweaters. In every size. Christmas sweaters. They’ve got them. Lots of them. I should get one. For Holly. A Christmas sweater. Green. Yorkie-size. Maybe two. Hey. That’s it! Mystery solved. Green lights. Green doggie sweaters. Yeah. Sounds good to me. Okay. Got to run. I’m off to PetSmart. With Holly. For a Christmas sweater. Maybe two. In the meantime. How are you?”


American Cheese

“Dear Elaine,” she writes. “About my friend Amy. She thinks I spend too much time with my dog. That I need to get out more. You know. With people. Date more. So she arranged one. A date. With her cousin. A blind date. I know, I know. Could be a disaster. Usually. It is. A disaster. But I said okay. I mean. Amy has a good heart. It was just a lunch date. So I went. Ordered a salad. He got a cheeseburger. And then, and then. I told him I’m vegan. He frowned. Looked at my salad. Told me he only eats burgers. Cheeseburgers. Smothered in melted cheese. American cheese. I said I could relate. He frowned. I mean. I’m vegan. What do I know about cheese? Right? I told him it’s for Holly. The cheese. My Yorkie. Holly. It’s how I get her to take her vitamin pill. Half a slice. American cheese. Wrapped around the pill. And it works. It does. Gone. In sixty seconds. The cheese. The pill. Gone. I told him he should try it. He frowned. Thought I was comparing him to a dog. Well. I was. I guess. And then, and then. The cheeseburger was gone. And he was gone. Date over. Poor Amy. She should get a dog. Really. She should. Then she’d know. Why, why, why. A dog is better than a date. A blind date. And then I’ll tell her about the cheese. American cheese. I will. I promise.”


Punk

She looks through the box on her desk. That’s where she keeps them. Her postcards. But only the pretty ones. Like this. This postcard. The one she’s looking for. A troll doll. That hair. Oh, oh, oh! How she loves it. Shooting up from its head like a fuchsia flame. Like her old troll doll. The one she used to have. Back then. Elementary school. The doll she kept in her purse. Slipping her hand inside during class. Stroking its hair. So, so silky. That troll doll. That hair. It always made her smile. “Dear Elaine,” she writes on this postcard. “Driving home from the grocery store. Holly sitting next to me. Strapped in her car seat. Such a good girl. My little Yorkie. Chewing on a dental bone. Blueberry. Her favorite flavor. But this sign. Tiny. Barely noticeable. On the side of the road. Almost missed it. I did. Punk Flea Market. That’s what it said. What? What’s that? No idea. So I googled it. Huge. It is. This flea market. Here. Today. Right now. In the park. Zillions of vendors. Punk, hippie, rock, counterculture. Not my thing. But then, but then. In the vendor photos. There they were. Troll dolls. In every size and color. Oh, oh, oh! Got to go. Got to. This flea market. I can take Holly with me. She’ll go. But only, only. If I give her another dental bone. Blueberry. Of course. You know. For the ride. Yeah. That’s my girl.” 

 

Publishing credits:

“Sunburn” (The Rye Whiskey Review) 

“Now I’ve Seen Everything” (The Rye Whiskey Review) 

 “Green” (Lone Stars Magazine) 

 “American Cheese” (The Gorko Gazette) “Punk” (Chewers & Masticadores) 

 “Punk” (Chewers & Masticadores)