• *RockStar.jpg
  • SingaporeAM.jpg
  • ann medlock banner10.jpg
  • FullHouseAMcropped.jpg
  • BillboardLong.png
  • banner3.jpg
  • PlaneBannerCropped.png

Latest Posts

It's been a long road to publishing my first fiction book, Outing the Mermaid: A Novel of Love, Fear & Misogyny, a book partly written at this desk in Camp Denali, looking out on that massive mountain. It seems the perfect time to share this story of a silent woman finding her voice. If you read Gloria Steinem's memoir... If you're a second-wave feminist, or a third-waver... If you marched on January 21... If you're a guy who knows he's a feminist... This book is for you. Pre-orders began on Spring Equinox March 21, 2017 Official release date: Summer Solstice June 21, 2017 You can reserve your copy at https://tinyurl.com/jawgbwb.

Spring means pre-orders have commenced for my first novel, Outing the Mermaid. Here we go, y'all! Publication is June 21, summer solstice, the year's longest day. It's the day the story begins and ends, the day a life-changing decision must be made. In the story. It should be a quick, easy decision to order a copy of this kinda gorgeous book. Shouldn't it? ? https://tinyurl.com/jawgbwb

OK, last poem for National Poetry Day... (Oh, the photo is a stock image, not my mom.) A DEAF EAR I’ve brought books of stories I can read to her. My brother has come with her favorite tenors and a new CD player. There are things we want to tell her, about the new great granddaughter who carries her name, about the fine apartment where we’re moving Dad. We want to tell her how amazed we are by the miracle we’ve found in her accounts, the safety net she’s woven for him with her thrift and savvy. Important things— we think—for us to say, for her to hear, before she goes. Her deaf ear is all she offers, her hearing side deep in the pillow. The nurses gently turn her head back to listening position. Instantly, resolutely, repeatedly, she clamps the good ear down, reclaiming the silence. Deprived of words, I resort to osmosis, smoothing her favorite tearose cream into her fevered arms, telepathing assurances that we’ve got Dad covered, that her career of managing him is complete, her successors in place, that she’s left nothing undone. She’s always made a show of not hearing the things we’ve had to say, as if they were of no consequence. This time she isn’t pretending. We are speaking only of this world and the things she’s already left behind. None of it matters. The story of this life and the song of here, have ended. Her good ear must be turned to hear the next call.

Site content © 2016, Ann Medlock. All rights reserved.