Linda Bayley

07Apr 2026 by Linda Bayley No Comments

Three Hours

Last week, I submitted a piece from my novella-in-flash (NIF) to John Brantingham, poet, writer, and teacher, for his journal The Journal of Radical Wonder. He wrote back declining that piece, but asked if I'd like to meet him on Zoom the next day to talk about the NIF. As we chatted, he read the first piece of the NIF out loud, and asked if he could have that piece for the journal instead. My mind was blown. Of course I agreed! And we set a time, Tuesday morning, today, for us to meet again and talk about whether we wanted to take the NIF on a publication journey together. This morning, instead of meeting with John, I'm memorializing him. He died suddenly Sunday night. I got to spend an…

25Aug 2020 by Linda Bayley

Teal

Musings

Content warning: emotional abuse, physical abuse, child abuse, boundary violations, tickling. I wrote this because I needed to; please don’t read it if it’s going to hurt you. At first there was a little sigh of pleasure, but as I’d continued to touch her and ask her to stand for me there was a strained rumble and a sharp intake of breath and another uncomfortable rumble, the way a child held and tickled begins giggling and ends crying and pleading to be let go.- Kim Echlin, Elephant Winter You know that progressive relaxation technique where you’re supposed to start from your toes and work your way up your body, tightening and relaxing each group of muscles along the way? Yeah. I can’t do that. Ever. Just the thought of it…

16Aug 2020 by Linda Bayley

Monolith

Musings

In 2004 I self-published a chapbook of poems that I called Estrangement: Poems. My father had left town suddenly the previous September, and I was angry, confused, and grieving, and my psychologist gave me the assignment of writing about it. The result was a set of poems that I felt really good about, good enough to want to share them with the world. My mother’s reaction, when I finally gave her a copy, was to say, “There’s an awful lot about your father in here.” Only the first six poems were about him, but the way she said it I wondered if she thought she should have had equal time. I suspect now that if she were to read this blog, or my morning pages, or my journal, she would…

11Aug 2020 by Linda Bayley

Satellite

Musings

For a time, my father lived on Montague Street. It was a small, two-story house, two doors down from the laundromat and across the street from an empty lot. He had the main floor and the basement; another tenant lived upstairs, though truth be told I think my father spent his share of time up there with her, too. I remember a lot about that house, though it’s possible that I am conflating those memories with other places that he lived throughout my childhood. The bedroom was painted a deep teal — I remember helping him paint it — and the living room was some sort of peach or tangerine, maybe a deep yellow. Whenever I stayed over, I slept in the bedroom, and he slept on the pull-out couch…

13Oct 2019 by Linda Bayley

Found Out

Uncategorized

This is the story of how I discovered an ugly truth about myself, and lost a friend in the process. Who was the friend? She was my one Black friend. Not my “token” Black friend; just the one friend I had who happened to be Black. What was the truth? I am racist. I already had an inkling of this. I already had a fear. I didn’t understand how deeply it ran until pictures were published showing Justin Trudeau wearing blackface. It’s hard to explain all of this, because I am feeling deeply ashamed of myself. But I’m going to try anyway, because I owe it to myself and to my friend to own this, and to learn from it. For a couple of years now, I have been reading…

26Dec 2017 by Linda Bayley

Fear and Regrets

Musings

My regrets pursue me relentlessly when I am asleep. The school I didn't graduate from, the people I didn't love (or love enough), the children I didn't have. Things I did not say, thoughts I could not express. Apparently, the ammo purse I carry doesn't just carry my grudges against other people; it also carries the things I am holding against myself. I'm starting to wonder if it's not actually an ammo trunk. Whatever it is, sometimes it opens of its own accord, and something is launched to explode in my face. Is the battle metaphor appropriate? I think it might be; depression is a constant struggle against an enemy that can only be glimpsed in the mirror. My psychiatrist tells me to bury my past and stop thinking about…