My name is Laura A. Lord. I’m the author of numerous collections of vignettes and poetry and one awesome children’s book about a T-Rex screwing up my entire day. It’s absolutely a true story.
I graduated with an AA in Liberal Arts, with an emphasis in Literature, and then spent a number of years as a writing tutor at my local college. Then I got married for a second time and the man domesticated me. It’s been quite tragic. In some effort to find something more productive than laundry to do all day, I started my blog over at History of a Woman, and began writing in earnest. I am also a contributing writer for Tipsy Lit.
My collections focus heavily on women’s issues in today’s society:
I’m the liberal, pro-choice, pro-gay marriage, secular, outspoken feminist you were warned about. I haven’t traveled the world. In fact, I’ve never even been on an airplane. My upbringing has been a sheltered view in a static, rural town. But I’ve lived enough lives for twelve people. I’ve gone through stages of names, tearing them off like a badge on my shirt and replacing them just as easily. I’ve got battle scars. I didn’t wage war against domestic abuse. My fight or flight kicked in and I ran. I hid, cowering and broken, and spent years trying to get the needle threaded, to stitch the holes in the patchwork quilt of my self-esteem. I never fought the demons of drug abuse and alcoholism. I spent weeks on my sofa, weak and thin, while my mother made me grilled cheese sandwiches and I tried to figure out if I wanted to live or get high. I survived my teenage years, not by resilience, but by pure luck that my attempts to end it were never fruitful. I didn’t learn to love me until every man I’d chosen had managed to redefine “love” as some twisted, ugly thing. Loving myself was never pretty. I wasn’t the hero in my story, I was the human. And this human is writing that story and she’s got a hell of a lot to say.
My newest collection, Perjury is the child of yet another loss in the family and being labeled a “habitual liar”. I grew up in a home with a Reverend for a grandfather. I was in church every Sunday…and Wednesday…and for every camp offered throughout the summer. This wasn’t bible thumping; this was a no-holds-barred cage match between a cat and the holy baptismal waters. There was a silent mantra in my family that was to be accepted: Thou shalt not speak of it. The “it” being anything that could possibly make anyone look at them with a wonky eye.
I grew up is small town. Everyone knew my business. When I published Wake Up a Woman, spilling the stories about a particularly rough and unpleasant time in my life, I became known as the “habitual liar”. I supposed it was easier to hold ones head up when they said, “Oh, she’s lying,”, than it would be to admit that any of that could have been true.
I sat down for months and wrote, using my words once again to work through the death of my husband’s grandmother and, consequentially, work through my issues with faith and lies. I figured that if I was going to be the liar in the family, I might as well own it.
You can find me – this liar – author, in all these wonderful places!