Friends, I need your help…
I’d like to encourage more people to subscribe to The Twisted Thread. I want the stories to get to the greatest possible number of readers.
Trouble is, in order to subscribe to it, they need to know it’s there. But outside my Facebook friends, my family and innocent people I talk to at the bus stop, no one’ll know it’s there unless they subscribe to it.
Which means that the most likely method to generate subscription is for people who’ve already subscribed to suggest subscription to their Facebook friends, families and innocent people at the bus stop.
So – I hesitate to ask – but that’s what I’d like you to do, please.
Obviously, I don’t expect you to do it for nothing. I intend to pay you. I know you’d refuse any suggestion of money. I understand that it’s a principle thing with you, and I wouldn’t dream of crossing that line. So I’d like to pay you in poetry.
Here’s the deal. For each person you get to subscribe, I will send you a poem of your choice from the list below. I’ve given the titles, and a one-liner about each poem. If six of your friends subscribe, you could collect the set. A pretty exciting prospect, I think you’ll agree.
The whole thing is entirely honour-driven. I have no process to track the source of subscriptions. If you send me an email saying someone has subscribed at your suggestion, I’ll emit a grateful squeak and send you the poem you’ve chosen. It’s that straightforward.
The subscription page is here.
When someone subscribes, you can contact me through the Contact page or mail me -
If you enjoy the stories in The Twisted Thread, please let someone else know. And then mention it again in passing. And then again, reminding them it’s free. And then tell them that there’s a poem at stake here, dammit.
Go for all six
A Dedication to My Wife (Redux)
A re-write of Eliot’s poem, a few years into marital life.
A Week Away
A fourteen-line Fibonacci poem, about family holidays at the seaside
A poem about John Milton’s bloody awful poetry, in the style of John Milton’s bloody awful poetry.
Jack Frost’s Talkin’ Blues
A beat poem prompted by a place in the Nevada desert where they store deep-frozen dead people awaiting resurrection.
Discovering My Orbit
A villanelle love poem, in the metaphysical manner. Donne deal, really.
A twist on the traditional narrative ballad. in a mid-West accent, apparently about a poker game.