Author: sundaydutro

Burgeoning author.

Writing Prompt Winner: Janet Muirhead Hill

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March 2024: Janet Muirhead Hill

“to cause pain was a disease”

I didn’t know. I wish I had known. It would have made a difference in my decisions. I wish I had known that the compulsion to inflict pain is a disease. An overpowering disease that is passed from one generation to the next. The person who has this disease will hurt anyone he has contact with, if he can. But most of all he will hurt those closest to him. Those he loves the most. In doing so, he will push away the love he is convinced he does not deserve. He will inflict this pain with all the force of every pain seared into his brain that he suffered as a child. As those who would have cared, those who were responsible for protecting him, for loving him hurt him deeply, teaching him the best ways to cut others deeply, inflicting the most insidious, long-lasting wounds. And by hurting them, he hurts himself, and thinks he takes pleasure in it.

Hill writes from her rural Montana home which she shares with her husband, two cats, and two ponies. She writes for the joy of writing as she learns about life and herself through the characters in her novels and in the random poetry she occasionally pens. http://www.janetmuirheadhill.com

Sunday Dutro Couch

Behind the Scenes: Community Overrun

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My latest Sunday’s Snapshots article came out online with The Sanders County Ledger today and I’m anxious about the reaction. I know I’m not supposed to care, but I do. I don’t like being a person who says “there’s a problem! Someone should fix it!” I am very aware that I am someone and that pointing fingers without presenting solutions is unhelpful at best. Still…I did it. I said, here’s this thing that’s happening that makes me anxious, that I see as a problem, and I don’t have any answers. It’s all very doom and gloom. I even asked my editor if maybe we shouldn’t run it, if maybe I should whip up something else. Obviously it went to print, and here we are.

The majority of my community won’t read this until tomorrow, when the paper editions are delivered, and I am therefore living in a limboed anxiety of my own creating. Interesting.

Anyhow, what are your thoughts? Too doom and gloom? Read the article here.

Writing Prompt Winner: Fiona Walker

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February 2024: Fiona Walker

“an accumulation of small shifts”

Jackie looked around despairingly at the remaining inventory. September already and she was left with an accumulation of small shifts. She desperately needed them to all sell so she could afford to restock for the new season. But fashion proved unpredictable and it was the larger sizes of the simple shaped shifts that had flown out the door.

She looked up in time to see Dorothy – a definite Size 20 – float gracefully by her shop window in a blue and green shift she’d bought early in the summer.

Where are all the small women, she pondered; didn’t they like the simple styling of shifts?

Fiona is a recovering workaholic who loves to twist the turn of a phrase into a pretzel. She is currently working on a survival guide for dementia caregivers. She lives in NW Montana with her husband, cat, and way too many ideas for future projects.

Chris La Tray

Chris La Tray

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If you have any sense of self-love, you’re already following Montana Poet Laureate, Chris La Tray,’s Substack, An Irritable Metis. And you already know that his forthcoming book, Becoming Little Shell is now available for signed pre-order. And you know that he recently re-subscribed for Instagram and you can follow him there. And because you know all this already, because you’ve done all these things, you’re wondering what this post is even about. Bless you.

Here’s what it’s about:

There is a shortage of authentic people in this world (especially now that “authentic” has become such a buzz word). I’ve been disappointed by people so often in my life, so excited to meet a person I’ve put on a pedestal (even though I know better). Chris is not that person. Chris is exactly who you see, exactly who you hear when you read his words. He’s funny and kind, a bit salty and gritty. He’s above all present and real af.

How you can support Chris AND do yourself a solid:

FREE (although there are paid options if you can roll): sign up for his newsletter

FREE: follow him on Instagram

$30: pre-order a SIGNED copy of his new book

Disclosure: I am not in any way, shape, or form affiliated with Chris La Tray and I don’t see a dime if you do any of these things. These suggestions are all made with your best interests in mind. If I’m wrong, tell me so. If I’m right, I don’t need to know although of course you can always tell me so (my ego sometimes needs a boost)

Poetry In Motion

Poetry In Motion

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I’ve found myself obsessed with poetry lately. Mostly because I’ve had the amazing experience of hearing Montana Poet Laureate, Chris La Tray, speak which made poetry come alive for me again. I started down the rabbit hole of not only Chris’ poetry, but that of Jim Harrison and Ted Kooser, of Naomi Shihab Nye and Stanley Kunitz. I’ve begun collecting poetry books on my TBR pile like sprinkles on ice cream. Delectable and decadent and delicious (a nod to anyone who reads Chris’ monthly Substack).

It’s reminded me that I too wrote poetry once. Mostly in college, when Poetry Slam was all the rage. My poem at the time, repeated at every slam to much hooting and hollering, was called Poetry In Motion (of course it was, I was in college). I haven’t thought of that piece in ages, haven’t thought about creating my own poetry again either, until recently, and all thanks to Chris.

So while I don’t have any new poetry to share, I thought it would be tragically humorous to share the poem that won Poetry Slams back in 2000-ish. And please remember, no one was reading this, it was being performed, which is the only reason I can possibly imagine that it won.

Poetry In Motion

You and I,
She says,
We’re poetry in motion.

Poetry in motion, huh?
Bullshit.
We’re not poetry.

We’re Penthouse letters,
   Wet dreams,
   Cheap porn.
We’re parody,
   Fantasy,
   Mystery.

Poetry in motion?
No.
Not poetry,
Not us.

And not that your hips, lips, thighs, and tits,
Don’t inspire me,
For I’ve begun carrying mints
And shaving just a little closer,
But our bodies,
Wet, slick, sliding, riding, contract, shudder, release
Our bodies
Will never be
Good poetry.