articles
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I’ve just shared something special on Substack: an exclusive deep dive into my upcoming book, Saint Woman. This isn’t just poetry—it’s an atmosphere, a ritual, a sapphic exploration of devotion, desire, and dark mythopoetic power. In the post, I open up about the making of the book, the weaving of language like a tapestry, and…
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![Writing Independently,Thriving Consistently [Writing]](https://lbachman.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/05/writing-independently-thriving-consistently.png?w=1024)
Independent publishing is no longer the underground route. It’s a thriving industry, a legitimate creative path, and for many a full-time livelihood. But here’s the truth that often gets skipped in the TikTok-fueled dream of instant success: longevity in indie publishing doesn’t come from hype — it comes from strategy.
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![The Beats of Protest [Politics/Music]](https://lbachman.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/04/beatsofprotest.png?w=1024)
If it isn’t the folk-torn songs of the 1960s or the sharp tongue of ’90s hip hop, music has still always held a mirror up to society—showing us ourselves from different points of view. Think: Bob Dylan crooning “The Times They Are A-Changin’” or “Fight the Power” by Public Enemy roaring across the radio waves.…
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For me, poetry and writing are inseparable. The way I engage with language—through prose, verse, music, and storytelling—has always been enriched by metaphor. It allows me to draw emotional parallels, to frame the strange through the familiar. It creates a connective tissue between reader and experience. That’s why metaphor is more than a literary device…
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There’s something about the way the wind moves through moss in the South. Not the Spanish moss tourists photograph, but the kind that hangs heavy and grey, like ghosts caught mid-sigh. It drapes itself over tree limbs like sorrow that’s settled in and made a home. The quiet here doesn’t feel empty. It feels like…
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There’s a certain kind of writing that doesn’t just tell a story—it opens a vein.It’s not always clean or careful. Sometimes it stings. Sometimes it stains.But when I write poetically—when I lean into the rhythm, the silence between words, the ache behind a line—I’m not just crafting sentences. I’m bleeding. This is the art of…
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In the great pantheon of horror, midst the shadows of clawed beasts and spectral wraiths, there lies a far subtler terror—one without form, yet inescapably real. It does not stalk from the outside, but waits within, ever present, ever watching. The human mind, in all its wonder and frailty, is perhaps the most fearsome monster…
