Enjoy a journey through the "wonderings" of Wanda B. Lazarus (click on the links below)

• Genesis | The Origin of Species
  • In the beginning, there was the writer. Alone on her middling sea. Measuring high on the autodidactic Richter scale and wondering if she would ever achieve her full writer’s flow.
• The Myth of the Wandering Jew
  • Her premise was strong; what if the Wandering Jew … was a woman?  Of course she was, I was always getting bad press.
• Autobiographical Fiction versus Fictional Autobiography
  • In her fifty-page application, the writer mentioned in one of her fragmentary tales, that ‘maybe history has evidenced the notion of the Wandering Jew as “a wild-eyed hook nosed disheveled homeless banshee.
• Community of Practice
  • The group sessions were where she was at her most vulnerable. On her own, with me by her side, she had many Eureka moments.
• Picaresque and Picara
  
  • The writer had no choice; she’d stumbled upon her genre. And my creative myth. I had to be part of the canon, even if we deviated in a few choice matters.
• The Music Of The Spheres
  • The writer also chose to grapple with the mystery of music. I was against the idea at first; I hate music. I had it shoved down my throat from inception and performing for the visitors put me off the lute for lives.
• The Gypsy Girl Mosaic
  • And then, as is the way of all coincidences, the cyber trail led to a fragmented image of a dusky hussy, tendrils of brown hair cascading from a rust and blue headscarf, dark eyes staring from her youth flushed face, following the writer’s every rapid eye movement.
• The Ingathering Of The Novel
  • The first nine months delivered a plethora of fragmentary tales. Conrads by the score. She had a vague idea of me and what she wanted to do with me. Was I to be reincarnated through a womb?
• Dybbuk or Döppelganger?
  • There are demons and poltergeists, döppelgangers and dybbuks in every culture’s psyche, the writer tells me. And she should know. Taking on the theme of immortality – did I mention that I live forever?
• A Poem for the Ages

  • And so, as we enter T minus 120 days and counting, I feel it fitting to regurgitate a passage, a note to self, penned in response to her original application, rejigged for an early submission; spat out by the males, sucked in by the females; my statement of origin and the of intent. I know it’s a bit floral for some, but it might make a fitting epigraph. Or epitaph.