Selftitled is a song of myself, a hymn to my scars, an ode to survival. The book insists I am.
Buy it here from Trident Press
“Nicole Morning’s Selftitled takes the reader on a tour of her life and loves, in a way that makes you feel like you’re right there with her. The poems and stories in this book deal with loss, online dating, non-monogamy, motherhood, sex, protests and pandemics, and they’ll have you laughing at the absurdity of life one moment and reeling from its brutality the next. If you’ve ever loved your children so fiercely you’d do anything for them, but also know what it’s like to feel overwhelmed by how much they need you, if you’ve ever told a lover you’re going to put them in a story, if you’ve ever had that problem where you’re attracted to danger, if you’ve ever done drugs, if you’ve never been sure whether you crave sweetness or violence more, if you’ve ever thought: ‘I wonder will they fire me for saying / fuck the police / Like I was dismissed for saying / I’m already in love‘-you need to read this book”–Jessie Lynn McMains, author of Wisconsin Death Trip and The Loneliest Show on Earth.
“These stories and poems about the hellscape of love and family, hard drugs and internet dating hurt like a motherfucker. They rip at you and they say things you wish you had the courage to say. As painful as they are, they are also beautiful because they are written gracefully and with the intent to heal and exorcise the bastards. The smaller gentle moments here feel like spring after a long shitty winter, like the peace between wars. Nicole Morning is one hell of a fucking writer. She should be your new favorite. I believe in Nicole Morning like kids believe in Santa Claus.” –Adam Gnade, author of Float Me Away, Floodwaters
As honest and charmingly chaotic as a a deathbed confession, the stories and poems of Selftitled explore an America of Tinder dates, mysterious scars, unflattering selfies, motherhood, and drugs. Things cam be hard here, but self-pity will only detract from life’s splendor. In Morning’s work, the stars themselves toss beckoning pebbles at the bedroom window. –back cover