Deborah George, script doctor

Meet Deborah Sue George

A novelist, screenplay writer, and poet, Deb co-authored Ignatius Rising: The Life of John Kennedy Toole. She is the sole writer of its related screenplay, NEW ORLEANS SON, as well as INTO THE RIVER, a screenplay based on the life of Navajo visionary artist, David Chethlahe Paladin.

Deb is a full-scholarship winner in the Santa Barbara Writers Conference, 2018. By invitation, she has read her work at cultural art centers in Paris, France, in participation with Cecilia Woloch's Paris Poetry Workshops. A member of poet Cathy Colman's writers group, she was a finalist in the Beyond Baroque Poetry Contest. She has performed at Spark Off Rose, a Los Angeles-based, spoken-word theater.

In addition to her writing, Deb has been involved in teaching, outreach, and mentoring work. She has been nationally recognized for her writing workshops with The Drama Club at Louisiana State Penitentiary; served as a mentor for the WGA-West Vets Writing Project, where she led workshops for veterans returning from Afghanistan and Iraq; and mentored young women enrolled in Write Girl, a nonprofit which provides guidance for at-risk high school girls interested in becoming writers.

Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Chaffin Journal, Clackamas Literary Review, Compass Rose, Darkling Magazine, Eclipse, ellipsis...literature and art, Folly, The Portland Review, Quiddity, Rosebud, Soundings East, and Studio One, among others.

by Deborah Sue George

There is this one thing Keats had said
but she couldn't think of it

or one cornucopia of goodness
to spread on top of the frozen butter.

Nothing could delay the curfew,
or cure the wounds too fresh to scab over

mothers shouting at children from an iron staircase
Do not swallow crocheted doilies, sheet music stamped by Mozart,

or the Tappan Range in the kitchen, you might hurt yourself!
The cupboard flies open-visions float from the shelf cradling

Grannie Hazel's nicked bowl, Aunt Betty's turkey platter
the fall scene of a Bavarian woodchopper,

ax slung over his shoulders, logs stacked
in his carriage like Tootsie Rolls,

the wonder if he'd make it home before snow fell,
before dark. She ate a banana for dinner,

curried chicken for lunch,
swallowed a Spanish latte

with crushed almond milk
in the afternoon. She walked

the aisles of a food market,
purchased food like a man

wanted to break commandments,
heard the preacher's spitty whisper

Thou shalt not kill the man
who attacked thine daughter,

your first born, the one who climbed the most fragile limbs
of magnolia trees all the way to the top, afraid of nothing.