She never knew why
she had to die
It was just written
in a book
near the back of her mind
with that page bent
left there
by the last
reader
Until after a good cry
she realized
it was a lie
and she went
fast
and bent it back
Friday, November 29, 2019
Friday, November 15, 2019
Lost and Found
"Tell us a story!" the children pleaded. "Pweeeeese Dogdancing!"
"I can't." She painfully sighed, slumping to the ground next to a fallen tree. "My stories have gone."
"Gone where?" asked Skipping stone.
"I've lost them...or maybe put them down, and forgot to pick them up again. Either way they're gone." She laid her head into her arms and closed her eyes.
Disappointed the children slink away.
How do writers get separated from their stories? What is the past tense of writer? What do you call an empty library? Has my muse died/abandoned me? Have I gone deaf? I can no longer hear the internal sound stack I write to. Someone spun the dial on my radio and now it's just static. Has my writers pail rusted? has all the magical fluid seeped out?
They say writers are born and can't be made...does this mean I have died?
Everyone in a while something zaps my writers brain like a defibrillator, it sends a jolt of creativity into my flatlined writers brain. I feel a rush of the writers pail suddenly welling over and flooding my parched soul.
I take a breath and feel the words rush forwards, but as I reach for them, it peaks and recedes and I am left with nothing in my fingers but droplets of magic.
I softly try to lick the jewels from my fingers with the tip of my tongue...the taste is gone like a bolting horse...kicking dirt in my face...knocking me to the ground.
...hmmm
I often refer to my writing like its a horse. I'm always having to lasso it over an over and get the bucks out of it.
...but now.... it no longer feels like a horse...has it evolved into something else?
A rogue presence slinking through the recesses of my mind. Coming out in the silvery moonlihgt to drink from my writers pail. Quickly dissolving into a mist when I go to touch it.
I feel a slight breeze disturb the air.
...my hair bristles.
quickly I lay out traps, climb into the bushes...
and wait.
"I can't." She painfully sighed, slumping to the ground next to a fallen tree. "My stories have gone."
"Gone where?" asked Skipping stone.
"I've lost them...or maybe put them down, and forgot to pick them up again. Either way they're gone." She laid her head into her arms and closed her eyes.
Disappointed the children slink away.
How do writers get separated from their stories? What is the past tense of writer? What do you call an empty library? Has my muse died/abandoned me? Have I gone deaf? I can no longer hear the internal sound stack I write to. Someone spun the dial on my radio and now it's just static. Has my writers pail rusted? has all the magical fluid seeped out?
They say writers are born and can't be made...does this mean I have died?
Everyone in a while something zaps my writers brain like a defibrillator, it sends a jolt of creativity into my flatlined writers brain. I feel a rush of the writers pail suddenly welling over and flooding my parched soul.
I take a breath and feel the words rush forwards, but as I reach for them, it peaks and recedes and I am left with nothing in my fingers but droplets of magic.
I softly try to lick the jewels from my fingers with the tip of my tongue...the taste is gone like a bolting horse...kicking dirt in my face...knocking me to the ground.
...hmmm
I often refer to my writing like its a horse. I'm always having to lasso it over an over and get the bucks out of it.
...but now.... it no longer feels like a horse...has it evolved into something else?
A rogue presence slinking through the recesses of my mind. Coming out in the silvery moonlihgt to drink from my writers pail. Quickly dissolving into a mist when I go to touch it.
I feel a slight breeze disturb the air.
...my hair bristles.
quickly I lay out traps, climb into the bushes...
and wait.
Sunday, November 3, 2019
Ventogging
Yes I am inventing new word. Ventogging. Its the fine art of venting while Vlogging.
I have found that stress is easier for me to deal with if I run it to it's extreme end and laugh at it.
Here is an example.
Well three examples.
It's really hard to look at my face in these. I have the typical steroid Moonface. So much fat in my cheeks. It's like wearing mask! EEK!
Any way, I'm still trying to get my lazy old brain to cough up a good idea to blog about. Hell at this point I'll take a bad idea.
I'm going to donate plasma and will be trapped for a few hours so hopefully tomorrow I can force the issue. Its either write something of give up my status as a writer.
What is the label for unwriters?
great, now I need to invent yet another word.
I have found that stress is easier for me to deal with if I run it to it's extreme end and laugh at it.
Here is an example.
Well three examples.
It's really hard to look at my face in these. I have the typical steroid Moonface. So much fat in my cheeks. It's like wearing mask! EEK!
Any way, I'm still trying to get my lazy old brain to cough up a good idea to blog about. Hell at this point I'll take a bad idea.
I'm going to donate plasma and will be trapped for a few hours so hopefully tomorrow I can force the issue. Its either write something of give up my status as a writer.
What is the label for unwriters?
great, now I need to invent yet another word.
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