If

If I were inspiration I’d nestle myself into a bed of pebbles. One glowing dark stone among rudimentary grey rock. I’d be a scent of aromatic bloom in a city of skyscrapers. A hint of green haze upon bare branches during the dreary melt of an upcoming spring.

If I were inspiration I would be a kind smile in a sea of indifferent faces. An outgoing act of silliness. A sprig of laughter at the most inopportune time.  Pure and blatant joy showered earthward for no reason other than to spread happiness to the humans below.

If I were inspiration, I would scatter myself discreetly in the places only the interested would notice. A purple flower reaching heavenward flanked by the cold stone of two soaring buildings. A bug on a streetlamp at midnight, casting obscurities upon the sidewalk below.

If I were inspiration, the world and all of its weird magic would be at my fingertips. And I wonder if sometimes it is.

 

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Bad Poetry

How many bad poems does it take to craft the one?

The one that will stick to you. Stick to your reader,

Sweet and aromatic like the air of a bakery

Early in the morning.

How many bad poems must bleed

From the fingertips of those who yearn to write romantically?

Those who crave to produce one piece of the verse

Which will evolve into something universal; carried over millennia

Brisk and untouchable on the invisible airstreams of literary fervour.

Ejected thoughts sinking skyward.

How many lines must be toiled over?

Ripped from the mind. Scoured at as though it were a dirty dish

That had been left to scab. Removing the crust. Picking away the bad.

Bad poetry is everywhere.

These pages are filled with it. Brimming and busting at the seams

Unsuccessful imagery.

Flat blows of ornamental language.

Bad poetry is the way we text and speak

The way we move through society. Bad poetry is universal and always.

How many bad poems does it take to craft the one? And who chooses which is which anyways?

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The Place Behind The Words

I woke up this morning wanting to write warmly to you. I had half of a poem written when I realized that I was just placing words together. There was no truth behind them. No feeling being drug up from the depths of my gut. No passion in that place that exists behind the words.

Because there is such a place. It is a dark hole that is never ending. It is the thing which touches us when reading a beautiful piece of poetry or sticks fervently to the side of our brains long after we’ve fallen into a gripping story.

It is the place of lost worlds and forgotten wonders. It is the reason we crave the written word; why we long to read and write the stories of the mind.

It is a beautiful, terrifying, astounding space. A stretched tunnel with many off-shoots. A cosmic forest. A cavernous fissure upon earth’s surface. It is an infinite thing only because our imaginations are unbounded and limitless. It is as abundant as our confidence in it.

This magical place is the writer’s ambition. It is the reader’s refuge. It is the place where creator and consumer meet. It is the endgame and the inauguration alike.

And it is my advice to you as the reader, as the writer, as the taster of literature and the ejector of words to find this place and vow to live there contentedly each time you delve into the stories and poetry and the words which are meant to be read by wanting minds.

INsomnia

 

 

He rests his weary mind. Sleep no longer comes easy to him. Not after the crash. 6 treacherous months of sleepless nights, of sleepwalking days. Of the two an unbroken knot of repetitiveness.  A constant state of sameness. Moonlight is bellowing through the slits of double sided fabric hanging on the windowpane. Ethereal particles of light catch his eyes, reminding him he is alone in this world. He wants to put his brain on pause. Bolt close the thinking parts and shut off his eyes. He wants to turn it all off. A warm tendril of breath. A tepid wisp of air across his lightly gowned chest. Whispering voices. “Hang in there.” “We love you.” “Come back to us.” If only he could. If only he could sleep.

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Collecting brain-frizz and releasing it.

Admittedly I am a brain-frizz collector. Days stretch by where I have no desire to learn or grow, to read or even write. These are the times when I sit on my phone frying my thoughts with Facebook nonsense and addictive games with bright colors and flashing lights. If I listen just right I could probably hear the sizzle of each brain cell as my endorphins run rampant from reaching a high score. Like yolk hitting a hot pan.

Sometimes it just is too much. The worries that accompany the everyday, the stress of tomorrow, the constant angst that comes with being a business owner. Sometimes everything stacks up so high that not even a good book can show me sanctuary. Sometimes turning the brain off and mindlessly looking at hilarious memes or carelessly stacking colorful blocks to reach a goal is just what I need to get past the hump I find in front of me. Sometimes I just need a pause.

But look, I can clearly see that the continuation of this practice would be insanely unhealthy. I’m not so naive to think that ostriching this shit is going to make any of my mental or emotional baggage disappear. If anything I am just hoping to stack it up up and away like the little blocks I stack in the phone games. This method is unreasonable at best. At worst it is completely delusional. And lets be honest delusion and I go together like spaghetti and meatballs. Or corn and a husk. Or a lava lamp and the goopy “lava” that is inside of it.

The worst part is now. Right now. This precise moment when I realise that I have to stop hiding away from everything. I must confront my stress. I must challenge my worries about the future. I must put down the phone with the Facebook and the games and the other distractions that make life so easy to forget about and I must go out in the world and live.

So I have roughly three hundred unfinished writing projects on my laptop right now and I suppose this is as good of place as any to get started. The realisation that I cannot live on pause for the rest of my life may be a tough one to take but once I fling myself out of it and get back on track I do not regret it. Because it feels good to try again.

Maybe sometimes we all just need a little pause to appreciate the hard work we put into this life.

Funny Fans

I once wrote silly stories. Laugh out loud stories. Stories that could make a reader giggle uncontrollably while the other occupants in the room looked at them as though they were crazy. I use to have a system that worked about 90 percent of the time when attempting to come up with the funny stuff. The rule was this; if it makes me smile it will make others laugh. You never think you are as funny as you actually are so this theory worked well most of the time.

Somewhere between all of the life and the work and the worries and the achievement the funniness has slipped away. It seems that one day I had it and the next day it was gone. Like ice in a glass on a hot day it has melted into me. Forever melding with the other writing things. The seemingly more essential things. Literary guise. Strong metaphors and slick sentences.

The thing is, funny is difficult. Especially funny writing. It is not an easy feat to make a person laugh but also make them think, wow, that was a well written piece—this is a rarity on its own. To throw funny on top of that!? Pure genius. I don’t know how well written my funny pieces were becasue usually when I look back upon my older work I think of it as awful dribble. But my mom tells me it was damn funny, so that must count for something.

I don’t think funny is completely lost to me. Well, at least I hope it isn’t. It may take some work getting her back and on page but I am confident that I can do it. It will be an interesting experiment to mesh the hints of hilarity that I once sprinkled so generously throughout my work with my now more ripened writing style.

Tell me, who are some great authors you know of that have mastered the art of funny? Drop me a comment so I can do a little research in my quest!

Harvesting the Mind

The white of this screen has become pixelated with tiny orange and blue specks throughout it.

I imagine those specks are all of the thoughts and ideas I lose every morning in this time of outward introspection.

I envision the half-thoughts being pulled out ever so slowly.

Tapeworms of the brain. Headed for the glow. If only I could make them stick, I think.

Then at least they will be obvious to everyone else. At least they will be out of me and into the world.

That, however is not how this thing works. This thing that is writing.

Somewhere during the pulling process the thoughts escape my grasp. Slip, slip away.

Hip hip Hooray they cheer because they do not want to be lassoed into screen captivity.

I suspect they end up wherever fleeting daydreams goes to die.

(They probably don’t know that while they applaud themselves valiantly.)

Flecks of thought fragments:

An orange peel shriveled and stiff under the bed post.

A spray of dust particles distorted by sunlight into something entirely changed, a barrier, a wall.

The feel of a friends hug during difficult times.

A dog smile.

Moonlight glistening off rooftop frost.

All lost to the blue and orange specks of color I see upon this screen.

So close but the exact descriptions now lost to me.

Yet imageries sprout like dandelions upon the mind,

And tomorrow’s yield will prove much more fruitful.

At least one must try.

Just a tad of an existential crisis, no big deal.

Perspective is a beautiful thing. I don’t think I get too much of it nowadays. I’ve somehow allowed life to run me over, drag me down into a sinkhole of stressful responsibility and aging obligations. I worry so much about what my next step will be I forget all of the best stuff.

Like the way the kids laugh at my lame jokes and still tell me I’m the funniest. And how my husband stares at me as we watch the tube. He tells me he loves me with such blissful exultation I have never been able to imagine otherwise.

Our home is warm and comfortable on these cold winter days. We have good food to fill our bellies with and clean beds to find security in. Homemade knitted blankets tossed over the back of our couches to insure the utmost of coziness and hot coffee and tea at the ready. Pictures hang upon the wall, they represent us—the love that we all share.

We have a business. A restaurant that is the epitome of a “small business” and though it is taking its time to find its feet our loyal customers still only have the greatest things to say about it. And I know that it will come. All good things do.

However at any given moment I have a minuscule humanoid living in the back of my brain whispering warnings of failure and strife about my life as a writer. Sometimes it gets so carried away I begin hearing loud trumpets and drums parading around in there telling me my time has already passed for such tomfoolery. The smooth bluegrass sounds of the sax will melodically remind me that I am nearly 32 years old and as far as I am aware not able to turn back time. Flutes cheerily spout tunes that tingle between my ears and they ring out in harmony explaining that if it hasn’t happened yet, it likely never will. And one single chime of a triangle compares me to every other writer in history and it tells me I am simply not good enough to publish.

These are the thoughts that plague my brain as I go about business pretending to be a normal person.

But it’s not really the fear of failure that I’m so worried about. Because I’ve not failed if I only continue to write even one lovely word a day. That much is actually clear in this topsy-turvy brain of mine. I’m worried about my writing going mute. Losing interest. Losing the words, the stories that pop up in my brain. How long does it take for it to simply shut off? How many rejection messages is my quota for one lifetime?

These are the notes that sing loudest from the quartet inside my head. My better judgement tells me that it is a silly worry because right now, right here the thought of not writing seems far-fetched, implausible.

Then the perspective rinses over me, cleaning these thoughts of self-destruction away if only for a moment. The perspective reads to me some of my earlier writings and I see how far I’ve come. There is a distinct evolution of writing, of aptitude there. This gives me hope. If only for the fact that I am still growing and learning as a writer. Anything which has the facility to move forward will likely not have the wherewithal to fizzle out any time soon.

So I will keep on writing. I will keep on submitting stories, pushing poetry and posting anything else I can conjure up if only to quiet the noise of worry that hides in the corners of my awareness.

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Working The Words Out

I am unqualified this morning. Blank and impotent. Usually the glow of this monitor helps me rummage up something, anything, before my time has waned. All it takes is one word. Or maybe several words joined together; mismatched and messy like the Velcro straps of a child’s shoe. Like the shoe, it allows me to get to the place I long to be. An idea will bloom into a great bulbous sphere of anticipation. The sphere screams out, pleading to be popped, insistent on spreading words and thoughts and ideas and presence to all who might look its way. These words long to leak outwards into a weary world. Into a vibrant world. Into a world that has not yet read these precise words in this precise way. Perhaps this morning, as snow filters downwards from a boundless black sky, my thoughts are too trivial, too reedy for something of that splendour. I glance towards the bottom left corner of this luminous screen and see that somehow, beyond all blight, my quota has been filled. The words are out of me. I’ve managed to pull them off my tongue in tiny bits and pieces in hopes that some word-famished fool will come to devour the tastes I leave in my wake. And I am satisfied. At least for now.

Another post on writing and junk, you’d think we were all writers or something around here…weird.

 

The power in our small bi-level home surges as I hit the SUBMIT button. Wait, was that a sign? A message sent from the great beyond? My skin turns to gooseflesh. I think of Grampa Bert, my all-time favourite storyteller. Maybe? Bah! Hogwash. It’s an old house and the electrical in this bitch sucks. I guess it is more likely that my brain, the soft part that need constant reassurance, is really just teeming with anxiety over the new flood of rejection messages I will be receiving in two to eight weeks. Prepare yourself, rejection is coming.

Side note: there is a fly in this room right now. A FLY IN DECEMBER! Its buzzing is infuriating not only for the distraction but for the sheer perplexity of its existence.

I’ve begun sending out stories, essays, blurbs and whatever else a publisher may want to take a look at. I’m like a teeny-bopper clad in fluorescent pink and the personality to match—look at me, pay the attention to this gal over here!

A few days ago my sister-in-law asked me why I write online. Well she didn’t come out and literally ask me. We were talking about writing and I naturally assumed she wanted to know every possible detail of my writing career so I willingly divulged my secrets…that are no more secret than my dirty erotica writing forays.

I told her that I write to obviously become rich and famous because, you know, that’s what all art is about. Duh. But as a secondary motive I write to simply tell the stories that are buzzing around (like this damn December fly) in my brain. It seems as soon as I drag one out and place it to word processing document another one begins to unfold into reality.  The more I write, the more stories are waiting to be written.

I think about reading stories that stick with me for days, weeks, hell years afterwards. I will remember images or a plot twist or the simple construction of the first sentence, the hook, and I realise how essential the written word can be. Stories entangle our imaginary lives with reality giving us the perfect amount of unrealistic expectations to keep us moving forward and striving on. They feed our waning imaginations. The older we grow the more fiction we must consume to keep our brains hale and hearty.

Great literature from the past, blogs posts, short stories, online magazines, a funny Facebook post; we read and write to connect with one another.

The idea that something I’ve written could affect someone like this intoxicates me. I could be like an imagination doctor! To think one story, one sentence even will stop the reader and make him say, “Hey, I never thought of it that way.” It is a mesmerising goal to reach for. If I can write one blog post that someone reads and thinks, “That is exactly how I feel too sometimes, at least I’m not alone.” I’ve scored the big one.

I’m a peopley person. What can I say, I love them humans. And I’ve obsessed over writing since the beginning of time, my beginning at least. Writing and the human condition fit hand in hand. Or existential crisis in existential crisis. I guess it depends on how you’re looking at it, where you’re positivity meter stands at the moment.

So I’m going to keep on writing, keep on submitting my work and rejection messages be dammed! I’ll wear them down eventually…or I’ll get better I suppose. Whichever comes first.

I’ll show ‘em, I’ll show ‘em all! One day you’re gunna see my name in lights!

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The shiny things have distracted me again.

My eyes part to the sound of an energetic whirring that is coming from my right. The sound seems to be magnified in the otherwise dead quiet of our bedroom. It drones merrily, LLLLLIIIIIIIIIINNNNNDDDDDSSSSSSAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYY (but not really because in the morning ones imagination is soft and pliable, it will believe anything). It nearly jumps from the ledge of my bedside table.

I wish I was the kind of person who did not need an alarm clock. You know the type. Those people who boast that they are so in tune with their own body, the internal clock which lives somewhere in their brain—or maybe it’s their foot, you know, to get them moving—anyways, it wakes them without incident every single morning. Yeah, I wish I was like that.

Alas I’m still using my trusty cell phone (like a sucker) perched to the side of my bed with a message splayed across it saying, “GOOD MORNING!!!” in what I have come to believe is a seriously passive aggressive pre-dawn text revulsion.

The street is speckled with hundreds of tiny multi-colored lights. Cheer bottled-up into filaments the size of a cat’s claw. The radio serenades me with Jingle Bell Rock and I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus because it knows that is what I want to hear this fine and frosty morning. Obviously.

I had toyed with the idea of writing something profound this morning. Wowing you with my inexorable insight, my glass-windowed vision. I imagined exhibiting my heartache, my unrequited culpability, up like a farmer does his heifer for market. I would try to sell it to you, get it into your brain and out of mine. Pass the pain along. Share it among the healthy folk. Or, perhaps, the unhealthy ones. They will gobble it up faster. No questions asked.

I was thinking of showing you the guilt that sometimes claws its way to the surface and spills over the top (because it is over the top) in ill at ease times of aforementioned heartache. The times I let down those I love and those I do not love in a cataclysmic foray of disappointment. The times I must deliver the bad news, the stuff of plugged ears and dull faces.

I could have wrote, this morning about misery and mountaineering. I could have turned it all around and shone some upbeat and blinding light of positivity into the murky thoughts that sometimes cloud my better judgment. I could explain (in my very best self-help voice) that if we shoot for the sky we will reach the stars.

I might have slid words together like children gliding down an icy knoll. Content with jibber jabber and momentary answers to questions never asked, at least not by me. My prophet days are probably still ahead of me, oh how I will profit one day.

I could have carved it all out upon this word document and felt lighter in the end. I should have tossed it down intending to leave it where it lay. Rid myself of the word plague I struggle against everyday. Instead the flicker of pink and green and red and blue lights dance just off the flank of my vision. It distracts me for the times being, it is shiny and bright. Familiarity hugs me, and what kind of monster fights against hugs? I guess the lights will do for now. I’ll preach tomorrow.

 

Progressing is key, it is time to delve into the deep.

“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should’ve behaved better.”
― Anne LamottBird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life

If I could choose just one quote to love more than any others it would be this one. If there was one group of words which summed up how I usually feel or at least how I want to feel about life as a writer, this group would be it.

Unfortunately (or I suppose fortunately) for me there are far too many astounding humans quoted every damn day to choose just one as a favourite.

As I meander once again through the shallow waters of script and sonnet I can feel myself wading dangerously close to the deep end.  Currently I splash cheerily, absent-minded, in superficial thoughts. Words flow easily over my toes and out into the beyond. I think little of these sentences I scroll because little thought is required. It is all rhetoric. Pretty prose echoed agreeably as I spill it from my soul. Thoughts on life and love and being human. These are the easy things to write. They are safe but with little substance.

My words today will not strike any profound cords in those who read them. They will not rummage up memories which have been tucked away for safekeeping. These sentences are not dangerous. They will not provoke any deeper wondering or wake the harboured yearnings of moments lost to oblivion. They do not strip away the beautiful fluff we humans shield ourselves with to protect against anything weightier than the daily grind. Instead my words today will gently settle down upon you, resting easy while a war still rages beneath the surface.

There is an itching in my brain and it is growing stronger as my confidence as a writer ripens. I know it is not feasible to continue to write from this comfort state in which I currently live. To grow we must go out on a limb. We must use our doubt as a parachute and fall into the unknown with the tools and the belief that we will thrive against all odds. If we stay in this place of ease, the art of the matter will halt and nothing new will emerge.

There are many projects, ideas and visions I can so clearly see in my minds-eye. They will require hard work, resolve and a promise to write real and true – which is sometimes the most difficult requirement of all.

It is just a matter of finding the resolve to shut my eyes tight and jump, without reservations, into the deep.

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I nearly broke my perfect streak!

I tried to cheat this morning. *Sigh* I tried to cheat and hide it from you guys. I tried to hide it from myself – mumbling under my breath that it would be okay if I did it just this once. I had justification. Ugh I disgust myself.

Moments ago I found myself surfing through my Google Docs. I was looking for something that hadn’t been published that I could pass off as my daily post. I was literally about the CHEAT! I’m having a bit of a panic attack here. Well not really, it’s actually more of an attention attack so you’ll just have to excuse me while I let this pass.

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Okay, so why did I almost do it?

Well like I said I had justification. Since starting this writing project I’ve mustered up the wherewithal to take a look at some of my unfinished projects. And some of them (not all of them, let’s not go crazy here) are actually pretty good. They need some spit shining and a few rewrites but I want to try submitting to a few publishers. Again. This is actually a big deal because the mental and emotional trauma a writer endures while submitting their work to hundreds of publishers only to get rejected over and over again is pretty heavy stuff to say the least man.

So my plan was to sluff off my daily post and work on more pressing matters. But isn’t that sort of defeating the purpose Lindsay? *She types to herself in a borderline psychotic break sort of way.

The entire point of this thing is to warm up my writing skills. Isn’t getting this inspiration/guts to delve into the publishing world again only proving that my new writing habit is working. Why would I stop now?

Plus, 100 words a day isn’t difficult. Look, I’ve just got down over 300 in the few minutes I’ve been mulling this over!

Thanks writing friends, you guys are sure swell to talk to.

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Do you ever feel the pressure of waiting projects and overlook the process? Tell me what helps keep you on track and maybe I can adopt some new methods so I don’t try to cheat again!

 

 

Just get the hell on with it why don’t you!

 

I look at the day ahead. I am reeling with anxiety. Timelines and schedules disco-hop through my mind’s eye in a fashion that leads me to believe that my brain has an evil ulterior motive. My hands quiver as I type and I have to wonder if I should even be taking this time to type at all because, damn, I just have so much to do today.

I am the sort of person who gets overwhelmed easily. Can you tell? I have a very difficult time dealing with too many responsibilities over one 24 hour time period. For example, raising children isn’t a stress factor (well it is, but not in the same way) because this endeavour spans an entire lifetime. If I want to feed them popcorn for dinner or skip homework one night  it’s going to be okay because I have a plethora of child-rearing days to make up for the misstep. Having three business meetings, a large quantity order going out during the lunch rush and having to do it all before 3pm when I pick the kids up from school…that gives me the spine chills.  These are the days I am an anxious ball of pent up stress that is undoubtedly radiating a gross amount of sweat and negative energy. An absolute treat to be around I’m sure.

And yes, oh yes, I’ve tried about every possible remedy for this fretful behaviour. From calming teas to lavender oil…to actually attempting to will away the busy onset of events—nothing seems to work.

Except there is actually one thing.

And that is, simply getting on with it. Just doing the shitty, stressful, wholly unwanted thing with a smile on your face and a can-do attitude in your heart. Yeah, yeah, lamest thing I’ve ever written. I know guys, but the truth of it is this is life man.

Sometimes we must simply get into the car and drive to the place we’ve never been. Despite the worry about getting lost and the stress of not knowing anybody there. Sometimes there is no simpler solution than to just do.

I find when managing my time efficiently and using up the leisure time I do have with productive ventures such as reading and writing I am more willing to participate in the tougher stuff with a positive attitude. As a general rule, a can-do ‘tude is one of the best qualities one can have…even if you are feeling the shit storm of obligation encompassing you like that mighty claws of a great griffon, sometimes you just gotta smack that griffon on the talon and say, “let’s fuckin’ do this!”

We humans are resilient and we typically thrive in high pressure situations, revealing to ourselves and others how remarkable we truly are. As we continue to “just get on with it” each time this feeling of conquering the beast becomes easier and easier to overcome.

We do not have the ability to learn or live well without experiencing a little trepidation in our lives. Anything worth doing is going to cause stress because it is new and unknown. In most instances, we must just get on with it or else life will get on without us.

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I Want To Write Poetry…Sometimes.

 

I wanted to write poetry this morning.

Mourning how many months, years, millennia

It has been since verse has scrawled across this screen.

I wanted to write beautifully

Words that scratch some surface

Suitably.

I wanted to write about appetite:

Strange passions.

Outrageous actions.

Famous fashions.

These moments-

They sometimes consume me.

Entangling me in yet-to-be-made memories.

Seeds for tomorrow days

Unmade ways

Ablaze with stories running with haste

In my brain.

I wanted to write something truthful

It seems.

I wanted to explain the emotions

Which reign.

I wanted to share pain,

Releasing and freeing. I wanted to freeze

This feeling of wellbeing

And peace.

To paper, to screen

To forever be seen.

I wanted to write poetry this morning.

Not only to mourn over time mislaid and misplaced

But to celebrate what life and writing has

Forever encased.

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Feeding the ego – one of the best ways to self sabotage.

 

Yesterday I mentioned ego and how we often tend to use technology to feed that ego in today’s society. I have several friends on my Facebook who use the motto “there is no such thing as bad press” to a fault. They air their dirty laundry as though it had been sitting in a pile of cow shit for days. Breakups, makeups, gripes and grimaces everything goes published in the land of Facebook statuses.

Random Facebook Status: ugh I love it when people stick their noses into my life without even knowing what is going on.

Comment 1: Don’t worry about those losers, you’re awesome!

Comment 2: *hugs*

Comment 3: People are so just jealous of you. You keep doing you babe!

This randomly generated Facebook status is a prime example of how easy it is to feed the ego in today’s tech driven world. The ability to boost ourselves up with a false sense-of-self from a list of randos who we have not seen or spoke to “IRL” in YEARS is literally at our fingertips. We are connected by this amazing technology that has the ability to do so much good in our lives and yet we squander its wonders with worrying relentlessly over how many “likes” we’ve received on our last profile pic update.

 

For so long I wrote for not myself nor those wanting to read my writing. I wrote for the likes. I wrote for the shares and the “wow you’re a really good writer” and the “oh my gosh you’re so funny!”

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I wrote for the sheer high it gave me to hit the publish button and watch the ego feeding frenzy come rolling in. I didn’t care about the content. It did not matter to me if I was writing true or not. I was simply looking for anyone to tell me I was good enough.

The problem was, eventually the “likes” and the shares stopped coming. The posts I was producing had become rushed and sloppy. The content was, in all honesty, shit. Running loops around pointless subjects that in the end, nobody cared to read about.

And this my friends is where the problem lies when seeking out self-aggrandizing methods upon social media platforms. Eventually, people catch on to your sly ways. They begin to see through the bullshit and your audience gets bored.

I no longer cared about the writing itself or who was reading it. I only cared about the number of views I received and how far my writing had travelled. The stories meant nothing to me, in all honesty the stories had all been done before. I wasn’t even trying anymore. It was the numbers that had somehow moved into the priority spot in my brain.

And as a writer, when the numbers takes precedence over the words…you know there is a bit of a problem.

So like all mentally healthy individuals, I threw my hands up in the air and said, “fuck it! I’m done with writing. I’m not getting the views and feedback I want so that equates to me not being good enough to carry on. Obvs.”

It took about six months of me subconsciously stewing over my writing to realise what had been happening. Yeah I know, that’s a long time to take to comprehend something so obvious.

So now I am back. No Facebook, no more feeding the ego. Just writing. It is time to get back to the words. To sling sentences and once again fall in love with the wholeness of writing something well. It is time to starve a little for my craft.

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I’m back, and it might be a little awkward because I said that I was leaving forever but we are just going to have to persevere through this together until the weirdness abates.

 

My reflection hangs in the protective glass of a topographical map of Middle Earth. My husband has made it recently and it is an amazing piece of work. A stab of jealousy, or is this envy? Courses through my chest. It is not jealousy over his time nor envy for his talent. It is something else that I cannot quite name. Perhaps his resolve? His willingness to put his own hobbies before the meaningless hubbub, the monotonous pretexts of life. He loves creating these maps, therefore he just does it.

It seems to me any time I have an inkling about “doing” something for myself a flood of excuses washes over me and stops the notion in its tracks. I can’t write that book because I’m not smart enough. I can’t work on my short stories because I don’t have the time to put in the heavy editing that needs doing on them. I couldn’t possibly start up the spoken word poetry again because nobody listened to it in the first place.

My heart hurts when I think that these are the reasons I’ve held myself back from engaging in the thing that I love. Yes time is a factor, I am busy. We all are busy. But life is also flexible. It is an unending corridor of possibility an unrelenting miasma of options if only you learn how to wrangle it for your own.

If we do not allow ourselves to make the time for the purists which make us happy, what are we doing here? I suppose work and making money and being financially accountable are the “responsible” things to do at this point in our lives, but there must be something else. We must be able to mark and create the designs that live in our souls doing what makes us feel whole in order to live a rewarded life.

Ray Bradbury said, “Just write every day of your life. Read intensely. Then see what happens. Most of my friends who are put on that diet have very pleasant careers.”

Somewhere between all of the worldly concerns of growing older I had forgotten his advice. I swept all fervour away and practicality became my main driving force. Admittedly, at the time this is what I needed. Sometimes to get on track with our professional goals we must batten down the hatches of our own whimsy and get down to business at hand. But I think I’ve come to a point where I have room for a little whimsy to creep back in. To be truthful, I believe it is exactly what I need.

So here we are, same blog, different name, new content. I would like to tell you what this thing is going to be about but, hell if I know man. I think it is just going to be the place where I come, every day, to write one hundred words…and maybe a little more if the muse decides to take me.

 

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