Okay, the title is a bit misleading. Perhaps it should be named “When to Go?” as it would better reflect my increasingly busy schedule. News, I haven’t been writing my fiction. All I can say to that is, “ugh”. I have found when I am really busy, which is the past few years of my life, my writing feels scattered and incomplete try as I might to make it really good. : ( I fail.
Look at my work, “The Useful Life Clockworks Company”. It’s inconsistently published (my fault) and while I have a lot of good things going in it, it sure needs some work. Yikes! I shall plug on of course, eventually. I think a lot of writers go through this. It even has a name, The Writing Life. Professors teach it. It’s that big of a deal, at least to us writers. See, we’re juggling that drive to write that never shuts up (thank God), family, friends, and careers/jobs the thing that pays the bills plus volunteer hours, socializing, and just like many people the pitfalls and joys of life. Except, we’re compelled to write. It’s not a thing you really put down. It’s that nagging voice in your head, except it may take on the form of mythical creatures, talking inanimate objects, or exit in a world never before heard of on Earth. There are people, whole people who express themselves with such vivid clarity that doing less than writing them out, their lives, their ends or beginnings or both is like committing some horrible crime against another person.
I know it isn’t really, but it feels like that to a writer. At least it does to me.
Sometimes the madness of story makes it difficult to concentrate in my daily work and life, but then my daily work and life makes it hard to concentrate on writing. It’s that never ending tight-rope walk across that limitless abyss where imagination and reality converge and sometimes, sometimes if I’m lucky enough I will find a gem or two and share it with the world.
The title says it all. I am struggling to write. I thought after an intensive year of school where I spent so much time reading and writing for classes I would be motivated and inspired to work on my writing, you know the things that haunt my mind, the characters that are screaming to get out.
Except, I feel closed inside myself, unable to speak or write words. There is a sharp anxiety and drive to work on all of it right now and then I fold and do nothing.
I feel cramped and trapped waiting for that thing to spark my action and as I wait I do nothing.
Okay, so this is a long title. I wanted to share some flower photos, because I LOVE flowers and try to take pictures of as many as I can. I am not a photographer, but like them all the same.
Also, remember some funny assignments I had in a couple of poetry classes and wanted to share those here. I am not necessarily a poet, but have written a few I don’t mind sharing.
Mother’s Caramel Rolls
Rising, caramel oozes, dough comes to life.
In the cavernous dark of Mom’s oven.
Sweet joy – waiting.
Brown sugar, sticky smells filter from the oven,
out the open window
across the lawn.
Every boy and girl on the block lifts their heads. Noses twitch.
Scavengers hunting – they seek the source.
Flies buzz overhead back in the kitchen.
Alighting on the stovetop
each small leg feeling.
Caramel fills the crevasses of the dough melting
Over the top and down between each roll.
Swat – Mom squashes a fly on the wall, the stove, the checked green and white tablecloth
Falling upside down, they stir no more.
Kitchen door swings open and Erin
bounces into the radiant light.
Louis follows then Adam and Chris. Their hands held out.
Erin licks her lips, blond curls spring tighter
Oven heat and bodies raise the temperature.
Mom sighs, “Shut the door”. She swats a fly.
Ding, the bell rings.
The rolls are done, from the depths they escape
Sitting on the stovetop no chance to cool.
The boys and girls fight to prolong the foodgasmic sensation
devouring, coveting hyenas inhaling
sticky sweet joy.
There are just two weeks of school.
I shall write more and spend days
with my children.
We shall walk the nature trail and spin
tales of the Magic Wood.
Daylight grows long and the night
Still I wear the long sleeved shirt
with a hood.
With a list of books
I shall read late into the night – inspired.
My children shall swim, play, and work.
A soothing balm from the harsh cold
realities of winter and
A new season without my beloved
Gone in January 17, 2015.
The cold stifles, giving way
to yellow sun and new
She so loved the flowers.
Jack opened his eyes to full darkness. Wincing he sat up, head throbbing. He tried to feel around for stability and then his hand clasped a foot resting along the floorboards. Moving with his arms first, he found the bed and pulled himself up to his knees and then his feet. Every inch of him ached. He had to find a candle or a lamp to light. Using the bed post to feel for the wall, Jack maneuvered around the room bumping into the night stand.
A moment later he had a lamp and lit it. His eyes darted towards the bed and the floor. Verity and Mrs. Lawyer Evelyn Brightmoor were gone. He scrambled over to the body of Mr. Tanner Lloyd Brightmoor. Jack tried to figure out if the man were still alive. He shook him and then examined his face and limbs. Blood congealed along the man’s arm. His shirt was stained with brittle bits of dried blood.
He had been knocked out for hours and the aches told Jack they did more to him and Mr. Brightmoor than simply knock them over the head. He tried to rouse the tanner once more and then he leaned close to the man’s face listening for breathing. He didn’t hear breath or see the rise and fall of his chest.
Tears pricked at the corners of Jack’s eyes. He was dead. The Brightmoor’s had tried to help them and now he was dead and Evelyn was gone. Jack pulled out the paper from which they began compiling a list of suspects and allies, clues from his investigation to see if something might assist him now.