Tag Archives: writing

good luck putting a title on this one

do you ever get to the point where you’re ready for a nap – from life?

just curl up and sleep for days

or maybe pause time every day for four hours and sleep

then do something for fun

something you enjoy

do something ONLY for the purpose of enjoyment and fun

and then start life up again

go back to the responsibilities, the challenges

 

I feel like i’m there again

how?

because I wore myself out

again

I can’t even be bothered to capitalize the beginnings of my sentences. check that out! that’s a tired writer. and I didn’t even put periods on any of those ones up there.

 

life is a lot more than tiring, exhausting, responsibilities, and challenges

but we don’t get to see that if all we do is wear ourselves out

and then wonder

why we’re so dead outside and in

 

how do I get here?

again and again and again and again

it’s like i’m a record that NEVER got old enough to skip. just keeps turning and turning, playing the same songs on repeat

 

I know how I get here

I DON’T do anything for fun. just for the enjoyment.

those things aren’t really JUST for enjoyment. they are absolutely purposeful. they’re what keep us alive. really alive. not just faking it with our zombie walk and plastic, forced smiles.

enjoyment. fun. these things are the purpose of life

and I keep missing them

in the hustle, the bustle, and the bloody rat race to make enough money to survive

in the false belief that if I don’t __________ then i’m not a “real adult”

ha!

how ridiculous

we make these rules up and then beat ourselves with them

and we mock people who self-flagellate! we’re doing the same thing – only in a myriad of different ways and for a thousand bucketfuls of different reasons excuses

 

today what would I like to do?

right now?

this very moment?

i’d love to go for a run with some music and no one to see

read a book

get lost in mythology

walk my dog

i’d love to work on my novel – which I have not given much commitment since it isn’t seen as a “real job” because it doesn’t make me money right this second and I’m not making myself or my calling a priority

funny

that’s come up a few times in the past few weeks

i’m working with this woman who seems to be the feather tipping my scales of self-realization

you know how you need like a gazillion people and situations telling you the same thing until you finally allow it to not only sink in, but to accept it as truth?

sometimes I think God is probably rubbing His temples, wondering how I ever got so fully brainwashed and stuck there even though He’s sent countless people and occurrences my way to get my head straightened out

 

writing isn’t just something I like doing

I am good at writing (it’s hard for me to type that)

writing is my calling in life. it’s my purpose. i was made to be a writer. i am a writer.  God crafted me to write stories.

and i’m suffocating

myself

by not writing

seriously, if I didn’t blog here, on my new blog, or write in a journal, or save pins on Pinterest of fantastical creatures and myths… i’d probably be in a mental institution for real

i’m cutting myself off from myself

 

i’m in a constant state of moving, doing. i’m in a frenzy

basically dying

 

could it maybe be

that if i’d take time

make it a priority

make a commitment

to myself

to  use my time

every week

toward me

and research

write

run

lift weights

brush, walk, and love my dog

get lost in a story

research fun stuff and blog on it

…that i’d not get to this point

of utter exhaustion

sure, i’d still probably

have issues

 

but perhaps

they wouldn’t hurt

so badly

 

If i sought out

creativity

within me

if i tried

something new

that i’d remember how to breathe?

 

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Burn

There is no middle ground when handling live fire.

 

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Why Depression is Startling

When you’re feeling it – it isn’t startling.

Nothing is startling.

 

Ha! I finally know and understand the definition of apathy.

Unrelated to apathy –

 

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I feel like some invisible disease has punctured my skin, slithered in, and has found a way to live inside me, parasitically changing me, holding me in a strange in-between, a madness, a muted, a roaring duality of pain and nothingness.

Trapping me from within, trying to squeeze the breath out of me.

It’s like a living entity is sitting on my chest; squeezing my heart in a fist of silver and hardness, harshness, imbuing it with sharpened flecks of poison; languishing in my gut, knotting me into coils and pressured twists; cracks breaking through the veneer.

And how am I still alive?

Am I?

If I barely swim to the surface of myself.

Sometimes this is all I have to give.

 

The madness has to come out sometime.

And how blessed am I? Writing gives me a way to breathe.

If only I’ll stop trying to control it. It isn’t always going to be pretty; it’s coming from within me. Sometimes giving the disease swarming inside me, leaching to my bones, and scratching at my soul with metallic nails – words, a voice, helps me.

Instead of leaching inwards, only swirling inside my rib cage, I can spill it onto the page and let it live there.

It may be a little worrisome to those who have never dealt with depression (depression and feeling sad are not the same thing, by the way). Perhaps it’s a little depressing to read for some.

But for me, it’s like expelling poison.

A saving grace.

That, is why I write.

How maddeningly beautiful, how simply poised I find it that both poison and the cure live inside me.

 

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Something Unfinished

Sometimes you find people who are extraordinary.

That would be Rarasaur.

Just reading something on her blog is enough to stir inspiration, gratitude, optimism on even the most sullen, miserable, depressing, painful days. I’m writing this on one of those days. See? Proof.

She recently put up a list, a challenge, of 30 things to do on your social media of choice.

Her original post and first #Somethingist is here. Check it out! And maybe join in. 😉

https://rarasaur.com/2016/08/02/somethingist/

And I quote:

I’d love to see your somethings, wherever or however they be…

  1.  Something unfinished 2.    Something unlikely 3.    Something true 4.    Something invisible 5.    Something damaged 6.    Something possible 7.    Something displaced 8.    Something shocking 9.    Something substantial 10.    Something fragile 11.    Something temporary 12.    Something surprising 13.    Something strong 14.    Something illuminated 15.    Something dangerous 16.    Something secret 17.    Something foretelling 18.    Something obvious 19.    Something celebratory 20.    Something repaired 21.    Something terrifying 22.    Something lucky 23.    Something suspicious 24.    Something healing 25.    Something silly 26.    Something far 27.    Something near 28.    Something open 29.    Something closed 30.    Something overdone

Challenge accepted.

 

Something Unfinished

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This is what a writer’s desk is supposed to look like, in my opinion.

When caught in the rush of research.

When fumbling through the folders of ideas, stray thoughts, array of disorderly characters, traces of madness, wee plot bunnies bounding about – all circling your mind. A whirlwind of grounding inspiration and, for me, life blood. I know that last sounds a bit dorky, but it’s true for me.

I don’t’ feel alive if I’m not writing. If I’m not lost in a story, weaving threads through this scene and the next, nosing along this character, watching her take off in leaps and bounds.

Writing isn’t just something I do to deal with life, to cope with my reality.

It is how I live. How I breathe. It’s how I can move through the waters of life without feeling I’m drowning, alone, and no one cares. In fact, some might point and laugh.

Writing rights all of that. All the injustice in my reality. All the pain.

I didn’t realize it until just recently – but writing is what gets me through. My life lights up like something to be lived, to be enjoyed, when I write.

 

Perhaps a writer’s desk doesn’t need to have specifically what I do. And mine certainly changes from day to day. Messy to organized. Binders and books to simply my laptop and an open word document.

That’s not the point.

The point is, there are writing tools on my desk. I am actively using it to expand the landscapes in my heart.

The point, is to write so I can be fulfilled. So I can slip into myself like a spirit into flesh.

The point is to write so that I can become real.

 

And so what is unfinished?

My novel. Blair’s story.

I’ve finally brought myself back to writing.

I’d like to finish this novel. Finish the edits, read it over and decide if it’s solid, then send it out to critique partners. Soon after that, I’ll be sending to literary agents. (Even typing that has me excited all over again.)

It’s an unfinished story.

And that is not something I want to leave in the dark recesses of my soul.

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Something is Missing

This post is mainly going to center around me being a writer. If that irritates or bores you, skedaddle. However, you can simply get rid of the word “writer/writing” and add in your passion. Then it’d relate to just about anyone. 😉

 

Do you ever doubt that you’re a good writer?

I don’t mean do you doubt that you are a writer.

I simply mean, publishing material?

Do you doubt that it’s what you’re meant for, what you’re good at, what you’re in love with, what you want to spend the rest of your life doing? Do you ever wonder, would it be better if I gave up on writing as a career path and went for something else? It would certainly be easier. People wouldn’t say I was wasting my life or taking too long to get to where I want to be.

I wonder that sometimes lately.

It comes in these flashes, at the bottom of some terrible episode of me realizing that I’m miserable because I keep forgetting that I’m allowed to enjoy life. That I’m allowed to tailor my life into something I want, the rest of the world’s opinion of me be damned.

It comes when I realize I’m exhausted and bottomed out. Burned out. Tired of fighting against chains I allowed other people to put on me, simply by giving into their mentality. Thinking I should be someone better than I am.

 

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It only lasts a few moments, literally.

That’s the length of time I can even imagine spending my life not being a writer.

And then it’s gone and I see how ridiculous it was.

Because something will remind me.

I’ll finish a really good book and look up the author’s website and get that rush. That unbelievable urge to live life that way. To dive into writing, dive into all that it entails. And I’ll remember the heady craziness that writing is, this lovely terrifying beautiful monster that comforts and loves me and doesn’t let anyone else hurt me.

Maybe this doesn’t make any sense to you. But it does to me.

 

I keep “forgetting” to write. To schedule it in because it’s important to me. Writing is my passion.

And yet, I keep “forgetting” about it.

How does one forget part of themselves?

It’s pretty damn easy, actually.

I took a year off from writing, to get my head straight. (Life has the effect of screwing one’s head on backwards and upside down.) The year is over.

I regained my passion for writing, the urge to write, the desire to write.

I even started working on my novel a few times over the past few months.

But I’m still missing some key ingredient.

I haven’t quite connected all the dots.

At least I’ve wrapped my heart, mind, and soul around writing authentically. So taking the year off worked its magic.

However, I keep having these false starts. I’m steadily (via the false starts) getting through a list of edits, answering questions, and deciding on some changes. Perhaps they’re not false starts. Maybe I’m just starting back to writing really, really slowly.

The key ingredient seems to be finding time to focus on things I’d like to focus on. Easier said than done.

I’ll find that dot eventually, right?

 

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What is your passion? Do you have a problem with fitting it in? Do you ever “forget” part of yourself? Any missing dots?

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Enigma

Maybe you’re supposed to feel numb at some point
And as the dust settles
The true form shows
Nothing is what you had thought it to be

by Daphne Shadows

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Haze

 

The dark is danger

But the bright lights lie to us

And down we all fall

 

 

by Daphne Shadows

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