Blank Page

Hello white screen.

I’m here to stare at you again.

I have hopes that your magic powers of illumination will draw the Words from my brain.

Pulling them from the core of me, as my eyes stare beyond you into Universes still unknown to the world.

Yet you sit there.  Empty.

You are the one with greater power, scaring my ideas away.

Intimidating me, with your flashy white teeth, the ink wont bleed and discolor your face.

Perhaps we need to chat about my pursuits.

You see, I am trying to write a story.

As you flash the cursor line at me, blinking anxiously as my fingers wait to patter away at the keys…..

This is nonsense.  I should be greater than you!  I can slay you with that tiny little X at the top corner!  I can will you to go away!

……however, this causes me more problems than it does you.  You will smile one last time with a wicked laugh as you flash away victorious.

How do we meld our minds so that we might summon the words peacefully?  Drawing from my inner pool of creation as one might a fountain?

Blank page, I think of you all the day long.  I think of the words I might put to you.  The stories I anxiously wish to tell…..

And yet you remain.  Here.  Untouched.

Intimacy we should share!  My heart would overflow to you in a precarious romance, in which I slaughter my soul at the eyes of the world.

Summon from me words.  I beg you.

Draw each of them out.  Rend my soul if you must.  Just let them flow.

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Blank Pages

Glaring white stares blankly at me.

The pages beg to be filled, and yet the words don’t come.

Nothing comes.

A jumble, a mess.  A train crash of thoughts scattered about.

To have sanity.  A semblance of direction, even just a moment when everything might be still.

Transitioning, they call it.  Becoming something new.  Entering something new.  Stepping out in the world alone.

But not so alone.  Compassion guides with a steady hand, and two young ones depend entirely on me.

And still the page stares blank.  The pen wont move.  The words don’t form.

How is one to write fiction, when surrealism has taken over?  It all feels as fiction might.  Pushing against the fourth wall, trying to break free of the confines one has fallen into.

When will security come so Creativity might flow?  When does anything make sense again?

And still the page stares.  Empty.

What Words Are These?

Writers Block might as well be called “Writers Constipation”.

I know, its rather gross an image.  But work with me here.  All blocked up in every project you’re working on, oh honey you’re just doomed.  Forever.

I’m there.  Blocked, flowing, blocked, flowing.  It’s an on/off relationship with Words.

Friends of mine are taking off by chapters and word counts, and I’m sitting here mournfully, wondering when the right concoction might cause the words to flow again.

After 13 years, SURELY my fantasy world had produced physical evidence in the real world?!

Technically, it has.  I have written five books quite successfully that are so poorly executed they will never see light of day.  For the best interest of anyone involved.

JP Haldenwang, a good friend of mine, has so sweetly volunteered to read a book I need to rewrite, for the beautiful sake of feedback.  Is the plot worth salvaging?  What parts should I drop altogether when I start over?

I am successful in my own way, I suppose.  My children are fed, clothed, bathed, happy–  and my proverbial children are dancing gaily in my head spinning new books ((One of which I am trying to write….)) and stories in my imagination.
Meanwhile, I work on art projects and make maps, beta read, read for reviews.  As a Multi-talented artist, and a supportive friend, I seek to help further my successful writer friends in their endeavors!

How wonderful it is to watch their blogs I share be viewed, and shared, knowing they’re getting exposure to the world in whatever tiny faucet I can offer.  My following is small compared to the wide world their books are apart of, but every ounce of promotion counts.  Who knows how many sales I have helped them receive by sharing their books and faces on my blog!

Perhaps one day, I will finally have my own published book to join theirs.

Meanwhile, it’s the little things that count.  Force yourself to write.  Start small, keep a commonplace journal, but whatever you do WRITE.  And don’t stop when the trickle turns to running water.  Let it all out.
It’s not good for your mood, your inner peace, how you view yourself….
Blocks don’t make you a failure.  They make you human.

And we are that, dear writer.  Humans with evolving emotions.  Our minds open and change year after year, experiencing so many new things.
Let the stories grow with you.
We all start somewhere.

“Verbs?  Those are what, remind me?”
“Adverbs?  I certainly never knowingly acknowledged their existence.”
“What do you mean people don’t talk like that?  That’s how it sounded in my head….?”

JUST WRITE.  Relish the beautiful thing you did in finishing a book.  And then when you go back to read it and edit it, REMIND yourself that it is beautiful, because YOU finished it.
Now perfect and polish it until it gleams.  One. Scene. At. A. Time.
We become overwhelmed when we allow the negative thoughts to tarnish our success.
Writing a book is an incredible thing.
Perfecting a book is a difficult, and still incredible thing.

Only YOU can stop YOURSELF from finishing it.  So don’t.
Block out all of the noise around you, and tell your story.  It is worth telling.

Writers Block

For some reason, I’m suffering from unshakeable depression.  It’s as though there’s an unsatiable chasm in my chest, draining away all of my energy, creativity, and distorting all of my emotions.
This is also affecting my ability to write, and make beautiful things come to life in words.  Which causes further frustration, leading to more wilting away of self.
I’m finally home with my husband again – there’s no desire or longing for our relationship to improve, I wonder why it even exists.
I’m finally back in my house, to do as I please – and the reminders that I am literally alone in this empty part of the country creep in, shadowing the gratitude I have to being home.
I’m finally able to sit down and write my story for an upcoming anthology – and nothing feels right.  Nothing desires to be written.  The story I am working on I am going to shelve, and see if something else comes up.  I have until mid-May, surely there’s a story floating out there wishing to be told.  I hope very much that it jumps into my head and allows me to bear it witness.
Story telling is my life.  Without it I am nothing.  My religious convictions are my life, without them I am nothing.
Today, I lie in bed – my mother tending my son, both thinking I am asleep – as my emptiness lends to the withering of my soul.  I must find something to slay the beast, in order to perk my spirits!  Alas, is this depression debilitating.
And I roll over, closing my eyes, wishing the world away.