Voices

My voice is quiet,

Folding in upon itself.

It hides from all those questions,

Spoken carelessly with snark.

 

You see, my life’s worthless.

The price tag reads zero,

Attempts to build it up again,

Remain shadows in the dark.

 

I have followed a dream,

Something others don’t quite get.

They flow with the growing tide,

Surrounded by regrets.

 

Outsiders, outliers, outspoken,

They call us,

We turned against the current,

Fought against fearful threats.

 

Our dreams called to us,

Bid us forward with such love.

Yet two steps forward, one step back,

Is what our lives become.

 

Strengthen your voice,

As I try to shout with mine.

There is no telling what might be,

When we embrace our own wisdom.

 

Resist the shackles,

The world wants to bind us with,

And sing your song.

There is always someone wanting to listen.

 

You may feel worthless,

You may be at your wit’s end,

But let me tell you,

We are all friends among friends.

When you’re a writer sometimes you have to spend time poking at a part of yourself that normal, sane people leave alone. ~Vikram Chandra

Blanket of Hope

Her hands worked hard for what had come to feel like ages, and the sound of knitting needles moving side by side comforted her. The progress she made was revealed, row after row, with a simple basket weave stitch. Longing for its completion, she finished it one day, and found a box to wrap it in, hoping to hide its truth.
For thirteen days, she kept the gift hidden, and decorated the house with her husband for Christmas. The evergreen tree they had cut down together sat in a stand of water, filling the room with a pine scent. It shone brightly with a wooden star wrapped in twinkly lights at the top, and her deceased grandmother’s multicoloured lights adorned the branches.
Her husband moved on to start the Christmas village, and she put decorations on the tree carefully since her cats viewed them as shimmering toys. Tears filled her eyes when she saw it completed, reminded of relatives who had passed years ago, and of a bright future she wished to share with them.
Blinking the sadness from her eyes, he came to hug her, comfort her, and they sat together on the couch. A holiday themed video lit the TV, and she lost herself in it, surrounded by the warmth of her loved one and their furry children.
Finally, it was the day she had waited ever so patiently for, having lied about the purpose of her knitting project to him. She had not been able to buy anything for Christmas for him, and it tore her apart, but she was able to make him something, just that one thing.
It sat alone underneath the bright tree, and he tentatively grabbed it while she watched from a distance. He looked at her once for approval, and with a nod, he started to pull the paper from it. Peering inside the box, he pulled out a knitted blanket, too small for him or her to use, and stared at his wife.
A faint smile lit her lips, unsure of what he would make of it, and she explained in a soft voice, “It is a baby blanket.”
“Oh, okay,” he replied in his own simple way, uncertain of what else to say since he knew she was not pregnant.
“I made it to show my hope for us,” she whispered, trying to hide tears from her eyes, “We both want children, and it isn’t time yet, but I wanted to show you I will always want that for us…. Regardless of how long it takes.”
Her voice broke, and tears fell silently down her cheeks. His arms wrapped around her, and he mumbled something she did not hear.
“What?” she asked through her sniffles and brushed her tears away.
“I love you,” he said louder, his eyes caring as he gazed at her, “It will happen for us one day, don’t worry.”
“I love you, too,” she whispered, barely heard as she snuggled into his arms.
They stayed entwined in the other’s embrace, the quiet filled with promise, and basked in the glow of the varied lights. The Christmas tree worked its magic on them, a secret promise had been made, and before they retired to bed that night, she was sure she felt her past loved ones approval.
All thanks to a baby blanket made with love.

Knitting

Crafting is a big thing in my life, thanks to my mom. She put together our costumes as kids, made us pillows and blankets, knitted sweaters for us, and plenty more. She is everything you could ask for in a mother, and recently she has been helping me to gather some of those talents, too.

In August, she started teaching me how to knit, and I have made a few dishcloths since then. They are nowhere near perfect (my tension is wonky), and I struggle to fix mistakes, but I am proud of them none the less.

So after feeling confident about those, I decided to build my stamina, and started knitting a blanket. I have 10 days to my deadline for it to be completed, and I am unsure if I will get it done. I will try my damnedest, though. *fingers crossed*

Learning how to knit has helped in other areas of my life, like most crafters would say. It keeps your mind active, your fingers moving, and helps with the creative juices. It has given me the ability to overcome some of the darker things that try to live in my mind, and has pushed me to keep at it with my writing (somewhat surprisingly).

With that said, I am going to start writing a poem a day on something, and hopefully sharing it here. I need to keep at it with the pencil and paper, and give the writing magic a bit more of a push.

We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.                       ~Ernest Hemingway

The Poet

The Poet inside

Suffocates

and their words struggle for Freedom.

Freedom from their cage

the one of Propriety

the one of Lies.

the Poet inside

Suffocates

and their hearts forever cry

within a soulful body,

Forever in search of sharing.

Sharing what we’ve all forgotten.

The one thing we all value.

TRUTH

 

Books are mirrors: you only see in them what you already have inside you.     ~Carlos Ruiz Zafón

Winter’s Bark

Paw prints decorate the snow,

Telling tales in winter’s glow,

Of their runs in bitter fluff,

Proving they are made of tougher stuff.

Dogs may shiver at the door,

Yet still they wish to play some more,

Chasing snowballs in the cold,

And barking, if they be so bold.

I wield my shovel to make a path,

So even tiny shih tzus,

May avoid a frozen bath.snowy.maze.jpg

Wrote this to commemorate another year of shovelling the backyard for my two dogs, Jasper the Shih Tzu and Raven the beagle. Raven freezes despite a sweater and coat, and refuses to wear any sort of bootie. Jasper will bark for days outside until we fetch him in, tired of waiting. You would think in the middle of winter, there’s not much to sniff at, but they find something or other. [Jasper on the left, Raven on the right]

The Mysterious Script

I have finished the James Dashner series, The Maze Runner, and it has reminded me even more how writers create different worlds. They vary from creative time lines in normal reality, to completely unique universes, and I wonder how it comes to happen for each writer.

For my book, I had an idea, and I fleshed it out with characters and events, but still… it developed a mind of its own, and told me how it was going to go. Does that mean how I planned my novel went to the wayside entirely? No. It means how I got to point B from A had some added twists and turns to it.

Still, I don’t feel the level of planning I put into it  matches others like James Dashner or Suzanne Collins with the dystopia realms they created. Or George R.R. Martin. Or. J.K. Rowling. Or J.R. R. Tolkien. Or Jacqueline Carey. Or C.S. Lewis. And the list goes on and on.

Do they have a method, a level of organization that comes with practice? Does their ‘instinct’ or the book’s mind tell them what to do? Is a mixture of both? Or is it individualistic like their personal voices?

To be honest, I wish there was a concrete answer, and I guess practice will tell me which works best for me. Hopefully I will be able to create a captivating universe one day if my first book is indeed a flop (if it’s ever published *fingers crossed*).

The storytelling gift is innate: one has it or one doesn’t. But stile is at least partly a learned thing: one refines it by looking and listening and reading and practice- by work.  ~Donna Tartt

Snow, Snow, Snow

Canada, the land of snow, is so beautiful in the winter. I absolutely LOVE waking up to a blanket of snow on the ground, especially under a dark sky. It makes me feel like a child all over again. Wish I owned a couple of sleds to take advantage of some of the hills here, and start a couple of snowball fights while I am at it!

With snow still falling, I enjoyed the scenery cuddled up with a blanket and read for the morning. My pups snuggled right in to enjoy a quiet, relaxing couple of hours before the hunger began.

Now with that dealt with, I figured I better post something to keep up the habit. It takes a bit to form those, sadly, though it would be wonderful to wake up, and have a new routine with ease. But we all start at square one, and I felt the need to go through some of my old tinkerings with the written word (some over a decade old).

Here I am to share one that struck a chord with me today since it belies feelings I have again. It’s called My Medium:

I find myself sitting here again. At this empty desk, struggling with my need to write and the lack of words I have to write down. Do all writers, good or bad, successful or wannabe, feel this way? The constant desire to feel the pencil, the pen in your own hands? I think we all enjoy, as writers, our words describing a painting, or better yet, giving colours to feelings, to emotions. We connect to a dark need in our readers, so subconscious it’s scary, since it is OUR mind showing another a way to think. We open different minds to the most unique of concepts. Dare I say our art of words is stronger, more sophisticated than the art of colours, of paintings, of sketches? No. We are all equal. Everyone in the world is an artist. There are just different depths, ideals, simplicities, and complexities. This is how I choose to be an artist. This is how I dare to share my soul, my deepest depths.

I MUST continue on this path. I was chosen by the words, as others are chosen for their mediums.

This was written and posted to my deviantart account, long since dormant, in August 2009. When I was… 18, 19 years old… and it is sad to think how much school robbed me of my energy to write. I let the need to write fade from me, for one excuse after another, and I am really glad I have found my way back to it over the past year and a half. (I am  hopeful perhaps in saying I have grown past what I see as arrogance and superiority in that bit of writing).

I won’t say I loved everything about myself when I was that old, or certain attributes I possessed, but there were certain things I miss about that person that I am trying to grab hold of again. All those things relate to creating something or other. Writing, drawing, painting, sketching… I am bringing them back into my life, alongside other new things.

I have had the chance to do some blacksmithing, and learning how to knit. My (younger) sister will help me relearn the guitar again, and play better than before. The need to create and learn new things is burning brighter than ever, and I won’t let it go out again.

Whatever you’re meant to do, do it now. The conditions are always impossible.           ~ Doris Lessing

P.S. in case you feel the need to check out some of my work from years ago though I am sure some of it will crop of here and there on this blog.

https://www.deviantart.com/morgana-the-darkling

 

 

 

The Mind Flutters

My mind has this bad habit of collecting scattered thoughts and images, and racing through them to find even more hiding underneath the messy pile. It drives me insane some days especially when I am trying to focus on anything. The racing has its moments though, because it is like I trip or stumble, only to fall on an idea I can’t shake off.

Today that idea was to continue reading James Dashner’s series, The Maze Runner.

I will admit I am my mother’s daughter in that I tend to read more romance novels than anything else, but before that shuts you down… I will read anything that calls to me, or strikes a chord, and while James Dashner’s first book failed to do that, I am glad I persevered. The Scorch Trials has me clutching it tightly to continue reading, something Maze Runner didn’t do. (This is where, I am sad to say, the movie realm can help books).

The movies, though I have not watched The Death Cure, were intriguing to me, and I decided after that to read the books to see where the story all came from. And The Scorch Trials is delivering so far. I may be less than a hundred pages in, but I have a feeling I will be finished reading it much quicker than the book before it.

The next series I will pursue, most likely, in reverse will be A Song of Ice and Fire by George R. R. Martin. The show, Game of Thrones, has had me enthralled since the start, and I dislike the rushed ending it is coming to. I am glad I will have the books to relive the tales, and learn more about some of my favourite characters Tyrion Lannister and Arya Stark.

After that, who knows? Maybe I will grow my taste for books ever further, or revisit some ‘old’ stories with characters I have missed dearly.

One nice thing about science fiction was that we could steal from one another quite freely. ~ Ursula K. Le Guin

P.S. I know it seems awful movies or shows came before I read the books they were based on, but sadly, my husband is not a reader. I have to compromise at times as anyone who is married or in a committed relationship knows! (Sometimes, we are on the losing side, but there are those few victories too!)

 

 

Claw Back

Here I am – again – sitting in my computer chair, and feeling the need to write something. Part of me screams it should be soul changing. Another shouts it should be real and personal. And yet another voice joins the choir, albeit quietly.

That quiet voice is the one I am listening to, at least today.

It tells me it doesn’t matter what I type as long as I am typing something. Whether it will grab an audience or connect with only me… It will serve its purpose in pushing me to write. That is all I can ask for right now.

Sadly, my energy does not meet the requirements of the other voices in my mind, and so that epic tale will wait for another day. However I am hoping to start posting my musings into the realm of poetry later this month, maybe alongside some attempts at short stories.

I would like to query more literary agents, but have added a few individuals into my test group, and will be waiting for their comments on my book. Maybe my manuscript needs another go with the fat trimmer and polisher. Time will tell on that score, and I will move forward from there. Then, perhaps, my inner guilt will slumber once more.

There is one person I must thank for the time being, and that is my husband. He has been very supportive of me and my dream. I just feel he is growing more and more impatient about it. Can’t say I blame him, but I am not ready to give up just yet, (or at all). I may struggle with my insecurities and doubts, and yet… there is some will and strength inside to grab onto tightly.

All of us have power, waiting to be turned on and utilized. Instead, maybe we all just need to flip the switch for ourselves?

Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes it’s the quiet voice at the end of the day: ‘I will try again tomorrow.’  ~ Mary Anne Radmacher

 

Time to Feed the Fire

Hello there!

I am new to this whole blogging thing, but I am sure I will figure it out with time. Fingers crossed! So let me explain why I am here doing this today…

On August 6th, 2017, I made a decision to leave my part time job, and pursue a dream of mine… Writing a book. I have always enjoyed putting words together, be it poems or other little things. there is a magic to creating word art (as I call it), and having it connect deeply with a reader. With that in mind, I put all my energy into the task, stumbled face first into my book idea, and began full force.

I wrote every day. Sometimes I sat at the computer for a couple hours, and other days… you couldn’t pull me from the keyboard at all! It was an ember I fanned into an all consuming flame, and with no doubt about it, too. I WANT(ED) this like nothing else in my life.

However, I stumbled. When I finished it, editing and all, little did I know the next step would be the most testing. It was time to find a literary agent willing to represent, and ultimately, fight for my book and I. While I am still on this step, and may have been too laid back when first encountering this obstacle, I will continue to fight to have my book represented, and eventually published.

This blog will be my way of putting wood back on the fire. I won’t always write about my endeavors with my manuscript, but I will write about something.

Wish me luck!

P.S. Please comment any books you felt captured you fully, or made a difference in your life. Part of becoming a better writer is becoming a better reader!

The more you read, the more you will write. The better the stuff you read, the better the stuff you will write. ~Annie Dillard