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When You Hide From Writing . . .

Also known as procrastination in the extreme.  Yes, a lot has been going on in my life recently (like finding out I’m pregnant!  Yay!!)  But still, I feel that excuses are always excuses.  I can sit and write, even if I am having first trimester exhaustion.  I did actually take one Saturday and edit “Black Saturday”.  But that was one Saturday out of months of avoiding writing.

My writing cannot improve unless I actually write. Whether its 10 minutes or several hours, the amount of time spent isn’t important as just writing.  So, I say – no more.  Every day, lunch break or just before bed, whenever.  Grab my journal and creatively write.  

And as scary as it is, I’m going to do NaNoWriMo next month.  Without a single idea for a novel or what to write.  5K words in one month without any idea how to start.  Here goes . . .

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Posted by on October 16, 2013 in Writing

 

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Contemplations

I stared into the gaping maw, wondering if it would swallow me whole as well.  The black dress Grandma had me wear itched, the cotton scratchy and rough.  I didn’t understand what was happening.  At my small three feet of height, the world seemed so much bigger.  Scary big.  And this hole?  I felt that I was standing on the edge of forever.

I tried to ease back, and stepped into my Pa.  He wore his stern face.  The face he wore when I broke the lamp.  And when the cow died last summer.  He motioned with his head, and I turned back around before he got sterner.  I just hated facing that black pit.  I tried to not squirm while the Pastor said his bit.  It must have been nice, since all the women were crying.  But I didn’t understand what he was saying, so I just stood and tried to look stern like Pa.

When the Pastor stopped talking, Pa nudged me in my back.  I stepped forward slowly, scared to death.  I held the rose out at arms length as far as I could stretch.  I dropped it and it hit the edge of the pit before falling down into the black.  One lone red petal remained

Afterward, the women came by and hugged me a lot.  Most of them smelled like powder and it made me sneeze once in a lady’s face.  Pa stood next to me, looking very stern and just nodding when anyone spoke to him.  After the last few trickled past, Pa put his hand on my shoulder.  I looked up and saw that all his sternness had faded away.  His eyes looked wet and he gave me a sad smile.

“Let’s go on home, Mae.  It’s gettin’ dark.”

I nodded and took ahold of his hand.  We walked, slow, back to the truck.  I looked back to see the men with shovels putting the dirt back in the hole.  It wouldn’t swallow me now.

To Be Continued . . . 

 
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Posted by on May 3, 2013 in Short Story

 

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Where are you, Allen Ginsberg?

“I saw the best minds . . . ”
And I don’t see them anymore.
Just the weak and weary march of brains
Burdened and enslaved.
The land starves and the people wither.

In this land, the Dead still dance,
Whether they have life or not.
The dirt grows deeper as we sink down this hole
Dug for us by generations past.

I sit and spend,
Spinning like the world under me.
This is how it works, right Mom?
And yet it doesn’t seem right.

Something seems off,
Maybe the broken light bulb,
Shattered in a fit of rage.
Maybe the damaged soul,
Silently crying out.
Maybe the fluttering one-winged butterfly,
Unable to take off.

Where are you, Allen Ginsberg?

 
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Posted by on November 10, 2012 in Poems

 

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