In a room I sit,

Given a phone with power to connect,

But instead of talking,

I'd rather push myself to neglect.

A pen, a blank page to fill,

I want to make a statement so bold,

Yet the fear of it being too much,

Leaves the statement untold

A piece of clay, untouched on the sheet,

A chance to let myself out and mesmerise

But instead of sculpting,

I look around for critical eyes

Topics I care about,

A chance to share my voice,

But my quest to find all the judgmental eyes

Leave me silent without a choice.

In my personal hell,

The fear of failure holds me back,

And I'm left with nothing to tell,

Except for the courage that I lack.

In this space of my own design,

I'm both the prisoner and the guard,

Held captive by my own mind,

Forever trapped and forever barred.

Got to get them out or I be dead

Lost in the hell

My mind has spelled

Fire spewing

Darkness brewing

Tendrils dragging down

To a place Non confound

Got to get out

Fight this bout

Reset too good

Wish I could

Take my mind away

To a place I want to stay

Where no demons prance

And only angels dance

Reset rewind

Erase the thoughts in my mind

Month of between times

Neither winter nor spring

Whose short days

Taunt of warmth they do not bring

Cherry trees that do peak in

Through frost tinged window panes

Silently waiting spring times release

Freedom to burst forth blossom and vein

Yet the ice cold heart of winter

Mutes sunlight within gray shadows of blue

And time changes pace for no man

Winter releases to spring when it is due

Can you write of the ocean if scared you may drown?

Of flights through the sky when you're stuck on the ground?

Of folks and of places you've never been around?

I don't know about you but I do.

Can you write of the past if you're presently now?

Of future though time travel has no way how?

Of school days despite that you've taken your bow?

I don't know about you but I do.

Can you write about villains if you're goody two shoes?

Of happiest endings when you have the blues?

Of triumphs and troubles you've never gone through?

I don't know about you but I do.

Can you write about creatures that no one has known?

Of far-away countries from the warmth of your home?

Of fun times with friends when you've always been alone?

I don't know about you but I do.

Can you write about space if you've never left earth?

Of measures of treasures with your penny's worth?

Of mothers when you have never given birth?

I don't know about you but I do.

Can you write of finding that one Mr. Right?

Of that special someone making you his wife?

Of magical days and romantical nights?

I don't know about you but I do.

And then, I dream... A girl can only dream...

And hope and pray with might,

That someday maybe my words will be true-

But, in the meantime, I write.

I've taken my shelter in the books since I was young and dreamed of adventure. 

Wrote down my thoughts in the alpine abditory, so I could seal them in a far-off land. 

Yet, here's the thing about my story: you'll never see it all.

Yes, you may read the story, the writing in blood-red ink on the wall.

Or feel the quiet beat of my heart within a page. 

Maybe feel the war within, upon the thunderous rage. 

And once the story is over, you'll quietly think to yourself.

'interesting' without a glance and return me to the shelf. 

But I'll tell you when you meet me, if only for a minute or two,

You'll begin to see something different, only given unto you.

For the people, they say, she's an enigma, complicated as a tapestry spun,

but darling, no, I'm just a lot of simple people, all rolled into one.

Where was this within your story? They asked, reasoning that I was an open book.

Just becuase you read my story, I reply, does not mean you got the whole look.

They'll ask, where was this before? I hadn't seen the hidden signs.

I shake my head. Here's the thing, my story is in between the lines.

#poetry #writing #thoughts #lines #paradox #challenge#prose #secret #deepest #books #stories

My mother wields guilt

My father wields chagrin

My brother wields a devil’s smile

Results are mixed for him

My sister wields sympathy

My grandma wields regret

My grandpa wields a restless ire

Which hasn’t failed him yet

My neighbor wields cookies,

My friend wields fan and wit,

My boss wields good old fashioned work

Built with elbow grease and spit

My spouse wields honesty

With a blunt force trauma blow

Me? I wield resilience

From loving all the ones I know

Writing is a private affair. One mind, one hand holding a pen, or two hands hovering over a keyboard. It’s almost always carried out alone. And when the pages are written, then what? This is a key question because it defines a crucial divide between writers who write for publication and writers who write just for themselves.

Writing for yourself is fine. We all write for ourselves first, really. If we don’t love our words, no one else will, either. There’s nothing wrong with being your own unique audience. Maybe you’re not ready to share. Maybe you want to keep what you’re writing all to yourself because it’s more comfortable—and more freeing—like keeping a diary where you can say whatever you want without fear of rebuke.

But if you want to write better, you’ve got to let someone else read you.

The question is, who?

There’s Aunt Marge, who loved your earliest attempts. But please, if you share with her, don’t rely too much on her opinion. The woman might make the best pineapple upside-down cake in the Tri-State area, but as a literary critic, she probably leaves something to be desired. She’ll tell you you’re brilliant because she adores you, and while that might leave you feeling all warm and fuzzy, it’s not what you need.

There’s your writing group if you’re in one. These are probably your peers, assuming you’re all at more or less the same level of experience. They’ve been trying to wrestle their own words around, so have some idea of what’s what. But they may not. They may respond viscerally and say something like “I don’t like your character, she’s too mean.” That may be true—your character could be a witch among witches, but it’s not a useful remark. If you hear that your pacing is too slow, or things wrap up a little too neatly, that’s helpful. If each person in your group has a different issue with your story, it’s nearly impossible to focus on a way to improve it. However, if they home in on the same problem—a place where each lost the narrative thread, for instance—that’s worth listening to.

When is it time to put yourself in the hands of a stranger? When you’re serious about getting published. It’s a big hurdle, and a lot of writers get stuck on it. You can’t believe the excuses I’ve heard from people who don’t want to send their work out. “The system is rigged.” “With thousands of submissions, mine will never make it.” “Editors don’t really read everything that comes their way.” What these statements all boil down to is a fear of being rejected. Writers hear “No” more than most people in most other professions. And yes, you should think of writing as a profession because that’s exactly what it is. It’s not easy to screw up your courage and launch your file into the ether, but there’s no other way to get your story in front of a reader you’ve never met. Editors will often give you valuable feedback about why your story didn’t make the cut, and if that happens, take their words to heart. Remember that they read a lot of work, and can tell good from bad. Look at your pages through their lens. This is how you learn.

Now, what about sending to a contest? A unique hurdle there is the entry fee. A lot of writers resent being asked to pay it, but consider this: most publications operate on a shoe-string, and every dollar helps. If you don’t feel charitable, you need to think about a press’s bottom line, how they make ends meet, and so on. Many of them are run by volunteers with day jobs. Are a few dollars really so much to ask? Some contests require as much as twenty-five dollars or even more, and I agree, that’s steep. If you can’t swing it, then don’t. But if you can, you’re contributing to a good cause. And what’s in it for you? Well, obviously you could win, and that’s always lovely. But if you don’t win first place, you might be included on a list of Honorable Mentions or Finalists and you can feel you’ve achieved something important. Kudos count in writing, just as in anything, and so do bragging rights. It’s nice to remember these favorable results when that inevitable sense of discouragement sets in.

What this all comes down to is that I hope you’ll think of your writing as something to share, especially now when we’re all isolating and staying home as much as possible. Art connects us and brings us together. Do your best work, be brave, and hit “Send.”

I sink a single canine into a ripe blueberry and it explodes in my mouth. I can practically see the stream of deep purple covering my tongue as the sweet and slightly tangy liquid infiltrates every crevice under my tongue and between my teeth. It is sudden and all consuming. I do not bother to think about its fleeting nature, how the goodness will soon leave my mouth forever. It does not matter. A content sigh escapes from my lips, barely audible, just as the rest of the noise in the world around me. In this moment nothing else matters besides the peace given to me wrapped in the shape of a blueberry. 

This is joy. 

I look over to my niece. There is not a sign of a single blueberry around her, yet her once caramel checks are now stained navy blue, as are her fingers, and forehead, and nose, and teeth as she smiles at me, almost as if aware of her treachery. She makes a sound that is probably fully appropriate to her but is lost on my non-infant ears, and then begins to bang on the table. I pull out a wet wipe and begin to go to town on erasing the stains, a seemingly impossible task made even more impossible with her incessant squirming. The sounds she makes now produce spit bubbles, some of which land on me, and seeing the bubbles remind me of her much needed bath. I know how it will go: she will scream bloody murder, pull my hair, kick my stomach, do everything within the capacity of her tiny body to avoid the torture that is warm water and a bit of soap, but all of that will subside once she is actually in the sink and trusts that my intent is not malicious. She will later turn those blueberries into something brown and smelly, retroactively making her bath useless. She will demand for more food but will not be so kind as to specify what she is in the mood for, so I will inevitably get it wrong and provoke more wailing. And then we will wind down and either watch a musically inclined troll go on an adventure or musically inclined lions defend their kingdom, and she will greedily drink the bottle she did not want in the first place, and she will burp and spit up on my shoulder, and maybe she will decide that I am of use to her and that we are friends and she will lay her head on my clean shoulder and doze off, or she will decide that I am public enemy number 1 and will fight with everything in her to be placed in someone else’s arms, and I will be tired, and fed up, and quite frankly, a little heartbroken. 

I think all of these things as I finish up cleaning the evidence of her blueberry crime scene. She is reaching up with hands opening and closing and looking up at me with pupils as big as, well, blueberries, and I know that in this moment she loves me more than anything. Which is a nice coincidence, given that I love her more than anything, regardless of the trials and tribulations I know that I am in for later. I pick her up and kiss her nose and make the same gargley bubble making noises she made, and she is visibly pleased. 

This is happiness.