Category Archives: words

Things that have been seen, cannot be unseen

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Social-Media-Marketing

Social media has been at the forefront of our communication for a while.   Perhaps I have just recently noticed, or perhaps I was blind to it before, but it seems the more social media is used now, the more it becomes misused.  I’ll admit I used to enjoy Facebook, but it has become less of an interest the more my eyes became privy to far too many personal issues being aired on the internet.

I am not, by any means, being hypocritical as I too have used this blog to vent some frustrations, but there are limits to what I will spew out into cyber space.  The rules of social conduct still guide my brain and do not allow me to cross the line of over-sharing information or being unjustifiably vindictive.

Before the ever-changing Facebook screen began to fade from my daily ritual,  I was one of hundreds to have my news feed littered with vulgarities and horribly personal comments as two people ended their relationship in a way that truly resembled most reality shows.  It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion – some of the things that were said back and forth were ruthless and unnecessary, but the two involved somehow felt it appropriate for those things to be shared with all of us.

It was an easy decision for me to avoid the written daggers that were being thrown with the force of an Olympian because I have no personal stake in whether that relationship thrives or dies a horrible death.  But words on the internet penetrate millions of eyes, and sadly, four of those eyes more than likely belong to her two children.  I know they have their own Facebook accounts and, unless the power of the magic eraser cleansed those Facebook walls before they saw them, they will have experienced something that never should have been aired in such a public forum in the first place.

I still use my Facebook account infrequently, as it is still a place that I can share this blog with my friends.  But that uncomfortable public display of a  genuinely personal issue made me rethink how much information and the nature of that material I am willing to share.

Intention is nine tenths of the blog

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In this space we all strive to speak to an audience, to reach people on a level they understand and enjoy. Our intention is to enlighten or amuse, to shock and impact our readers, or to simply free the voice in our head. Regardless of why we are here, we want to write. We want to put our words into the world so people will read them and come back wanting more because something we said reached them on some unspoken level. We want to feel that some part of our psyche left an indelible imprint on their brain and they connect with our words in a multitude of ways.

We write for different reasons and we write in unique voices, but within the vast forum of the blogosphere there is a common thread that binds us all – we write. We may compose those words for a variety of reasons and our passions may be fueled by different fires, but we all burn with same intensity. Sometimes those flames completely engulf us and we are overwhelmed by the fury of the fire. And sometimes those embers simply lay in wait, still, with the hope of becoming a fire and requiring the strike of an idea to rekindle that pyre of words.

fire

My intention when I started this blog was simply to write. What I didn’t expect was to encounter the myriad number of people who enrich my life with their words. I didn’t anticipate the number of people who are rapidly becoming a staple in my day by simply doing what they love to do and by sharing their voices as well. My voice has not been quelled, but amplified by the influence of those around me. My fire, although burning at a steady pace, is not only sustained by their thought-provoking words, it is intensified by their true passion for putting words to a page. For that, my fellow bloggers and potential friends, I thank you.

The light of the fire still warms me. It envelops me and hypnotizes me with the patterns in the flames. My sleep is disrupted. My moments of REM are becoming non-existent, but I accept that fate because my intention is to listen to the voices that rouse me from that slumber and give them the freedom to say what they want to say. Let the fire burn.

All is “write” with the world again

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When I was eleven years old the writing Gods opened the heavens, the sky rained idioms and I was saturated with words.  I stood in the downpour with my arms in the air, letting myself become soaked in their beauty and I was drenched in a freshly watered passion. The seeds of creativity took root and steadily began to grow.  The garden of ideas was a portrait of spectral beauty and has continued to blossom in my imagination.

Perhaps I didn’t realize the depth of that passion until I was old enough to understand the true gift of being able to express myself from somewhere deep within my mind.  At that tender age of eleven I began writing silly poems, at least I thought they were silly, but the words just wouldn’t stop.  I began carrying a notebook everywhere and would jot down each idea as it came to me.  During slumber parties with the girls, they would all sit in a circle on the floor giggling about the boys, and I would be in a comfy chair writing poems about them.  Eventually I just stopped going to the parties because their incessant giggling was too distracting.  We were twelve, I don’t think I missed much.

Teenage angst and unrequited love only fueled the creative fires when I reached high school.  What teenage girl doesn’t write reams of hopeless thoughts about boys, loves lost to the mean girls and the ones that got away?  My pubescent phase was a match made in heaven for the endless stream of sorrow filled words that tripped over themselves to be freed.  I still read some of those old scribblings and am transported back to those ugly braces and bad 80’s haircuts, but I still can remember exactly how I felt when I wrote those words.

quill and inkwell

I lost that passion for a while.  Perhaps it was losing myself in a bad relationship, or perhaps it was just life in general that drained my will to create, but during that period I felt empty.  The voices that used to tell me their stories had fallen silent and I was alone with nothing more than my reality.  When the fog eventually lifted, I began writing my novel a few years ago, but it didn’t access all of voices that had been quelled.  It felt constrictive in a way because it followed one idea, and so it sat and the characters became idle once again.

This blog has helped to lift those voices into song and I am able to hear those choirs and the beautiful harmony they have been waiting to share.  I even feel compelled to write poetry again which I have not done in a long time.  The book now has new life being breathed into it and characters that were once cryogenically frozen in the tundra of my muted brain are now becoming reanimated.  Perhaps they too feel the freedom to speak their mind because they are no longer in the spotlight.  They have the will to move in and out of my consciousness and speak when they feel compelled to say something.  We are dating again, getting to know each other which is sometimes awkward because there are currently three of them and one of me, but the conversation is never boring.  We will continue our ritual dance of the double entendres and I will wait for the day that they are able to pick up the tab.

The long overdue and a relatively new – thank you post (and an update).

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**At the same time I was posting this yesterday, the brilliant and funny Edward Hotspur nominated me for a Versatile Blogger award as well.  This weekend was better than the Oscars for me….although I was not appropriately dressed in gown and stiletto’s.  But my reaction may have mirrored an overly made up actress after a few glasses of wine.  Thankfully, my dog will never tell.

Here is the original post:

I am a bad blogger.  Not in the sense of my writing, I’m pretty confident that I can string some meaningful sentences together and I don’t foresee an end to my nonsensical ideas any time soon (sad but true).  However, I was given The Sunshine Award a while ago by Pretty Little Dreamer  and I failed to mention that award when I received it.  And today, I was thrilled to receive the Versatile Blogger Award from confessions of an online dater.   Thank you both so much….it is truly appreciated.

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There are rules involved with these awards, but I like to throw caution to the wind and alter the rules slightly.  So many blogs grab my attention for so many reasons and there are too many to list here.  Sufficed to say, they make me think, they make me laugh and they make me cry.  I encourage you to peruse the list of bloggers that I follow.  Their words reach me on many different levels and I am developing some friendships with these kindred spirits.  They encourage me on a daily basis to continue my writing journey and they inspire me with their words.

As for me listing things about myself, it would be a short and uninteresting list.  Your viewing pleasure would be better served by clicking on the links to the pages that make me want to keep writing and free the words that long to be written.  The people behind these blogs are talented, funny and genuinely nice people and I truly hope I can follow in the grand footsteps they have left behind for me to follow.

Don’t get too close – I have vernacular diarrhea

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I’m not sure if it’s contagious, but I opened a floodgate of language and I don’t know how to shut it off.  It flows like a white water river and I am clinging on for dear life while I am plunged into the next swirl of words.  It invades my body like a virus.  It attacks my cells and leaves me listless at times. It feeds on my energy and drains the words from my head. It enters my dreams, controls my waking thoughts and it saturates my veins.  Symptoms of this particular strain include dry eyes, insomnia, gnarled fingers and the side effect of being addicted to electronic devices.  Upon researching this disease, I have come to realize that the language spores are mutating and this outbreak of writing has gone pandemic.

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Throughout my brief journey in the blogosphere, I realized I am among many like me – people who are affected by this fever, people who have things to say, so many things to say and I really feel like I’ve found a place where I belong, a place where we can begin to find a cure this affliction.  We all have different ways of expressing our thoughts, but the common thread of loving words is woven among us and pulls us together forming a healing blanket of creativity. Expressive thoughts are voiced through poetry, humor, honesty and raw emotion and we are drawn into the same vortex of grammar, syntax and synonyms.

This particular plague can strike when you least suspect it and keep you computer-ridden for days at a time.  The only cure for this malady is large doses of imagination at regular intervals.  If the symptoms persist, please consult your thesaurus.

The promise of you

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Thank you Edward Hotspur – you have inspired me to think deeply and more often about romance.  Cheers to you.

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The Promise of You

I know you’re out there somewhere, searching for me as much as I’m searching for you.  You may already know me, but maybe we’ve never met.  You know that I’m sensitive, something that not many others know about me because I don’t like to feel vulnerable.  You appreciate my quick wit and you love the fact that I scream at the television during football games.  You value the fact that I’m more tomboy than girl and I can be ready to go in 20 minutes, from shower to door.  You smile at the thought of me choosing to spend too much money on a good bottle of wine rather than settle for a cheap imitation, and you know I practice the same theory in relationships.

Perhaps our paths have already crossed but the timing was off, or perhaps we’ve never been in the same space, but I know you too.  I know you’re smart and charming, you’re not too tall and your arms will hold me tight and make me feel protected.  I know you are funny and your face  lights up when you laugh.  And I know you have a bit of a bad-boy streak, but you grew out of most of it.  You still get that glint in your eye when you remember some of the things you got away with in those bad-boy days.

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Conceivably, you have met me but have not taken the time to realize I am everything you are looking for.  Perhaps we need to spend more time together, talking over drinks, laughing at the same jokes, looking into each other’s eyes and truly seeing each other and not just looking at each other.  Maybe when you look deep enough into my soul, you will see more than what simply meets the eye.  Maybe you’ve already seen it and are too afraid to say anything.  Maybe our friendship is of such great value to both of us, we are afraid to see what could lie beyond for fear of ruining the relationship we have now.  Perhaps our platonic romance is still gently fueling the fire that may evolve into a raging inferno.

Look at me again, but see me with different eyes.  Gaze deeply and see who I truly am beyond the perception of me.  Look at the cover, but open the book to see what the story is really about.  I’ll bet it has a great ending.

Inspiration is a wonderful thing

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My fellow blogger, Rutabaga The Mercenary Researcher has nominated me for The Very Inspiring Blogger award for which I am greatly humbled.  There is something special about being recognized by fellow writers and knowing that your words resonate with them.

So there are some rules to follow….

'Tis the award ~

1. Display the award logo on your blog.

2. Link back to the person/s who nominated you.  

3. State 7 things about yourself.

  • I love a capella music
  • I think Valentine’s Day is a cash grab for businesses – we should celebrate that love every day
  • I don’t think I could survive without coffee, and I’m not willing to find out
  • I could never be a vegetarian
  • I am a die-hard NFL fan
  • I have expensive taste when it comes to red wine
  • I’m happy 99.5% of the time

4. Nominate other bloggers for this award and link to them

So many of you bloggers out there inspire me with your photos, your poetry and your words.   I wish there were more hours in a day to read and visit more blogs.  I need to win the lottery!!  Here are just a few that make me want to continue my journey.

May we all continue to receive the beautiful gifts of words and imagery from those magical places in our minds!!

“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” ~ Ernest Hemingway

Daily Prompt – The Light Beyond The Glass

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Daily Prompt – Take the first sentence from your favorite book and make it the first sentence of your post.  I took this line from Cold Fire, by Dean Koontz.

Even before the events in the supermarket, Jim Ironheart should have known trouble was coming.  The gloomy weather was an overwhelming indication that the confines of his small apartment would be his only safe haven, but he was never one to let the voice of reason be his guide.  He was a man, after all, and he would let no sinister feeling shape his mood or carve the path of his day.  He prepared himself for the barrage of wind and rain and locked the door behind him.

The Supermarket, oddly named since it stood on a small corner and was the only store for miles, seemed to cast an eerie glow through the mottled grey light of the morning and he  paused with his hand on the door.  Something was waiting for him inside that store.  He felt it as much as he felt his heart beginning to pick up the pace of its beat.  He surveyed as much of the store as he could see beyond the shelving units that were home to his precious fast food addiction.  After what seemed like an eternity, he couldn’t delay any longer without looking like he was casing the joint and as he pushed open the door the chimes signaled his entrance into the store.

The air was frigid.  Not just air-conditioned, but Arctic cold.  The exhalation of his breath hovered in front of his face and seemed to hang in the air long enough to form its own icicles.  The place was deserted.  Apart from the humming of the coolers, there was no sound.  With slight trepidation, Jim made his way deeper into the store.  It took several seconds before he realized his footsteps made no noise.  There was no squeak of wet rubber on the tile floor and no audible proof that he had even moved at all.  The incessant hum of the fridges seemed to increase in volume and pierced the silence like an arrow.  Jim was now drawn to the back of the store.  He needed to get to that fridge.

As he pulled open the door to the cooler, the world behind him went black.  The ethereal luminescence emitted from the refrigerated section of the store was the only thing that seemed to exist.   Jim turned slightly to look behind him and there was nothing.  The store seemed to have been pulled into a giant vacuum and the only thing that existed within those four walls were Jim and the door he still grasped in his hand.  The contents of the fridge no longer existed.  Jim seemed to be standing on the divide between the blackness behind him and the white light of the cooler.

Jim stared at the light.  He cautiously brought his free hand to the opening and found the courage to let his fingers be bathed in the warmth that the light was emitting.  His fingers tingled in the light and he felt a joy that he didn’t know he had within him.  He liked it.  He wanted more.  He stepped into the opening and the door closed behind him.  He was awash in such a blissful feeling.  He began to weep and as the saline from his tears saturated his cheeks he felt a sense of utter happiness.  All the pent-up anger and disappointment were sluiced away by his tears and for the first time in his life he felt blessed.

The alarm clock blared and Jim was startled awake.  The modest decor in his apartment swam into focus and Jim realized he had been dreaming.  He swung his feet out of bed and sat up, wiping the cobwebs of the dream from his head.  As he rubbed his eyes, he felt the dampness from his tears and noticed that his pillow was wet.  As he struggled to recall the fragments of his dream, he began to smile.  The smile became wider and, for the first time in a long time, he was happy to greet the morning.   Jim carried that feeling of joy with him for a long time after that experience and realized that the name “super market” was a gross understatement.

Once upon a time

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I developed my love for the vernacular at an early age.  Reading was a fun pastime for me and I treasure my very young memories of spending hours with my nose in the book – The Poky Little Puppy.  After my parents had read it to me at least a thousand times, I then regaled myself with that tale ad nauseam.  Even now, I recall the story with such great fondness. That series of children’s books certainly lived up to the name aptly given to them – Little Golden Books.

poky

The Giving Tree, by Shel Silverstein, is another book that will always hold a very special place in my heart. The message it conveyed is still embedded deeply in my childhood memories and is carried with me today.

As I got older, chapter books grabbed my attention and would not let go.  I was swept into a miraculous sea of imagination and wonder.  Oh, the places I could venture!   Judy Blume was my absolute hero as I matured into my teen years.  Akin to how I feel about Dean Koontz today, she spun tales that I would read until my eyes felt like they were bleeding.  I read everything she put to paper and when I was finished her collection, I started over again.

Roald Dahl was another master of vocabulary and he spun tales that kept me enthralled into the wee hours of the night.  A hidden flashlight and a phony admission to my mother that I would go to bed resulted in me hiding under the covers to lose myself in the pages for just a while longer.  Stories were a magical place where dream-like creatures came to life and the stagnant brain of a child was immersed in possibility.  C.S. Lewis had me wishing that, while I slept, my closet would transform into a portal that led to Narnia.

With all of the cherished memories I obtained by reading, I was overjoyed to share that magic with the next generation.  I absolutely loved to read to my ex’s three children and, like Mrs. Doubtfire, I used different voices for each of the characters.  We would take turns reading Harry Potter and each one of us wished that bedtime was just a little further away.  Years later, reading to my nephews allowed their extended bed time to be filled with countless stories from an abundance of characters.  How could I say no when they excitedly asked me to read more fables of magical creatures?

I was rather inspired to write this post after attending one of my nephew’s recent hockey games.  Every child that was not on the ice had their hands eagerly wrapped around some electronic device that sputtered out mechanical noises from the latest game they were playing.  Wouldn’t it be great to see a child with a book in their hands, consumed by words and ensconced in imagination instead of killing zombies or launching Angry Birds?  I will admit, I’ve spent my share of time launching those same Angry Birds, but I still, and will always, put words ahead of birds!!

Do you read with the children in your lives?

Seeping into my sleeping

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It bit me again.  As I lay cloaked in my duvet, caught in the vortex of my latest dream scape, it methodically crept under the covers and sunk its pearly whites into my unsuspecting, dormant flesh.  It released its powerful venom and as that viscous liquid began to flow through my blood stream, I awoke with the need to put words on a page.  In a frenzy, I searched for pen and paper and began to jot down thoughts trying to keep up with the pace that my brain had set.  The perpetrator of the bite nonchalantly sat at the edge of my bed, grotesquely picking the dirt from under its nails.  As I continued to help the ink flow at the same hurried pace of the ideas that struck me, the writing bug simply smiled at me.  It waved, jumped from my bed and left me alone with my thoughts.

bug

(Image courtesy of Google)

In the waning moments of my unconsciousness, the characters permeated those forced waking moments and began to breathe a life of their own.  The inspiration was so overwhelming I had to leave the shroud of that warm duvet and sit at my computer in those wee hours to keep up the with the feverish flow of creativity.

More than a few minutes later, and after several disgusted glances from my dog, the characters were freed.  Their stories were recorded to their satisfaction and I was released from my graveyard shift of being their stenographer.  I put the laptop to rest and the dog and I headed back to the warmth of my bed and drifted off into an uninterrupted sleep for the rest of the night.

The light of the new day welcomed me from my slumber.  As I shook off the remnants of my sleep, the lingering images of the characters I had created in my semi-conscious state hovered like images in cartoon balloons above my head.  Vague recollections of the story line pieced themselves together although some details were still caught in strings in the web of my groggy brain.

The elusive writing bug escaped in the early hours of dawn and the puncture wounds are no longer visible from the late-night violation of my sleep.  The only forensic evidence that remains from my harrowing hopefully-soon-to-be-published experience are the scattered words on the pages.

Does that late night bug ever visit you in your sleep?