I am a writer...

(Just a random stream of consciousness I wrote while at work yesterday.)

                I can feel the terror building in the pit of my stomach, a small dark knot made of nausea and self-doubt.  I don't understand it.  I can't understand it.  Have I lost my will to write?  I'm staring at the keyboard with a stomach full of butterflies, paralyzed that I've burned myself out.  I don't know what to do.

               

I can feel it burning inside me, like acid in my veins, this desire to write, to get these words out in digital ink on virtual paper.  To feel my fingers flying over the keyboard.  To relieve some of this desperate ache.  But instead I fall into this same rut, over and over and over.  Open the file, stare at the blank page, and become furious with myself for sitting so firmly on this writers block.

             

    And they scream.  Oh god, do they scream and rage and curse at me, demanding that they be the next to be released upon the world, that their story is the next that must be told.  They refused to be sated, they refuse to be silenced and I'm starting to think that the only person who is not inside my head is me.

             

    I know them by name.  I know them by spirit, by attitude, by what fraction of my psyche that they represent.  Bryna and Brin, duality.  Jessica, desire for freedom.  Daniel, desire for justice and the power to enforce that justice.  Disperia, desire for vengance and escape, for rage and violence.  Mordred, desire for acceptence and adventure.  Nichole, desire for control.  Jebzebelle, desire for complete abandon.  DJ, desire for understanding.  They're all there.  All bits and pieces and fragments of the whole that is me.  They're all me.  Every one of them, and every one who will ever develop.

            

    So if I know this for a fact and for truth, why do I sit here with my guts tied in knots, staring at a blank page?  This is me, this is all of me, and I am a writer.  I am the champion of the written word, a smith of language and prose.  I am a writer, blessed or damned, and there is nothing that they or anyone can do to prevent my voice from being unleashed!  Critics be damned and especially the worst critic of all, myself.  Slit the throat of my inner critic and leave it to bleed it's inky-black blood all over the cosmos. 

             

   You cannot stop us.  You cannot silence us.  You cannot muzzle the muse or sew shut the lips of the speaker.   I am a writer and writing is what I do.  It is all that I do.  This menial day to day drivel to pay the bills means as little to me as the dirt beneath the soles of my shoes.  It is a means to keep a roof over my head, pens in my hand and power to my laptop.  I am a writer.  This dead end flourscent-lit hell is simply a means to an end.

            

    I don't expect to be famous.  I expect to get my stories written, to unleash my characters upon the world.

            

    I am a writer.  That is all I am and all I ever shall be.

Flash Fiction Challenge: Silent Singer's Sorrow

For today's Flash Fiction Challenge from Terrible Minds....since I really want that book. :-p

Silent Singer’s Sorrow

She sang. She sang at the top of her lungs until she was sure her soul would shatter into a million glittering shards. Her voice echoed off the leaves and branches of the ancient forest, a song so sad that the trees slowly started to remember a similar sound. A broken hearted Greek with a lute, singing, pining for his lost love, and even the trees began to weep. She leaned against the trunk of an ancient oak, her body weak but her voice stronger than before. After resting for a moment, her song unending, she stood and again moved on.

She cried out for her loss, the grief in her voice shaking the resolve of any who heard her. Wanderers and travelers in the woods were moved to tears by her voice, falling over each other as the emotions overwhelmed them. Carts were overturned, horses and mules lost to the darkness of the woods, and no one seemed to notice or care. She left piles of shuddering and sobbing forms in her wake.

Her voice was beautiful, that could not be denied. Any other time, any other place, she could have performed for kings and queens, emperors and their consorts, the highest and most elite of any in the land. Her voice was unrivaled, and all who heard her knew it. As her clear soprano broke the night once again, all knew, but instead of cheering, they wept.

Her long hair tangled in low hanging branches and thorn bushes, and she simply walked on, tearing large chunks from her scalp and leaving bloody trails from her skin. She simply did not notice. She walked until her shoes fell apart and her feet bled, but still she sang, seemingly impervious to what should have been blinding pain. A trickle of blood from her scalp flowed into her eyes, but instead of wiping it away, she stumbled forward, her voice only wavering when she tripped in her blindness and fell forward into the dust.

She continued like this until the inhabitants of the woods could no longer stand the constant deluge of grief and misery. Her voice only stopped for the few minutes of sleep she took a day, and slowly, they were going as mad as the wandering singer.

Finally, when they could take it no longer, a woodsman stuffed his ears with cotton and beeswax, and followed the bloody footprints of the singer into the woods. Even with his ears blocked, her voice was almost unbearable, and he could feel tears flowing unbidden down his cheeks. He dashed them away with the back of his hand and walked on. He quickly came upon the bloody, broken woman, walking slowly through a clearing. He quickened his pace and quickly overtook her. Grabbing her by the shoulders, he spun her around to face him.

The full strength of her voice as such close range staggered him and he almost fell to his knees. Instead, he pulled back his arm and slapped the woman, once, straight across the face. Her voice faltered, but did not fail. He pulled back and slapped her again, and as her head snapped to the side, she fell silent, for the first time since she had entered the woods.

The woodsman pulled the cotton and wax from his ears, and stared the woman full in the face. She was not struggling against him, but there was no way she could have seen him. Her eyes were clotted shut with blood from her scalp. Feeling a pang of pity, he pulled his water skin from his hip and, holding her chin, poured the water down her face to loosen the dried blood. She tried to pull away at the first touch of water, but he held her firm. Once her face was wet, he dropped the water skin to the dirt and pulled out a rag to wipe her face clean.

He wiped the clots from over her eyes first and she blinked, then squinted her eyes. Though the woods were not bright, it was still brighter than the darkness she had been seeing.

“Why do you do this, woman?” He asked, releasing her chin and stepping back a moment. She just looked at him, as though she didn’t understand.

“Why do you do this!” he yelled, and the expression on his face caused her to step back a moment. She took a deep breath to begin her song again, and he crossed the distance between them quickly, pulling back his arm for another slap. She remained silent.

“Why will you not answer me?” The woodsman looked her over, slowly taking in her beaten and battered form. A puzzled look crossed the woman’s face for a moment, then she pointed to her ears.

“I don’t understand, singer. Why do you do this?”

A sad look crossed the singer’s face. Looking down at herself, she reached into a piece of tattered cloth that must have once been a cloak, and pulled out a small piece of paper. It was thick, high quality paper, with black script scrawling across it’s surface. She looked at it once, then handed it to the woodsman.

“I am deaf,” read the note.

Missing my Muse....

I would rather be sitting outside, the warm breeze brushing gently against my face, even though the temperature outside will be almost unbearable in the next few hours. Anywhere that I can be alone, even if it's just for a few minutes. Anywhere that I can focus on my writing without the distraction of my children or the television with it's garish colors and too loud cartoon sounds. Anywhere that I can get away from the error beeps and game sounds of my son's computer games.
They are all there. My characters, I mean. Disperia, Jessica, Nichole, DJ, James, Mordred and the rest. They are all there, inside my head. Call me crazy if you will, but my characters are all a part of me. I am not writing, honestly. I am just the tools that they use to put down their stories on paper. I have no control over what my characters do, and no half the time I have no idea what's going to happen next in the story. I have a scene for Jessica that I'm twelve pages into writing so far and I have no idea how it's going to end.
I am missing my muse. I know she's there, I can feel her in everything. In every time that I see something and my mind slips into a third-person narrative.

"That faux-hawk makes you look like a douche-bag" she thought to herself as she walked past the man with the offending haircut, a customer of hers who stood a good foot taller than her already ample 5 foot 7 inches.
"And that attitude makes you sound like a cunt." The reply appeared in her mind and she spun around, staring in disbelief at the tall customer who had stopped walking and turned to face her.
"You can hear me?!" she asked, both out loud and inside her mind, a shocked look plain on her face.
"Yes." he said, matter of factly. It took her a second to realize that he had not moved his lips. "Did you really think you were the only one?" Before she could collect her thoughts to respond, he spun on his heel and stalked away. His muscular frame was tense with irritation, but he had a half-smile resting on his lips.

I see things like this every single day. I see how people react to each other and to themselves. I watch the managers walk around the store and even the biggest crowd parts for them like a school of fish around a shark. I write, I think, I see, but I can't put my fingers to my keyboard and get it all down before it flees my mind like a startled deer.
So maybe I just have to sit here and write, no matter what comes out of my head and gets translated into pixels on a screen or ink on a piece of paper. I may be missing my muse but she'll come back, no matter what I do.
She always does.

Idleness

*just a thought that occurred to me as I woke up this morning.*

Did it ever occur to anyone that the reason that depression and other mental illnesses have become so prevalent in today’s society is not due to genetics or exposure to toxins or anything along those lines, but rather that it is due to the fact that as a society, we have become idle.


Idle hands are the devils playground, or so the old saying goes. We no longer have to work from sunup to sundown, tending fields and animals, building structures and trading for what we needed to survive. Now, if you are hungry, you can buy a hamburger from McDonald’s on your way to wherever you’re going. If you’re cold, you turn the heat up, or buy a blanket from Wal-Mart.


The advent of technology has given us ample time to sit idle. And yes, I am counting watching TV, surfing the internet, and playing video games as sitting idle. As we sit in front of our various electronic toys, we have time to sit and brood and dwell on all the negatives of the day. Didn’t get that job, paycheck was too small, bills need to be paid, bad grades, bad luck with the opposite sex, what have you. Instead of rising with the dawn, or even before, and working though the day until the sun sets, we’re rising with the lunch truck, and then staying up to all hours of the evening.


This was sparked by a sudden burning desire to have a farm or something that required a good portion of my time to maintain. Yes, my children do require a good bit of time, but as they get older, the time is more varied, and less in length much of the time. Even my 10 month old daughter is very independent and would rather play by herself much of the time.


So that’s my two cents. It’s not directed at any particular person, save perhaps myself. It just seems to me that as a society we have become idle and this could be, if not a reason, than a major contributing factor in the massive rise of depression and mental illness in our society.

Any thoughts?

Life's Cruel Joke

Thank you, Life, for the grand joke you play
Leave us sifting though echoes while searching for sound
Keep it all black and white wile we seek for the gray
Let us think we are free when you know we are bound.

Laugh as you like, as we struggle and squirm
Against wire and rope and cold steel
Leave us suspended, like hooks though a worm
Watch the blood as it starts to congeal

Trick us to think that we know what to do
That we can understand how this plays
Make us believe that we're controlling you
While you hold the reins all our days

Leave us defeated, and crushed by the wayside
Empty unseeing eyes stare at the sky
As a meal for the vultures, left behind your swift stride
Behind your back now, so you can't see me fly

Pull myself back from the edge of the dark
The bitterness left with my crushed mortal form
This sense of defeat left behind, with no mark
Left on this new life, this wolf's heart reborn

Sit there and laugh, Life, enjoy your sick joking
I leave you behind with my head held up high
Do what you like, I refuse to be broken
I will not give up now, I refuse to die.

Day After Day.....

Day after day I find myself sitting here. So desperate for adult conversation, for companionship, for any sort of interaction that isn't in the babble of a two year old, that it's a vibrent red ache in my chest.

I'm so lonely. And I feel like I'm a horrible wife. My excuse is that I can't be on the kid's schedule (up around 6:30, bed at 8) and on my husband's schedule (up at 1pm, works til 8, up all night and goes to bed at 5am) at the same time. At their age (2.5 and 8 months) the kids need someone to watch them constantly. I just feel like I'm neglecting him. :(

I hate being unemployed. It's got me to stressed I barely eat, and I'm too stressed to get off, unless someone spends a lot of time working on me and even then it doesn't work sometimes! It's just become too much of a hassle for hubby, so he finds his pleasure and goes on his way. But can you expect me not to be stressed!? Our rent was so late last month that we were one day off of them going to the courthouse and filing an eviction notice before we got it paid! The money that was supposed to go to getting me a laptop for school (my disbursement money from my student loans) went to paying my rent and putting food in my fridge, because the person who said he was going to pay it (my useless father in law)went and did stupid shit like buying a UKELELE! -screams her frusturation at the sky-

I just don't know what to do anymore. I'm lonely, and I'm lost, and I'm afraid. Who knows what's going to happen come the first of the month? Hubby's job has been changed (Was origionally an hourly telemarketing job, is now a comission only sales job). There's a potentional to make great money there, at 40% comission, but there's also the potentional to make no money at all. I've been searchign for almost three months for a job now, even to the point of whoring myself out to the tourist industry, and all for naught! I'm hopeless, and helpless.

I want to scream, or cry, or pick a fight and get the fuck beat out of me, or something. I enjoy physical pain, it's this mental anguish that kills me. After spending my whole life fighting to keep my mind to rights because of bi-polar disorder, PTSD, and a plethora of other mental problems, it's all falling apart. I can't hardly make myself get dressed in the morning. My hair is a mess, my feet are bare, I'm still in my pajamas, and I can't make myself get up from the computer except to go to the bathroom.

What the fuck is wrong with me!?

To Judge.....

 A woman walks alone through the mostly empty aisles, pushing a stroller. The stroller holds a baby girl, and an older boy follows at her heels. The looks she gets attempt to give her pity that she is alone with two children. She wears a wedding band on her finger, though no one seems to notice. They judge, they think her a young single mom, and don’t even think to ask.

 She is not formally dressed. A pair of khaki capris, an orange tank top, black work boots and white socks completes her outfit. The looks are outraged that a mother, even a young one, should dare to dress in such a way. The older women are offended that she shows off her body, the younger ones disgusted at its appearance. They judge, and do not even consider from whence she gained those marks.

 A heavy steel collar sits at her throat, its chain dangling down between her breasts. The looks are frightened of what they do not understand. They turn away and shake their heads, not knowing why she consents to wear such an accessory. They judge, and they do not care to know.

 Such are the thoughts that crossed my mind as I took my two children to play at the local shopping mall. The looks, the snide comments both spoken and thought, both seem to wish to attack that which I am, and that which I choose to be.

 I walk alone, with two children, because my husband sleeps during the day to get ready for his night job. I wear my wedding band prominently on my left hand, as is traditional and proper, though no one seems to have the foresight to look for it anymore. They would prefer to jump to conclusions, and to be as nasty as possible while doing it. They do not care to discover that I am not, in fact, a young single mom, as they seem wont to believe. They do not care to know anything that does not fit into their safe little box.

 My appearance is not incredibly vulgar or strange. I dress sensibly for Florida temperatures, when my car does not have air conditioning. In this case it was a tank top and a pair of lightly colored capris. Why is this such an affront to the ambient population of St. Petersburg? We’re a beach town, but still the population of the town wishes you to walk around covered from neck to ankles, and doubly so if you have children. When did the wishes of the populace begin to outweigh common sense? 

 My collar is the piece that gives them the most pause. My heavy steel choke collar sits at my throat and does not leave it. It is a symbol of my subservience to my mate, but for most it just marks me as some sort of deviant, certainly someone who should not be bearing and raising children. I choose to wear my collar out of deference to my mate, not from some trend or fashion that may come and go. This is my lifestyle, but they choose not to see. They would rather see only what they wish to see.

 I do not understand why it is seen as almost an obligation to judge and ridicule those who are different than you. I do not judge, I have no desire to judge anyone. Why, though, does it seem that all anyone wants to do is judge me?