Last week was like standing by the Southern Ocean in a gale. I ran into the wind, trying to keep up with the ‘should’s’ in my life. Monday morphed into Friday and then the weekend came. I’d tried to write but the kept deleting the fragments on the page. Poetic words floated past evading my intentions to capture them.
Stress does that, a cement beanie on the soaring mind.
But I had something to look forward to the first Sunbury Literary Festival and my closest friend had bought tickets. We went.
Rupertswood Mansion: photo Lindy Schneider
I’ve discovered prose poetry. It’s exciting a morphed from as the name suggests. Since last Monday night’s creative writing class words and images and sentence fragments have been flowing into my already congested brain.
Are they helping or hindering? Things are loosening and unravelling inside me. I’m gaining clarity about what I want to say but it’s hard to explain the choice when it’s skewed. It’s hard to own it.
Opportunities abound when people watching, new things to try or reruns with barbs. What happens when the alarm bells ring and although we should be excited? Why are these experiences with us? Done bashing my head against a brick wall, I sit back, retreating into the comfort of silence.
Thousands of stories, characters and plots that unfold. One lumpy afternoon ample fodder for a book or two. Weird stuff happens some of it almost unbelievable but conflict makes writing memorable. This poem came from recent seaside reflections.
Retiring is like dying. If you are very lucky, you have a few practice runs before you go. I’m transitioning out of my professional life. With every, good-bye, I reflect on what have I have learned.
I’m a seeker, a would-be philosopher. It’s a vagabond’s life, the gypsy of the soul seeking meaning. But there are always stand-out moments, a person, a situation, a life. Most importantly there is a lesson.
Sometimes the words pour out of me, sometimes they don’t. There’s a lot more to the craft of writing than I had ever expected. Everyday I learn something new. As I find my way, I realise I’m reaching into the realm of the infinite.
Writing is like golf, deceptively easy on the surface.
That mind bending question: how? The antagonist in my current manuscript is the inner critic. In order to give this ethereal character depth, I delved into its origin. A hungry beast it needed food, so I decided to feed it well on:
- acceptance and recognition. A gourmet delight!
‘Schicksal,’ has been published two years. I set up a new computer recently. Whilst importing my outlook files, I looked at my emails, the deleted items bulged. Before deleting them permanently, I went through them again.
Familiar? Should be writing …
Staring at the screen,
looking for distractions,
I’m getting them, too.That’s what happens when you text friends. Sometimes they just want to chat. My fingers are drunk, they are typing words that don’t exist: not in any language.
My inner critic says, not today. I ignore her.
storm clouds gather
circle and ensnare
it started like that yesterday
a poor excuse for an experience
On Friday, our lovely city was rocked by a random act of violence. My thoughts go out to those involved, those who have lost loved ones and those who in the course of their duty serve our community.
It is Monday.
For many, a difficult week lies ahead. As citizens, we find the media reports buffeting us, social media imploring us and our own emotions ensnaring us.Many feel a sense of helplessness wanting to help but unsure how to. Can we do more? If so, how?