You and Me

On the first day of the world

You stapled me to the floorboards

Too busy watching the stars

To see me bleeding at your feet,

Too far away for me to touch your peach skin

But close enough that I could smell your dandelion scent.

I am still here, as are you,

Though an eternity has passed,

Long enough for your hair

To tumble out the window

And weave among the constellations,

Long enough for your blown breath

To spin the worlds upon their axis

And give life to dirt,

Long enough for my blood to turn to rubies

That catch enough starlight for you to turn

And see Me.

Discarded Light

So, I recently wrote the poem Ink Dreams for an assignment in my poetry class (Yup, I’m taking a poetry class this semester. You are hereby warned of the incoming poetry), and I’ve gotten a great reception from you all. The assignment was to write a poem with this prompt: “_____ drips from______ fingers while they sleep.” In addition to Ink Dreams, I wrote one other poem and I have decided to send it out to you for feedback. It is a little less refined than Ink Dreams, but that is mainly because I am not sure what to do next. Enjoy!

 

Sunlight drips from your fingers while you sleep

Past the hangnails, the torn fingertips,

The clinging ingrained dirt

Pooling on the floorboards,

Rippling over the discards of your life,

That have attained so fine a layer of dust

That it floats when you open the window to elicit a breeze

In your stagnant body.

You lay in the middle of your circle of sunlight

But cling to the darkness under your pillow,

Basking in the shadows

And fearing the light.

Ink Dreams

Ink drips from my fingers while I sleep

Dropping onto a lake of words

That flows down a river

Of Consonants and Vowels

To pool onto my notepad.

Words bloom into bloody flowers

That grow in a man’s abandoned ribcage

And are trampled underfoot

By wolves that feast upon children’s nightmares

And cuddle with the victims of their prey.

In the morning it dries

And I am left

With a blank page.

Advice 2

So, I had to give up on NanoWrimo. School decided that this semester wasn’t quite hard enough, so it procured three research papers and a creative writing portfolio for me to put together and then lumped on top of the pile of misfortune two final cumulative exams on the same day.

Great.

So, I have a partly finished novel that I am forced to put aside until the semester stops dogging my heels. In the mean time, I am also taking a larger hiatus from here. Don’t worry, it is only three weeks. I will be back before you know it. I do, however, want to offer this to you until then.

So, my creative writing professor here at college is Dr. Robert Vivian, a man who walks around the world in perpetual wonder. He is amazing and offers some of the best advice when it comes to writing that I have ever received. This is my third semester in a row with him and I regret nothing except that I have taken all of his creative writing classes and can no longer continue (though, I am currently trying to devise a way to change that… we shall see). His curiosity about the world can never be fulfilled and he is continually astonished by the beauty he is surrounded by.

Seriously. You may think I am exaggerating, but I am not in the slightest. He refuses to hold his creative writing in a normal classroom because he feels his mind is too confined and moves them permanently to a corner in the library where we are surrounded by books and that unique smell they give off or the basement of the chapel where occasionally piano music drifts through the floorboards as we work. He offers assignments where he simply gives us a list of characteristics and asks us to write a story where they are all included, has us create a fictional town and then insists we propagate characters to fit inside, takes us outside to sit in the sunlight on the lawn and write about a ray of light on some object, or sends us on a scavenger hunt for the last half of the class period to find the oldest book in the library and then write about it (by the way… I highly suggest you do these prompts. They are quite engaging.).

So, I have decided to share a bit of his wisdom with you. He is a firm believer that writing comes from a place of other, a dream space that sends us inspiration to the point where we are simply a conduit of words and phrases to place upon the page… sound familiar? Yeah… kind of like my theory about my Muse. That probably explains why I like him so much. The following link is a paper he wrote about the writing process and I do hope you will take the time to read it. He wrote it several years ago, but it is still relevant to what he teaches and the writing process in general. He explains his theory in more detail within and I think it will help those of you who are actually managing to finish NanoWrimo or simply write and are looking for some new inspiration/writing advice.

http://www.sosyalarastirmalar.com/cilt1/sayi3/sayi3_pdf/vivian_robert.pdf

Godspeed!

NanoWrimo

I’ve decided to take part in the sensation. Yup. I’m joining the crowd. So, today is my apology for a future of sparse updates. I will occasionally (when time permits) post advice or little clips of what I’ve written, but if you really want to know how I’m doing you can add me on NanoWrimo if you are also patricipating (my username is rogueapprentice). This is my first time participating, but I want to give it my all while managing to balance it with my coursework. I’d love to hear any advice you guys have on how to push through it and succeed!

Advice

http://www.mcsweeneys.net/articles/the-ultimate-guide-to-writing-better-than-you-normally-do

This is a link to some good writing advice. I know, I’m due for you to read some of my reading, but the pieces I’ve been working on aren’t quite ready for public viewing. They’ll be done soon, but in the interim I thought I would give you something to check out.

I think that, of all the advice given in this, the most important is that writing is a baring of your soul. Every character, every impossibility, every suggestion was deliberately placed upon the page and contains a piece of you inside. The characters, I feel, are even more like this. Whenever I create a character, I place a piece of myself inside of them to ground myself in their reality. They are real the moment I place them upon the page because they are me in some form. It’s important to remember this not only when writing but also when reading. Delicacy is always important when critiquing a work, as it is special to the writer.

So… yup. That is my thought for the day. If all goes well I will actually have one of my pieces finished soon to let you look at, but at the rate they are going the page length is going to be ridiculous. I might just have to think of something else to post.

Heart’s Beat

The clockwork heart in Quentin beat mechanically, like the beat of a drum that ushers a warrior into death. Each step marched perfectly to its cadence as he strode along the path out of the town, unwaveringly leading him away from her. Adara kneeled upon the road behind him, clutching his ring and keening her sorrow.

He supposed he was being cruel, though cruelty only remained as a memory and not as a feeling. But it was her fault that he no longer felt anything. So now he walked, just a wraith sheathed in a man’s flesh. Emotion simply a memory, his love for her so distant that if it were a star, it would be lost in the inky blackness between the beams of light. Just an abstract memory his mind could no longer focus upon.

Not that it really bothered him, not anymore. Once, he would have hated himself for making her cry.

Behind him, her wailing became decipherable words as she gave out a last plea. “Wait! Wait, please… Quentin, please… don’t leave me. I’m pregnant.” Her entreaty, and her sudden announcement, caused the crowd watching their debacle to stir in anticipation of his surrender. They believed he was leaving out of hate and he would return out of responsibility, but he no longer felt either of those things.

His feet continued their trek without pause, unfaltering upon the path. His heart no longer beat for her.