What do you do when you have half a dozen story ideas but cannot sit down and start writing?
It isn’t exactly writer’s block because woah, am I used to that. No this is just finding the peace in my own head to focus on the story.
Or in this case stories.
I have one plotted, thought I was going to get some of it written for NanoWriMo, but I found I was doing anything except sitting at the laptop and writing and so the tale of the three brothers languishes inside my head waiting on my fingers to get typing.
I wish there was a way of downloading my brain to the page. I’d have about a dozen manuscripts ready to go.
In the faint hope that I can get something written by the end of the month I’m setting out some goals here.
- Luke’s story from Three Brothers.
- Finish Ghost Story (A Rola fic).
- Finish my manuscript of poetry.
Check back with me at the start of April to see if I’ve accomplished anything!
Is it that much of a surprise to you that I died
You were never around when I cried
You never even tried to understand
Didn’t reach out to just hold my hand
and now I’m just another statistical suicide…
She waits for a pledge of redemption
Her sins require such secular attention
with soulful sad eyes forever cast down
so there would be no-one to see the frown
That disolves away into broken tears
Merely an echoing throughout her years
So she sits, just patiently yearning
All the while knowing her soul is burning
in the making of her own personal hell
But there would be no-one to tell
If you look close the story rests her eyes
past the carefully made up lies
As she waits for her redemption
For her there is no ascension
So as a writer I tend to read a lot of literary articles and I came across this one today.
The author could have a point but within two minutes of reading, I as person who writes poetry and studies it, was completely lost.
Why are so many people literary snobs?
If you want to read erotic fiction that’s cool. If you want to read sweet romance or hardcore sci-fi go right ahead.
If you want to read (or write) bad poetry then do it.
The author interviewed in the piece I posted the above link for states:
It’s like Pound in his “Notes for Canto CXX”: “Do not move / Let the wind speak / that is paradise.” I’m pretty suspicious though of the grandiosity and fatalism of the valorization of silence. I don’t valorize it.
Er, talk about grandiose.
Poetry is interpretive by the reader. As an author you have an idea in your head but as a reader that idea is dependant on your own circumstances. A poem I wrote that touched upon suicide had readers thinking it was about a break up. That’s cool. They related it to something in their lives.
Poetry is expressionism. Its raw. It’s emotive. It lives.
I don’t write in meters generally. The stressed and unstressed consonants make me cross my eyes and get a headache. I write flowing verse. Sometimes it rhymes. Sometimes I use slant rhyme. Sometimes I struggle to get a rhyme in there and the line just doesn’t work. (That’s when I make scribbling out into a piece of impressionist artwork!) But there is nothing better than writing something down that creates a picture in my head. That leaves its own memory. That’s what writing poetry is about.
I’m working on a collection of my poetry at the moment. I want to get my words out there and if people read them great. If they like them, even better.
So yeah, you know. Don’t be a snob about what people like. Don’t judge.
My family wasn’t there that day
Although I lost 96 of my brothers and sisters.
When the crush swept their souls away.
Today as I listen, my tears run free.
Hearing the inquest verdict come down
There is a justice of sorts, for you, them, and me.
Some of us campaigned from laptops
We retweeted and spread the word,
Seeking out a way to let people be heard.
Fought to get to justice; to get this one special day.
Fought for Anne Williams to get her say.
Fought for 96 voices to be heard in the dark.
Fought for the 96 lives to leave their mark.
For when their lights were extinguished
the 96 Liverpool fans have walked on alone
With no-one willing to take the blame or to atone
A fateful day in April when 96 families cried
All the people lied. All the people lied.
We’re here now with the truth spread out.
We’re here now, finally able to shout.
Unlawfully, they died. Unlawfully they died.
Walk on, walk on, with hope
once more in our heart.
Justice for the 96. Let the healing start.
I actually find myself doing this when I’m reading my own poetry and I have no idea why. I suddenly lurch into Captain Kirk when I’m reading and insert random pauses and commas/breaks at any point in the sentence.
I struggle enough when I’m writing to ensure that the poems rhythm is correct (or nearly correct) and the rise and fall of the words in the sentence draw the reader in and lead them to the conclusion.
It is almost as if when I’m reading I have to be more ‘arty’ than the next person, as though I feel a need to demonstrate just how clever I am to string words together in a poem.
We’ve all got a little bit of a poet in us, from appreciating the naughty limerick to loving the classics we avoided in school, to secretly writing our own work.
Regular readers will know that I am published, what they will not know is that despite sending my manuscript out time and time again, I have a collection of rejection slips. Poetry is subjective. Poetry is only poetry if someone can appreciate it, not publishers (although that would be nice) but the people who read poetry for love.
Which is of course, amazing, but it’s time to bring poetry into the light because if you don’t then more of us will just adopt a ‘poet voice’ and no-one really wants that. 😉
When you see the pain we have hidden inside,
When you see the fears that we can’t hide.
When you see the horror of all that we know,
Can’t you understand our longing to go?
When you see just what it is to be me?
Can’t you just let me be free?
When you think you can understand,
Can’t you let go of my hand?
When you see that I can’t go on
Can’t you just let me be gone?
When you see
Can I be free?