Writing about Writing

It’s the easy way out. To just write about writing. Seems circular. A roundabout way of discussing nothing.

But if we didn’t write about writing, we would be missing something crucial. There is an ever-growing line of text that circles up and down and all around and straight from your eyes into your brain and then to your heart. That is the weapon and the grace of the words. Characters joined together to hurt or heal or inspire or degrade or all of those together and they just go on and on.

There. I’ve written about writing.

The story continues.

once upon a ti...

My muse is sick.  She usually has ADD, that’s nothing new.  But she’s scatterbrained and forgetful today.  I don’t think she’s combed her hair recently.  I think she’s hungry.  Maybe she’s just tired and that’s why the words keep swirling in inky black clouds in between her fingers and puffing through her hair. 

Poor thing.  She thinks of all these great phrases and stories and plots and ideas but she’s too lazy to see them through.  She’s got the one percent inspiration down.  The ninety-nine percent perspiration not so much.  Because, honestly, it’s way more fun to just pretend genius.

5.25.22-thoughts

The sunroom was lit by the fading summer sun. It was an orangey light that cast a soft glow on everything. The woods looked enchanted, and the soft breeze added the right amount of cool to the evening. I sat and considered, life, love, time and names, people, writing and what I would do with my life. I sat for awhile. I wondered what I should write for today's drabble. I thought how I did not want to write another one like this. I wanted to write a little story or a memory. Oh, well. This is what I've got. 

5.20.11-write your words

The words come. The days when your fingers can't keep up with the words your mind is forming. The days when everything is poetry and words are everywhere. The days when you need a pen next to you or some brilliant, beautiful words might escape the reaches of paper and be lost forever in the abyss of forgotten thoughts.
Until all the words are written and all the books are read, till all pens are put down I will write... even on the days when I have no words. Because what if I die before all my words are written?

5.11.11 Writers Block

The fingers tapped the auburn colored wood surface of the desk. “What to write, what to write?” She had nothing good to say. Nothing profound. Nothing of worth. There was a dam holding back the creativity that had once been there, that now needed inventive words to start flowing freely from her mind to her fingers.

Then, the fingers stopped tapping

and

The mind started working.

The imaginative thinking wheels started chugging along the path to success.

The fingers started tapping, but this time not on wood but on the black keys.

And there, on the white page, were black letters.

5.7.11 Thoughts in Black and White - a drabble of 100 words

Sometimes, I write words with an ink pen to see the contrast of the black against the white. To know that the page will never be white again, that the words there that were banging around in my brain have magically jumped from me to the outside world.

Sometimes the words rhyme and sometimes they don’t. Sometimes, the words make you laugh and sometimes they make you cry. Sometimes, the words are in my diary so that when I’m old, I can see the yellowed once-white pages covered with faded black memories.

Sometimes, the words are just a grocery list.

5.7.11-thoughts in black and white

She wrote, in black pen and ink, she wrote on paper and napkins, on gum wrappers and random pieces of cardboard. She wrote whatever was on her mind, her feelings and thoughts, her days and nights. She wrote the mundane and the beautiful, the extraordinary and the terrible. She wrote stories and created characters. Her black pen followed wherever her thoughts went. She wrote smiles and tears, she planned adventures and escapes. She composed poetry, making melodies with her words. She musically described her world. She wrote her mind, she wrote her thoughts. Until she thought in black and white.