Dark Clouds

  Tell me why the clouds look different. Is it the sky? Is it me? Or is it because I’m wishing I was anywhere else? 

Ah well, all play and no work makes Jack a procrastinator. The writing keyboard is calling my name…
But homework first. 

Few Worlds, Fewer Words

Across the world

You see people who look

And touch and sound

Different. 
And you know 

When you return

You’ll have many words

To describe what you had seen

But almost no words

To describe your way home. 
  Sometimes you get that urge to travel. You look around at the same four walls of work, school, or wherever you are, and you daydream. And you daydream and you daydream, building up new places until they don’t just look like a new city or country. In your mind, they look like paradise, like Mt.  Olympus from Greek mythology. They, the real places, may not live up to your expectations. But what are we if not dreamers with even bigger dreams? How can we root ourselves in the present without something big to look forwards to? We live because of our dreams of who or what we many become. 

Dreams are so much greater than our reality. 

Man’s Best Writing Companion

   
 

Thoughts

Some days you’re asleep. Other days, few and far between, you wake up and realize that the day is worth siezing, that it’s all worth writing down and making into new dreams, new stars to place up in the sky and reach. And you know. You just know. You know that there’s a story in there and you need to find it. 
It’s all you. 
  

Writing for Writing

  I suppose perspective is needed for certain times in your life. Writing is keeping me very busy with stories of all sizes, big and small. I still love each work I send out there, but now it feels like a routine. Writing is coming easier now. It all just makes sense. And it’s nice. It’s no creative bother on my part. It’s calming, almost meditative. 

And now I write with a purpose. It is my purpose. 

Frustration

As a writer, you wonder whether your small words will ever make it out there in the big, wide world. Your writing is really just an extension of yourself. Perhaps I need to distance myself from it emotionally. Perhaps distance is necessary at times to keep from thinking of writing as anything else but my one, true love. I found this quote on the Internet and thought it was sage advice. 

 

Kafkaesque

“A non-writing writer is like a monster courting insanity.”

-Franz Kafka

Fighting Writing

  Sometimes writing is calming. You sit down to the keys and just let the words fly. Other times the words won’t come. And other times you have a million other things to do BUT writing. And the keys can tantalize you, that one thin cursor on the laptop blinking at you and laughing in your face. When you’re young, homework is still very much a focus in your life. And you want to sit down and write, but you can’t. But you still have to do it. 

 Writers never quit.

Berries in Autumn

  Sometimes a beautiful picture takes you away to other places. It brings you to thoughts like how the sun coming through that mason jar resembles the color of autumn. It’s a rich red, almost burgundy. This morning was wonderful. Yet authors never rest. It’s time to get back to work again. Autumn is just getting started. 

Coffee-n-Creative Ends

  Coffee before eating is such a beautiful thing. You’re hungry, but then you smell the dark-roasted coffee in front of you and the hunger sort of fades away. Now this might be a chemical thing, when the appetite is suppressed. But I still love the feeling of picking up a slightly heated mug with frozen fingers and letting the steam waft over my face. Sometimes all you need is coffee to make your morning go from zero to a hundred in seconds. 

On another note, I finished a book series today. It was by Kendare Blake and featured dying Greek gods fighting for their lives as they all tried to kill each other to live longer. It was intriguing in a way that just made me addicted to it, reading until the story had no more words to give. Gods were made mortal, gods made to bleed or get cut up and die horrible deaths. Now I feel slightly empty, but that’s ok. I have my own stories to write. I have my own words to give until I can give nothing more.