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Posts Tagged ‘Creative Writing’

I’m crazy.

 

I say this with a sigh, so you get a feel for where I’m at. Oh, I may try and pass it off as Hazy, but no. There’s no doubt in my mind I’m certifiably nuts.

 

And sometimes I forget to tap into that. To use it to my advantage.

 

Because it works for people like me. People with a creative inkling. So does a little shot of something strong and throat-blazing first thing in the morning, although I’m holding off on going that route just yet.

 

But I have been pondering this blog lately. Wondering what its really about. And I don’t mean the content. Because honestly no one ever truly knows what the hell I’m rambling on about. Including me, most of the time.

 

And because of that, my sentiments will mean something different. And serve a different purpose. To whomever who reads it. Which I like to believe is a good thing.

 

No, what I mean is. Why am I doing it? At the end of the day, it doesn’t seem it’s getting me any closer to this “making it” thing I hear people referring to. And I’m not using it to get ahead. Or herd myself any closer to what I want to be when I grow up.

 

So yeah. Just when I was thinking the sky was falling—creative people have a tendency towards the fatalistic—I received what I feel compares to a loved one at the finish line cheering me on. Just as I’m about to give up on completing the last grueling marathon mile…

 

It was a morning text.

 

Right after a restless night’s sleep. And I honestly couldn’t have dreamed up anything better than what it said. That I’m talented. And write beautifully. I’m prophetic and a gift! And that I should publish my posts into a book.

 

Now, I know that had I not received that message, I’d still be here, my friends. I know because this blog helps me. And I can only hope it does the same for you. Writing is my passion. And we know there’s no stopping what the heart wants. The heart’s a stubborn bugger, don’t you know.

 

I simply need to bring the scarecrows in off the fields. Shake the birds from their nests. And trust that even though it’s hidden from my site, there is a wild blue over yonder.

 

And trust me. Believing it’s there, even though I can sometimes barely see it through the clouds, is like finding a secret tenner in the glove box just when I thought I’d used my last penny.

 

Boom.

Wildblue.jpg

County Down, Northern Ireland

 

 

 

 

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There are things no one knows and never need know.  They’re merely splintered shards that have been scattered like chicken feed under the sofa, behind the door…deep in the woods at the back of the house.

And there, they should stay.

Plucking them out of obscurity, chancing their sharpness will cut my thickened skin is needless.  No one knows they’re there.  Leave them.

Stare at the stars.  Stay perfectly still.

I tell myself that I believe the things I don’t know won’t hurt me.  That I believe what I didn’t see can’t cry out.  I leave the unknown to weaken and wither, trusting the sharp edges will dull and diminish in hiding.

I once thought my shards were secrets, but I’ve learned that secrets are soft lips pressed against matted hair and light, breathy whispers in curious ears.  They are flighty things meant to be shared by children on gravel fields and women huddled in coffeehouses.

There are no screams, only choked murmurs I can barely make-out, suspended in the air and like dead falling leaves they cover the ground in cracked fragments all around me.

No, I don’t have secrets.  My shards slither in from the trees and my heart-racing, sweat-waking terror will be whispered to no one.

Silence.

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Did you ever play “What If?”  I did.

My friends and me sat around in the ripping hot sun, pulling blades of grass, blowing out dried dandelions and chucking rocks into the clear creek while contemplating guileless scenarios;

What if we snuck out at three in the morning and jogged to 7-Eleven?  Ah ha ha”, we’d snicker.  “That’d be sooo cool.”

Kids are a force to be reckoned with.  My daughter reminds me of that consistently.  She’s a bona fide combo of her Dad’s entrepreneurial spirit and my crafty, creative quirks.  Not a day goes by where she hasn’t got a moneymaking question, a business idea or a project on the go.  We sometimes joke that she was born to the wrong parents.  She exhausts us.

But, being a kid, she does not possess that limiting quality; you know, the chastising one that imposes restrictions and crushes dreams; it says cruelly; “You can’t do that.  Don’t be ridiculous!”

And it’s because of that, kids have no fear.  They aren’t afraid to take the “What If” game a step further.  In fact, if so inclined, they can knock it right out of the park:

“Yeah, so we jog to 7-Eleven and we’re freezing so we decide to hang out inside and get warm.” I suggest.

“And then, like, the manager gets mad and makes us work.” Suzie chimes in.

“Yeah, so he thinks he’s punishing us, but we actually like it, so we like, start working there for real and we never go back home.” Lisa adds.

“And our parents are searching for us and everything, but we, like, just start living at the 7-11 manager’s house and just, like, become a part of his family!” Kate exclaims, quite pleased with herself.

“Truly awesome”, Jack sighs.  “But I’d sure miss my dog.”

“Don’t worry,” I console him.  “I’m sure the manager will buy you a new one.”

Free of inhibitions and limitations, kids just throw it down.  And because they’re all on the same page, they are confident peers won’t deem their contributions unreasonable.

I’ve previously pondered the idea that impossible can be transformed to plausible provided it’s crafted with care.  I stand by that notion but need to supplement;

Hold tightly the compassionate ignorance of youth and once in while, dare to play “What If.”

Hopefully Ava did get the right mom and dad after all.

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