A shaded balcony
Chlorine wafting from the pool like a Siren's song
Children's laughter
Scrape of colorful chalk, tattooing concrete
Flowers in bloom
Red petals dancing in summer's light
Cyclist meandering by
Wheels cracking and spokes creaking
Wind in grass
Dried morning trimmings blanketing the walkway
Peaceful observer
The following is an excerpt from my upcoming ebook, Musings from Rock Bottom. Details are below!
Every bit of me Wants to believe we Are real, that in Our silences, a chord, Silvery, binds us together. Unseen but felt, reminding Us that we are Kindred souls in love Fated to be by God or whatever force That put us here.
Every bit of me Wants to believe this. But the wounds from Past chords prevent me. Chords I believed were Like ours—precious loves— Until brutishly snatched away Like ripping an embedded Hangnail from a finger.
I started my blog in March 2014 with the purpose of creating a place for my fiction. I wanted to launch an author career and get my pieces seen. That didn’t happen. I procrastinated by writing a slew of nonfiction pieces and book reviews because I was too afraid to “step out there.”
While I don’t regret this, I didn’t feel fulfilled. So I started sharing my flash fiction and poetry instead. It’s no exaggeration to say that this decision helped me grow not only as a writer, but as a person. How? First…
I got over a personal stigma
As a child, I treated my writing as an ancient secret I needed to hide from an evil syndicate. I hid my notebooks in odd places—under a sibling’s bed (the one place they wouldn’t expect), linen closet, stuffed between the carpet and the floorboards—only to forget and have them found, anyway.
The fear of being judged fueled this stigma.
Not only did I see there was no harm but also humbled because I wasn’t worthy of it.
The biggest influence in any creative’s work is themselves. We tie our visions to our experiences, beliefs, and interests whether directly or indirectly. I never kept a diary, just my stories. So, in some weird way, I felt that I slathered my inner workings within my notebooks. Therefore, having them read was a very vulnerable experience.
But this was all irrational. What’s the point in writing if no one reads it? Posting my first piece (“Shadows in the City of Light“) was liberating. Not only did I see there was no harm but also humbled because I wasn’t worthy of it.
I play a sick game with my Unconscious I hand it my woes— The ones that prevent me from functioning— And plead, “Don’t let me remember this.” But the bastard always reminds me When it senses it did its job too well.
