Archive for the ‘ Writing ’ Category

Dictionary Dreamer

I love the word “transmutation”.

I think because I love the idea that you can change something into something else. Like changing a bad mood into a good one, or a sense of melancholy hopelessness into a joie de vivre that authors impress upon on our characters but seem to seldom find in our personal lives.

I am a seeker. I am a dreamer. I am a writer.

I am all of these things which make me uniquely (not so in a sense and yet very so in others) suited to cataloguing the human condition; this human experience that can be so very ordinary in it’s extraordinariness and vice-versa.

I find that some of my most contented moments are when I am crafting an amalgamate of real emotional discourse and imaginary characters. Characters that, were I not quite so impressed with my ability to put words together, would not exist.

I tell some of my own story every time my fingers hit the keyboard on my laptop; every time some joy or pain bleeds off of the page it is because it has flowed through me into my stories.

My story becomes my stories becomes my (his)tory.

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I know that I have been given gifts, tremendous gifts. All of my talents and intelligence are a privilege, a gift. And they are a privilege that I am genuinely honored to have.

I feel that I have a responsibility to use them; there’s a quote, I’m not certain of the exact words so I’ll paraphrase:

“Your talents are your gift from God, what you do with your talents are your gift to God.”

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Oddities

Something tells me that this week is going to be odd.

I’ve got too many ideas. Sounds like whining doesn’t it? It’s hard to keep them all straight sometimes. I need to take a day, turn my phone off and just write.

Hmmm, and run. Which would require that I turn my phone on, since it’s my iPod. And one of my platforms for writing. And of course my link to the world.

A quandary. I enjoy puzzles.

I feel strangely guarded today, I’m not certain how I feel about that though. For a very long time, I had gotten so used to having these unbreachable, insanely thick walls, that I didn’t even notice that they were there anymore. When I’d finally torn them down and looked out into the sunny fields around my fortress:

I could finally breathe.

Now when I look out, I feel like there’s sun sparkling on a moat that constructed itself while I slept and I don’t know why and while it’s certainly pretty, it’s no longer necessary and I wonder why it is here.

I rather enjoy allegory.

Why you ask?

Sometimes, when I’m not thinking about my own selfish need to write; my desire to get the noise in my head out onto paper, I think about reasons to write:

“…they were just words, but they inspired me to stand up when all I wanted to do was lie down.”

Nelson Mandela

It doesn’t get much clearer than that.

Omnia Vincit Amor

Bore, boring, bored

I think that if I were reading my blog I’d be bored. It’s all very important to me, it’s all very much interesting to me; I’m just not sure how interesting it is to anyone else that may happen to read it.

Speaking of people reading my blog, my page views have sky-rocketed lately and honestly, not too many people (that i know, or know of, in the ‘real’ world) actually know about said blog.

Strange wot?

So if you’re reading this, do me a solid and leave me a comment: I’m curious and I’d appreciate it.

And right back in we go:

Maybe I am kind of boring these days, but I am very much happy, healthy and hale.

In other news I ran 1.62 miles today, slowly, with walk breaks. But I got to run and it was absolutely glorious.

I solemnly swear to never try to push through an injury like that again. The last two weeks were so incredibly frustrating (with regard to running) that I never want to repeat that again.

I need to write this idea for a book/movie/game down. It’s basic right now but I really think it’s got potential.

I may add to this later, but for now I’m good on typing.

PS: I ❤ my iPhone.

Nosce Te Ipsum

(in)coherenc(i)e(s)

I’m not sleeping again.

Sometimes my subconscious refuses to let me in on what it’s doing. My only clues come from my dreams, or like now my complete inability to get any restful sleep.

Except those few nights when the world doesn’t matter, when nothing outside that circle that demarcates the border of us and everything else exists.

Those nights are absolute perfection.

Tonight, I stare at my ceiling fan during long, annoying commercial breaks as I spend my late night watching Forgetting Sarah Marshall for perhaps the second or third time.

I got about fifteen minutes of sleep earlier, and i found to my surprise that this recurring dream that I used to have has come back. I hadn’t had this dream in a very long time. It’s become somewhat updated, slightly modified during it’s time away. I rather enjoyed it, sort of like a visit from an old friend.

I have so many ideas: books, stories, poems, novellas, plays, screenplays, sit-com scripts, plots for world domination (I’ve even got an awesome script for a video game half-written in my mind). I sometimes have a very difficult time keeping them straight; they bounce around, bound around; shaking the cobwebs loose, stirring up dust: in short they sometimes make a mess of my mind.

I wish I could explain it more coherently. But I suppose that will just have to do for now.

Run, Run, Run!

I’m falling apart, well a bit anyway. I could give you all the gory details but I’ll just say….ah who am I kidding, like I’d miss a chance to whine about all of my running related injuries:

Right and left hip flexors (iliacus), right knee, right hammy, left foot, left butt.

Haha yes, left butt.

Anyway I’ve added about half an hour to my before and after stretches, and my stride doctoring is on hold since right now my legs are trash and my stride is pure, heel-pounding garbage.

I honestly think that my serotonin levels are a bit low because I’ve been unable to get in enough miles daily.

Oh no. I am a runner. Yep, s’all over now, now I have to run for the rest of my forever.

I’ve made peace with it.

In other news I’m debating putting together a brief anthology of some of my early poetic work. Debating, but not super seriously. I’m a bit self-conscious about poetry in a way I’m not about my novels.

Something to consider I suppose.

Oscar

“Women are meant to be loved, not to be understood.”

– Oscar Wilde

I have always enjoyed Oscar Wilde’s work, his many wise(cracks) quotes especially.

He amuses me greatly, like only a man speaking to me from across a gulf, time and space, can.

I should have liked to have met him. Although like many things in life I can only assume that one or the both of us would have disappointed the other.

Or we would have been the best of friends, who knows right?