Written 2/17/17
A common misconception I’ve noted as of late is that creators, writers, musicians; any form of the arts and entertainment are there for the sole purpose of its audience.
Yes, it is a form of expression.
No, creators are not machines pumping out work constantly for your approval. Most do it because they must. For varied reasons such as building a history, getting over their self-reservations, making friends, and even as a therapy. Each creator has a different story, but one thing is constant. The drive to better ourselves. That’s how a joke works:
You tell one, that person either gets it and laughs or the joke goes over their head. A laugh fills the teller with accomplishment.
The common misconception leads to burn out; the creators spread themselves far too thin to appease their impatient audience, readers, fans, etc. The creators are seen as property and told what they should do and what they should think. It shatters self-esteem and in some cases the creator shuts down. They stop doing what they love and what they feel is special to them. They shut down their blogs; leave the stage, they disappear…
Misconceptions, expectations, and demands are what kills the makers of dreams. And it starts from a very early age. School. Outside thinkers are crushed. forced to comply to a certain mindset. Everything is dictated, when they nap, when they take breaks, when they eat and what is focused on. Rarely is that focus on the arts once an elementary kid reaches junior high. And then, miraculously, the focus curves towards creative arts. And at this point, the students are lost. The creator never had time to hone their skills and outside thinking. It’s cruel to penalize them, yet again, for something out of their control. If you’re not beaten down, there are peers and friends to help.
We all grow at our own pace, and the ones that master first are targets of jealousy, passive aggressive feedback, and social slavery. In order to “fit in” and “keep friends” they whore out their craft on demand, and are expected to for free. They do what they love, post it online, and the anonymous tell them hateful, hurtful things, whether true or not. “I hate this pairing.” “Go kill yourself.” “Your music sucks! Play something we know!” “Copycat.” “Sellout.” and many horrible messages and words are exchanged.
Is it small wonder that when you approach a creator they are wary of you, ignore the praise/criticism, and/or hide? They wonder: “This person… is being nice to me, what do they want?” That is how the creators MUST perceive the world or be swallowed whole.
It gets even worse if you’re popular or a celebrity. Certain contracts and legally binding deals OWN you; they use and destroy you once the money, power, and fame stops rolling in. Your life is not your own and everyone find fault in everything you do. Who in their right mind would WANT that life? Once you’ve been drained of every last drop of magic, they cash in on your death. Reimagined, they forget who you were. And your family suffers your mistakes long after you’re gone.
The life of a creator is fragile, fleeting, and one of the most beautiful things about the human condition. Do not take dreamers for granted and they will show you new worlds; take you to planes of light, sound, and bring a tear to your eye with a stroke of the pen.


                               Written 2/10/1     Rewrite 2/11/17

Plot, what plot? If there’s been one, I’ve yet to grasp it. The further it’s chased, the more faded the path. A tragedy wrapped up in comedy. A feeling you get when you realize, “Wait, that’s it?”

The ticket without refund. Ab Ovo without middle or conclusion. The plot of my life’s confusion. A mish-mash of genres crunched into a sage; one too long to read yet a paragraph short.

Who can tell what the fates were smoking. Someone dropped ball? So many possibles for our little doll. But do they reach out and grasp them? Not alt all. Season One’s kinda fun. Season two’s a blurry bore.

What romance arc? Not even a bit? Whoever wrote this is full of grit. Season three, drama at last. Wait, too much! Great, now we’re stuck in the past. The actors killed off left and right until one remains with no script, staring out among the eyes of the world.

Quick, tell a joke! that works in Shakespeare- if the cast doesn’t croak… Is anyone really sitting there? I’m standing, enacting the same lines over and over. The lights are stifling. Oh! Someone’s there?

Ovular glasses, dark hair- holding the story. “Who are you?” I ask.

“I think you know.”

“Where’s the rest?”

“That’s up to you, me; improves what we do best.”

Black Moon

written 09/30/2016

Phantom insight, dormant magic, elucidate the sky. Inspire our velleity; breathe wing to the night, not once but twice. Usher in the hallowed month; whisper through the clouds to the makers and dreamers:

“Farewell to green, embrace the gilded silver trees.” Tug winters heart-sleeve lunarous cat. Sell us promises of grandeur. Cure our craft in your billowing tresses. Give insight, not second guesses.

There’s mischief to be had, sans fright; a scraping, scratching bite at the back of the soul. Yikes! Not a forthcoming twinkle. Idea, nary a sigh. Covenous, already pining I hear nothing cept’ crickets and the drollous autumn monsoon. Blind moon are you there or dead? Enchanted; lore says, or my steadfast imaginative dread?


written 09/23/2016

If writers are collectors of words, would this make them adept in magic? With powerfully descriptive incantations a writer could, theoretically create their own worlds in which to dictate.

Is it not emotions behind spoken words that slice like daggers or cushion tragedies with downy pillows? Abused words could be considered illegal or forbidden.

Imagine this, a small child’s imaginary friends coming to life; broccoli tasting like cake. Children would hold the most power through belief in their own words.

Would word counts breach into infinity? Librarians would be the grand-witches and wizards of the craft.

Word crafting; reinvention of words. Might inflection and pronunciation also influence the spell? Would speaking aloud your nightmares bring them to your door? Calling softly to a loved one might summon them to your side?

Words only hold as much power as they are applied. Would self-destructive words leech into their owners like a cancer, slowly decaying them from the inside?

Freedom of speech, would it be restricted? Would their be a world limit that one might use daily?

One could feed a starving family by sitting before the table and describing a banquet in colorful, sensory detail to appear.

Are words not already a source of magic? Are books not a dimension in which we visit? Would words then have a consciousness and desires to be spoken, acknowledged?

Imagine it, the curvy “t” at the end of “cat”, held high while the “C” purrs and the “a” shutters its eyes contentedly; a whole city built out of towering words like “building” and “tower.”

Would the magic bind the very word to the user as a slave or willing companion?

Food for thought tastes like popcorn.

Would civilization then be built upon the dreamers? The poets and lyricists? The actors and singers if words held magic? If parrots can speak words, would that count, or would the magic strictly work for humans? A question in a question queried by the question itself. No need for top hats, wants or brooms; utter a thought, make it happen. Would the thought breed more thoughts? And would “magic” be the most powerful word of all?


written 09/02/2016

Write something, anything. Pierian or not, hold onto the pen; dare it drop. Stuck in vorfreude leaves me self-annoyed. Jamais vu, I’m no stranger to prompts; snapping the leash for a creative romp. The pen hasn’t smudged once. Flapdoodle, snickerdoodle, pillowed noodles on poodles. Good gracious, inscrutable. Rageous! I’ve taken two weeks, and my brains gone to mush. Slush; my schedule crushed-breaking the rules, no denying, there’s a rush. Resolution O’ clock. Be the story a drop, have yet to stitch together the final layer of plot. Dreamers of dreams, screamers of screams; selectively quiet muse, you leave me to bruise. If walls have ears and floors have eyes, does the ceiling taste for flies? Does matter trump mind? Writing anything to fill the slot, pathetic no? When the body is ready, but the mind’s gone to sot. Soil, recoil, my brains leaking oil; grasping at cobwebs of thought. There’s a horror chase in here and I’m the tropic heroine who falls over her own feet. There’s a shadow simmering at my back, breathing down my neck for fresh meat. There, the page is filled, after gaping like a cod with dry feet.