All posts filed under: Writing

Beyond My Reach

Originally posted on keithgarrettpoetry:
BEYOND MY REACH With my hand stretched to the sky I cannot touch the stars so high, Nor the clouds, a falling star, or the sun going down. The wind, I cannot grab hold, a bird in flight, A dream in the night, never a yesterday. Beyond my reach is not my dreams, It is not that which I pray for. The hand of god I cannot touch, in my heart I can surely take hold, It is not hope, nor faith, it is not a tomorrow. Beyond my reach are many things, Beyond my reach is not everything. Keith Garrett

Write What You Know

Originally posted on The Sunflower Cafe:
Everyone knows that phrase uttered in every creative writing course. The famous, “write what you know.” This is solid advice for writers both new and experienced. My only problem is that people tend to take it at a face value. They assume they should only write about plots or settings that they know well. If that were the case, then fantasy and sci-fi wouldn’t exist. I doubt J. R.R. Tolkien truly experienced a trek to Mordor. Writing what you know doesn’t always have to be a place. Sometimes putting qualities you see in yourself or those around you into your characters is writing what you know. Sometimes looking at the way people speak to one another or the way emotions are handled in times of stress or happiness is writing what you know. To create a character who breathes, it helps to be perceptive on the way real people think and act. When I write, I tend to give my cast a few of my own flaws. This normally…

Waterlogged

Originally posted on Let's talk about the L word!:
Once there existed a teenager who was filled with something That would never leave his mind, something heavy and lifting. A head that wobbled just like a log that stands afloat, aware… ? Moods and ideas, and questions that might have been premature. But who is to say what time is righter or truer to feel what he felt? That nothing could be more right or true, that he thought he knew. ? Away went the months and the years that passed with him hoping, For what is sweet about this guy is the way he cared not about time Or the pain it brings, or even less that it was in vain and yes, he knew. ? Learning that people can not reciprocate in that measure we expected. Listening to advice that is valid but so hard to believe in, so pointless. Living in a hunt for my place with her, or hers with me. But who is she? ? I think he eventually perceived that disappointment can teach something, Not to him, for…

A Letter to My 20-Year-Old Self

Originally posted on Am I Thirty Yet:
So tomorrow is the big day! The day this entire blog was written about. I turn 30! Turning 30 has made me think a lot about what it was like when I was turning 20 and saying goodbye to my teens. I didn’t handle it very well. There were panic attacks and I actually wet the bed the night of my birthday. (This is a true story and maybe I’ll tell you lucky people about it in another post.) For now, let’s go back to poor, little 20-year-old Liz. She was not excited about leaving her teens behind her and entering her twenties. Current Liz still isn’t 100% sure on what she wants with her life and the direction it is going to take. But 20-year-old Liz might as well have been on another planet. She didn’t even know what hairstyle worked best for her face or how to put on eyeliner. She was a lost soul who needed a lot of guidance. Now being a wise, almost 30-year-old (that…

Wolves & Sheep

Originally posted on The Renegade Press:
‘The price of being a sheep is boredom. The price of being a wolf is loneliness. Choose one or the other with great care.’ – Hugh Macleod If you were forced to make a choice between living a life of boredom, or one of loneliness, what would your decision be? Would you choose a stifled existence of mundanity in which you are forced to conform to the whims and needs of the masses? Or would you be comfortable in a life of isolation? Could you find comfort in the knowledge that you will forever be without inspiration, surrounded only by the mediocre and the monotonous? Or would prefer a life of seclusion and segregation? The truth is that you wouldn’t wish to be afflicted by either. If I pushed you into a corner and forced you to make a choice, you would probably shove me back and call me insane. Why would anyone want to make such a ridiculous decision? No matter what avenue you pursued, you would be…

Manhattan

?? ?I exited my apartment building, curt note in hand for the UPS delivery person: The buzzer for 2R is broken – please leave delivery inside the door. Contrary to what somebody told you yesterday, there are tenants in 2R – one especially who would have loved to have slept on a mattress last night. I crammed the note between the old brick wall and the broken buzzer and made my way down the now-familiar street to get coffee at a café that I had been referred to by seasoned locals. They’d been here since August, anyway. The rectangular olive-green sign beckoned me onward, steel and hard with flashing bulbs that made it look like an old and woefully lost Vegas sign. I ordered an almond croissant and a cappuccino and took a seat at a small, round marble table. I found myself flanked by hipsters, the luminescent glow of chalky white Apples and the click-click-click of their modern keyboards surrounding me. Extremely conscious of being the only person in the large café without a…

You Want to Know Why Writers are Crazy?

Originally posted on That Weird Brown Girl:
We have a million different people, with completely different personalities, all living in a thousand different worlds, feeling a spectrum of emotions, uttering countless words ever know to man, all of this, trapped inside our single, seemingly irrelevant, soul. We find it hard to grapple with reality, when the only reality that we know are infused with the makings of our fantasy addled brain, thus rendering the actual world as mundane or just plain boring. We find it hard to be vocal about a good many things, while, at the same time, find it even harder to keep them bottled up, thus, making writing a curiously calm realm, between the comfort of our thoughts, and the scrutiny of others. We fall in love, not with physical appearances, but with the thoughts, words, and feelings of a character, making them seem more real, while the people around us reduce to hallucinations. We strive to bring out the beauty and the terrible truth of something trivial, making it seem like…

All she seems to talk about is her hair – 18th June 1998

Originally posted on If Destroyed Still True:
Thursday 18thI’ve been feeling a bit left out of everything for the last couple of days. It might just be me being sensitive bit it feels as if nobody really cares I’m there. – Emma’s too busy with Freddie all the time and all she seems to talk about is her hair and how many spots she has today. – Hayley would rather I wasn’t here at all coz she’s decided she wants a boyfriend so has started fancying Ferny again and, of course, I’m competition aren’t I? – Ralph just doesn’t give a toss about me anymore which is a big difference from the beginning of last week. – Rachael went to Emma’s house last night and they phoned Freddie and evidently they were talking about me. I dunno what was said though. – Ed seems to think I’ve been telling Dougie (James Douglas) things about him when I haven’t said a word. I dunno what’s going on. I also get the feeling that nobody’s telling me…

Listen, when the silence speaks.

Originally posted on A Monologue of the Heart.:
  Listen, when the silence speaks It’s not in words that which you seek It lives in the quiet of the dawn And in the sunset once it’s gone It comes uncovered in the night When darkness sets, embracing light Listen, when the silence speaks It’s not in words that which you seek

Yellow Eyes

Originally posted on Every Life is a Memoir:
Freeimages.com/Ilker Yellow eyes creep out of the night Eyes glow in the perilous darkness Silky black fur glistens in droplets of moonlight Velveted paws glide over the forest floor without a sound Sharp shoulders stop suddenly Eyes widen Muscles twitch and ripple like a secluded lake recently disturbed Ears focus like radar on a battleship All is still. A tail flicks in anticipation as a driver would rev his engine before a race A flutter in the trees – the starting gun has been fired A lunge A crash as weak branches and wet leaves give way A flash of death in the moonlight Silence Yellow eyes sulk back into the night