Mood:  happy

Lessons learned

I’ve learned much of late

I am who I am, and that is all

My strongest strengths do not abate

From the plateaus of high, I fall

But a conversation with a friend at night

A story written, detailing one way I feel

Showed me the way which is truly right

It is with my own words, that I must deal

For surely as I exist and strive

I pen the words, of love and fun

My words keep me alive

But I live and act based on the work I’ve done

I guess when the muse takes me to worlds less fun

I have discovered that I get into what I have just put on paper

I talk to those I find most special, when at that point she should run

I say this because the muse has control and my talk is not fun

I don’t do this on purpose or because I want to

But, I am a writer, and into the words I dwell

It affects me, as it really should not do

But, I concentrate all too well

I never noticed that I live what I write

Nor that I carry it through to all that I do

I learned this the hard way, one gloomy night

So before I again should talk, I should write something less blue

Posted by theessaywriter at 1:11 PM CDT

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Mood:  happy

Why

The question most often asked of writers is why, why write? It’s a simple question and often gets even simpler answers.

1.     To get money

2.     I have something to say and I want others to see it.

3.     I write because I cannot not write.

These are fluff answers. There is no substance. Let me see if I can put some content into the void. Let me remove the air and put verbiage in its place. I write because I have to. It’s an addiction, really, much like coffee or cigarettes. I have to write because it clogs up the mental pathways and distracts me from doing anything. Right now I can pen this article because the files and folders in my mental filing cabinet are neatly arranged and not in need of visibility. But should my muse, my internal voice, make notes and scribble a few sentences or pages and throw it out on the floor of my internal office, then I have to stop what I’m doing and write it out, in some form or another.

I don’t have any social wrongs that need to be righted. Nor do I have any earthshaking novels that must be read. But, I have stories, even books that must leave the mental office and find a new home on some form of paper, either physical or ethereal. Nothing I write is of much importance, but it is my words. The neural highways and byways that are my brain are too often clogged with the next story or part of a book. To be able to think, to function, these must be put some other place.

I see the world from a skewered viewpoint at times. Some of the pieces I have coined make little sense but a laugh or two can be generated from them. None will see what I put on paper save one, but that’s fine. I don’t write for the world. I write for me. Had I the mindset of Steinbeck or Hemningway, maybe others would be interested but it makes no difference. I have a keyboard and a storage device. I need nothing else. I no longer need vindication of my ability. All I need now is a few minutes to remove the words and free my mind for the more mundane parts of my existence.

Posted by theessaywriter at 1:10 PM CDT

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Mood:  happy

The Simplicity of Creative Writing

“Alas poor Yorik, I knew him well.” In the play he’s holding the skull of some nefarious character. Or, how about, “Hark, what light through yon window breaks?” Wouldn’t it be easier to say, “Hey, your mom’s light is on, pretend you’re asleep?” Actually, no it wouldn’t have been. These words of the Bard had to be phrased with the wording of the time. Had he said “My old pal Yorik is now in kit form”, he would have been laughed out of England. Let’s move ahead a bit in time and try another example. “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Right. Any idiot knows it can’t be both, or can it? Dickens book, Tale of Two Cities talks about the two towns, London in its heyday and Paris during the revolution.

What does all of this have to do with creative writing? These are examples of ordinary, for their time, words used not only creatively but designed to fit with the expected audience. Let’s try another one. “What the ___, my car is talking to me!” That wouldn’t work for Shakespeare or Dickens, but will now if you’re writing about a car.

So what then is creative writing? You, the writer are using a pen as your brush and the paper as your palette. With the words at your disposal, paint the world around you. You have twenty-six letters to create a verbal symphony. Turn the phrase just right and it can be very sharp. Turn it another way and it comes out flat. Put the words and phrases together like chords to create a harmonious litany. With some flat phrases you can create dissonance. With the right chord change, you can create a harmonious symphony displaying the colors of the rainbow.

Music, Art, and writing are the top three creative crafts. Your picture can be audio, visual, or verbal/written. The point is, you have a message to deliver. But, to get your message across, you have to generate interest. But if you don’t catch your reader’s with the opening, you’ve probably lost them completely.

Creative writing is simple. The mechanics of writing aren’t that easy however. Put your words on paper. Learn the mechanics of writing. Let others read what you wrote. If you’ve grabbed their attention from beginning to end, Congratulations!

You are a creative writer!

Posted by theessaywriter at 1:08 PM CDT

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Mood:  happy

Energy Calculation Vs Lollipops

It has been a hairy day, or more correctly, a hairless day. It was decided that today was right for delivering new carpet to the beauty shop. We gave them an entirely new definition of shag. I suggested using the four bushels they lopped off as wigs. But the theater company here has plenty of gray-haired old men. I suggested wigs for the colonists should they ever decide to do a play about the revolution. They told me no one in their right mind back then would be seen in public with hair as gray as mine. Kinda makes ya wonder what was hidden under those wigs!

Now this stuff I had on top (and sides and everywhere above the waist) that I passed off as hair is really some alien substance that is impervious to hair gel/spray, glue and ordinary cutting methods. But this beauty shop was up to the task. Thankfully the manager was there with a key to the safe. They used a special electric razor with titanium blades. As soon as the blade made contact with the imitative hair, a teeny shock allowed the blade to perform its intended function.

Yes, I walked in looking like Einstein with his fingers in an electric socket and walked out looking like Kojak minus the lollipop.

Posted by theessaywriter at 1:06 PM CDT

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Rainbows and Rascals

Surreal is the only way to describe it. I never thought of myself as a writer. No, I’m a technical person. I deal with theoretical math and computers. Oh sure, I’ve had some exposure as a writer. The ex wife liked a story I penned. Even the writer workshop at the college gave me two thumbs up. No, I’ll read but I haven’t a clue about how these authors can come up with all those words. I found it amazing how the twists and turns are woven throughout a book. I could never do that.

Then I got my own computer. I had to do a short paper for my final in one of my classes. My subject was a bit more complex than most, so my ‘short’ paper came out to thirty pages. That was three times longer than our maximum allowed length. But it was accepted and even earned a good grade. The games on the computer were a source of fun.

Not long after, I met my neighbor. To make a long story short, she started college. I was asked to help write her introductory paper for a class. I read what she wrote then I wrote one. She was not a writer! It is through this association that my words landed in the writer’s workshop. I kept playing solitaire.

Now what does a computer card game have to do with writing? Nothing and everything. A person can only play so many games I was bored. Within the same timeframe I discovered the Internet. When it first became widely available, there were things called Bulletin Board Systems or BBS. Nowadays we call it a chat room. I found a BBS with writers. I wasn’t one, but maybe I could understand the craft more by talking with some. The first thing I had to do was register.

“Pick a user name”

I’m not a writer, but this is a writing place so I wanted the word writer included in my ID. The only one that worked was unwriter. I’ve been unwriter ever since. I spent hours talking to people all over the world. I picked up a bit of culture. I noticed both creativity and the lack thereof in others user names. I didn’t learn much about the craft of writing.

Then my world exploded. I got dumped. No, it wasn’t the ex wife. She still believed in me. It was the girlfriend. This, as it turns out, was destiny at work. It’s funny because I just now realized this. I wrote a piece detailing what happened. I wasn’t a writer. I just used the pen to relieve some of the pain. It was around this same time I found instant messenger.

I don’t remember many of the details but I know I was searching for ways to make money using the Internet. All I remember is that I met some interesting people. Talking with them helped relieve the pain. Many years later a very dear friend taught me how to eradicate this bad memory. But that’s not the important issue here. This was when I made my first website. Soon I realized a few of these people I was talking to had helped me. I wrote a piece, a testimonial, about many of them. I put these on a website and even made an ebook. It didn’t sell. I picked up a spiral notebook. Two weeks later I had the text for Computers in Plain English. PublishAmerica published it. But I’m not a writer.

The Internet is a strange world. The non-writer that I am, started a website called The Surreal Writer. I started to look for writing groups. I had a website and I wanted to promote it. This opened up a whole can of worms. I met many writers. I started dialogues with many of them. I discovered a world of books I never knew existed. I met Joyce. The website? It went nowhere.

Over the course of time I composed many short stories. I also started making beaded jewelry. And I fell in love with a rainbow. I started making video book trailers. Joyce found the pictures. For the first time, somebody cared enough to actually read what I wrote. We did, and still do, make a great team. She has taught me a lot. Contrary to my belief that if writing is easy, anyone can do it, I learned from her that it is a talent. I salute you, my rainbow girl!!! You are the best. And by the way, I am a writer!

Posted by theessaywriter at 1:04 PM CDT

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Mood:  happy

Time

The Byrds said it well, there is a time for all things. The key is to recognize it. How often do we say do don’t have time? Is time management really possible or is that just wishful thinking? Regardless of what we do or say, time moves forward. As thinking, sentient beings we have a choice of whether we want time to control us, or for us to control our journey through time.

For too many of us, we fight time. We try to compress a week into a day. That nothing but create stress. No, I think the answer is much simpler, yet even more difficult. Everyone is good at something. But how many of us ignore what we find to be easy because if it is easy for us, it must be easy for all. To carry this a step further, how many of us ignore what is easy, otherwise known as our talents, only to do the more difficult? Do we do this just to make money and end up with ulcers, or worse?

The creative arts, music, art, writing, are prime examples. My arena is writing. I know now that all my talents fall into the creative realm. So what did I spend my life doing? I tried electronics and computers. I ignored my talents.

Come, join e on a short trip through the space-time continuum. We’ll go back a few years. I was married. I, being the man, had to bring home the bacon. I tried, but I was never good enough. Talent? That was something other people, actors, musicians, dancers, had. My best classes in school? Writing. I did try technical writing but my hand writing wasn’t good enough. I switched hands. I’m even writing this (first draft written long hand), with my right hand and it’s legible!

During that timeframe I wrote a story. The wife said it was good. I did nothing with it for fifteen years. I did however get a computer. I still didn’t write. Moving down the continuum, my life disintegrated. I wrote about it. I started to write short treatises. I posted some. They were well received. But, I’m not a writer.

I started to make beaded jewelry, another craft. These were admired. Again I ignored my talents. I’m a technical person! Then I met an author. This girl has many talents, the strongest one besides writing, is telling me where to go. It only took twenty years, an ex wife, and an angel, to convince me that my prime destiny is to be a writer.

Having said all of the above, I have noticed the potholes on my space-time continuum highway have disappeared. I am a writer. I will go where my muse and destiny leads me. I will listen to my muse. So let’s pause here and reflect on this. I’ve learned that what is easy for me is my real talent. Would not an individual’s life be easier, more stress free if that person would only realize their talents instead of living an artificial life just to exist and make money?

Posted by theessaywriter at 1:01 PM CDT

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Mood:  happy

Self Analysis

Depression? I almost envy those that have it, at least they have the option of medication. You’ll note the keyword almost in that previous sentence. No, I’m not really in the vise grips of depression. If I were, I probably couldn’t write this.

Sadness overwhelms me, even as I pen these words, I have made many mistakes in my life. Social anxiety defines me in public. I hate crowds! This disorder has also limited my circle of friends. In other words, my brain is broken.

It’s been said that I am always angry. I also give orders. I have to be in control. That is not me. That is NOT what I want to be! But that is how I am seen. How many lives have I destroyed? How many people have I alienated?

My main problem is patience, or rather the lack thereof. I feel my anger and depressive state is centered, triggered, by this. Because I want everything yesterday, I expect those around me to be the same way. That is not right, but I don’t know how to fix it.

A very precious friend pointed these faults out to me. I wish I had met Joyce years ago. But my destiny was to wait until I could understand the diagnosis. It was my destiny to experience life. I had to be in certain places at certain times. It had to wait until I accepted the fact that I can write well. It took time and a psychologist/writer to teach me.

Posted by theessaywriter at 12:55 PM CDT

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