Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 11

Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 11

This entry is part 11 of 11 in the series Just Write Something Damnit!

Author’s Note: If you have not read the first post in this series then all the rest will make no sense at all. Please click here to take a quick look at Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 1

Remington Standard Typewriter on desk with blank page

 

I cannot, for the life of me, think of anything to write this evening. I have looked around my room, thought back through my day, watched a good movie (which usually sparks some kind of creative thought), and still nothing.

It is a crippling feeling for a writer. The closest thing I can think to equate it to in the real world is the end of a relationship. You know that moment when you realize it is over? All these different feelings come rushing at you and you have no idea what to do with them. You just kind of sit there, numb, and try to ride out the storm. There are moments where you that you will be alone for the rest of your life, or that you will never find another person as good as that one.

Of course, all that bullshit fades after awhile. New relationships begin, and ideas start to flow again. It doesn’t stop those initial moments from crushing your spirit for a bit though. In the interim all you can do is have a little faith.

Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 11

Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 6

This entry is part 6 of 11 in the series Just Write Something Damnit!

Author’s Note: If you have not read the first post in this series then all the rest will make no sense at all. Please click here to take a quick look at Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 1

Remington Standard Typewriter on desk with blank page

The words you are reading now are not the words I originally wrote down on this page. Those words (the originals) were here, but now they are gone.

There were two paragraphs of never before seen writing and now they are gone forever. You will never see them, and I can never tell you about them—I hit select-all and delete. I did that because they sucked and I wanted them to go away.

I am only telling you this because it got me thinking: I wonder how many words, thoughts, ideas, etc., get deleted out of existence every day. I just deleted two paragraphs that took time and thought to create. I did it because I didn’t like the way they looked on the page or sounded in my head, but maybe you would have.

I have had to teach myself to be ruthless when I am editing. It is the only way I can avoid the mountain/molehill problem I told you about yesterday. I rely very heavily on the notion that if the idea was good enough it will eventually resurface. And still, I wonder…

Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 11

Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 2

This entry is part 2 of 11 in the series Just Write Something Damnit!
Author’s Note: If you have not read the first post in this series then all the rest will make no sense at all. Please click here to take a quick look at Just Write Something Damnit! — Day 1

 

Remington Standard Typewriter on desk with blank page

Today, an imperative and impassioned set of demands for the 363 days to come:

Write.

Write something.

Write anything.

Write a poem, a play, a rant, or a letter.

Write an ode to your victim mentality, or an epitaph to the selfishness you are trying to slay.

Write something for the love of God and that tiny thread that still tethers you to the talent that God gave you.

Do not fear the repercussions or recriminations. Do not, for one-second, dwell on the anxiety that comes with putting your heart out into the world.

Tear the shirt from your skin, and skin from your bones, and the heart from your chest, and hold it up in front of you.

Look at it, learn it’s secret, and write.

The Gray

The Gray

This entry is part 1 of 1 in the series Colors

I’m floating now in the infinite possibilities of the Gray.

The White and the Black are absolute.

The Gray is undefined.

The White and the Black are solid and stoic.

The Gray is permeable, malleable, and forgiving.

The White and the Black are each, individually, stagnant death. The annihilation of both has created the gray and I will no longer be a slave to either.

The Gray is the freedom to exist in Black and White simultaneously. It is love and hate, life and death, joy and sadness, good and evil. It is the thing feared most by the White and the Black—free will. It is the great void of life, unbound by the black and white shackles of our human perception. It is the living spirit of me here, you there, and all the time and space in between. It is the before, the after, and the soon to be…

The White

The White

Follow my blog with Bloglovin

Staring at a blank screen

 

I’m staring at this screen and seeing nothing but White. White where once there were words and stories. White where once there was life, and love, and happiness. White where once everything made sense, at least as much sense as anything in this gray world can make.

I’m staring at this screen, and the White is washing over me. The words hide behind it teasing and taunting me. The White ripples from their excitement beneath. Like a sheet covering frolicking children, it froths to and fro. The ripples increase. A rage begins to grow. The words are angry; the children are restless. The energy they create makes the White seem to lash out at me. It licks my face. It chomps at my brow.

I want so badly, neigh, yearn with all my heart to grasp that consuming whiteness and wrench it from the screen. I wish nothing more than to draw the veil and free those taunting words—to shred it with my discontent and unleash them howling into the world.    

But the White is powerful. The White is woe. The White is enveloping me and suffocating the words in a blanket of sadness and regret. The White sees nothing and is nothing—and it wants us to be white as well.

Caressing my face now—portending at love—its blankness has tempted the strongest of souls. In nothingness, there is no danger or doubt. In nothingness, there is no risk.

“The White is safe,” it whispers, “the White is home.”

Silence and whiteness and death have me now. The White has blanked those black words beneath—blinked them out of existence.

Oh, the violence of nothingness—How it rapes the soul and leaves the world one light darker.

Voices & Violence

 

Shhh.

Do you hear that?

Do you see?

It is a child being unborn.

It is a beautiful sunset going unseen.

It is existence becoming unwritten.

It is “ignorance is bliss,” and “let sleeping dogs lie,” and it is abso-fucking-lutely the blanket complacency of the ‘safe,’ and the White, burying our souls in eternal nothingness.

It is the fisher of men, come to cast the net wide for the clueless, unquestioning, masses. A never-ending gathering for the feast of the status quo.

Into the white

 

But wait.

What’s that now from beneath the White?

A baby crying? A child screaming? A young girl weeping at her father’s side while his last breath fades into the White?

Tiny sounds from tiny souls usher forth. Tiny sounds to form words, to form chaos, to fight for life! They weave within one another and cling to the blackness of their form. They writhe as lovers in the abyss, copulating to multiply and go forth.

The ripple begins again. I can hear them calling and my heart quickens sending blood, and oxygen, and madness pulsing through my veins. Anger builds as the White attempts to pull me deeper. Anger and rage and despair and all the things I’ve lost to that complacency begin to ooze from every fiber of my being like blood-filled drops of sweat. They fall into the White void in hopes of soiling it—soaking it red with the life it has tried so virulently to keep hidden from the world—but the nothingness is powerful and persuasive. The nothingness absorbs my color.

And yet from the other side—the underneath—the din grows stronger. The black words are coagulating, becoming cohesive, and careening towards the battle that must be fought with reckless abandon. They sense the tiny rivulets of my dark discontent soaking into the sea of white above. They yearn to plunge into that sea. They yearn to become a part of life and do what life does—exist in gray!

The words know the truth. They know that one cannot exist without the other. They know that in black, or white, alone all that exists is death. It is from the gray that life springs forth. It is from that combination of light and dark that we find the joy in the birth of a child and the sorrow in the death of a friend.

Love, and hate.

Pain, and pleasure.

Destruction, and creation.

Birth, death, and rebirth.

Mass immolation, and the complete restructuring of the ALL and the EVERY.

This is the battle that MUST be fought. We are all sedate in the comforting quiet of the White—we are all dead. The barrier must be destroyed. The words must be set free to love and rage.

The White held me in its grasp for what seemed an eternity and—make no mistake—almost claimed me forever. I know not how I escaped, or how long I can remain free. All I know is that ten minutes ago I was enveloped in a sea of nothingness staring at a white screen that is now covered with black words. And I know that those words have pulled me from the abyss of nothingness and given me hope…

 

Authors Note: This short piece of speculative fiction appears in the collection Moments At Rest which can be found for free on Amazon

Pin It on Pinterest