Fears
We all have them
Our own fears we know and understand—
We accept them as who we are
Someone else’s fears we struggle to comprehend—
We see them as thread tying one down
Fears
They are so psychological—
Only within our minds
They are so real—
Before our very eyes
If only I could take your fears and you could take mine—
Then we would never know that God is the One who will help us face our fears—
Until that day when they fear us
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Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
"to my characters be true"
I got a new job. Hopefully, one I will be able to enjoy, certainly one more mentally challenging and less physically so. I'm very excited to be done where I'm at, but nervous about going somewhere new. Change is always transitional, but I'm always excited to learn new things.
Still, my true love, my dream job is writing. I just recently heard the old quote, "To thine own self be true." Ahh, if it were only that simple for writers, such as myself. Not only do I have to be true to "mine-self" but also I have to be true to my characters. These other people living inside my head and my heart. They're like friends with more exciting lives than your own, and so you tell them, "Wow, you need to share that." "Others can learn from your mistakes." Except at this point, you're talking to yourself. "I need to share that."
I wonder if the non-creative soul can truly understand what it's like to be living with so many inside yourself. There are moments when I am going about my day, dealing with my life, when suddenly one of them, maybe all of them will give me that reminder that "Hey, I'm still here, when do I get to tell my story?" They're like kids in that way. How do you tell your children, "I have to work, I have bills to pay, I'll make time for you later." What parent can bear to say it, how many have had to? Despite the money that pays for all those little things you want and need, you can't neglect your children. You have to make time for them, I have to make time for my characters, no less.
When I write, I write for me, for them. When I edit, it's for you, the reader, as well as the reader inside me.
I have many characters living inside of me, some with stories still to share, others their story already told, some yet to be discovered. Sometimes I wonder... Have I breathed life into them? Or perhaps they breathe life into me.
Still, my true love, my dream job is writing. I just recently heard the old quote, "To thine own self be true." Ahh, if it were only that simple for writers, such as myself. Not only do I have to be true to "mine-self" but also I have to be true to my characters. These other people living inside my head and my heart. They're like friends with more exciting lives than your own, and so you tell them, "Wow, you need to share that." "Others can learn from your mistakes." Except at this point, you're talking to yourself. "I need to share that."
I wonder if the non-creative soul can truly understand what it's like to be living with so many inside yourself. There are moments when I am going about my day, dealing with my life, when suddenly one of them, maybe all of them will give me that reminder that "Hey, I'm still here, when do I get to tell my story?" They're like kids in that way. How do you tell your children, "I have to work, I have bills to pay, I'll make time for you later." What parent can bear to say it, how many have had to? Despite the money that pays for all those little things you want and need, you can't neglect your children. You have to make time for them, I have to make time for my characters, no less.
When I write, I write for me, for them. When I edit, it's for you, the reader, as well as the reader inside me.
I have many characters living inside of me, some with stories still to share, others their story already told, some yet to be discovered. Sometimes I wonder... Have I breathed life into them? Or perhaps they breathe life into me.
Choose Carefully...
Doesn't once a week go by so quickly? Have you ever gone shopping and see all these things you want, but you just don't have the money to buy it all? Then, when you do have some extra money to spend on you, just you, whatever you want, suddenly there are either fewer "wantable" items in the store or you're simply much more particular now that it's "your" money, rather than just money. It's kind of like that with a blog. I grew up in a family with many strong-willed, opinionated Irish women, so I'm never without something to say about something. Yet suddenly, I have a platform, a place I can speak my mind openly, freely, and I don't have to listen to any comment back. I do enjoy reading comments, but then they're so much easier to ignore if I don't like what they have to say...
So here I am. I can say whatever's on my mind and what do I have to say, what do I do with all this freedom of speech? I'm nearly at a loss. Suddenly, my words seem more important now and I must choose them carefully. But my thoughts have also become more important and I must choose my topic more carefully. So what do I write of? The importance of what it is I write of.
So here I am. I can say whatever's on my mind and what do I have to say, what do I do with all this freedom of speech? I'm nearly at a loss. Suddenly, my words seem more important now and I must choose them carefully. But my thoughts have also become more important and I must choose my topic more carefully. So what do I write of? The importance of what it is I write of.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
WORDS ON A PAGE
Peace overwhelming.
Joy consuming.
Love unending.
Words on a page.
How can I make them real to you?
God is so much more than our eyes can see—
What our hands can touch.
Why is the tangible so important?
When tangible things—even our own mortal bodies can become nothing in the blink of an eye?
The body struggles to survive, to make it through one more day, but in the end—the fight is in vain.
The body’s fate has been sealed—it is decaying, rotting with every passing second.
The spirit has no end.
Tomorrow will always be.
It longs to thrive vibrantly on life—
Buried beneath a tiny, dying shell.
Words on a page.
Can they paint the picture that is inside me?
A gentle breeze on a calm sea of peace and tranquility.
Brilliant colors of joy bursting within.
Raging river of love.
These are merely words lying dormant on a page beneath the eyes.
How can I make them alive to you like a volcano re-born?
I can feel the explosion within my spirit trying to consume the futility of my body.
I welcome the cleansing fire of renewal.
Words on a page.
I can’t make them real to you—hard as I may try.
There is only One who can.
Joy consuming.
Love unending.
Words on a page.
How can I make them real to you?
God is so much more than our eyes can see—
What our hands can touch.
Why is the tangible so important?
When tangible things—even our own mortal bodies can become nothing in the blink of an eye?
The body struggles to survive, to make it through one more day, but in the end—the fight is in vain.
The body’s fate has been sealed—it is decaying, rotting with every passing second.
The spirit has no end.
Tomorrow will always be.
It longs to thrive vibrantly on life—
Buried beneath a tiny, dying shell.
Words on a page.
Can they paint the picture that is inside me?
A gentle breeze on a calm sea of peace and tranquility.
Brilliant colors of joy bursting within.
Raging river of love.
These are merely words lying dormant on a page beneath the eyes.
How can I make them alive to you like a volcano re-born?
I can feel the explosion within my spirit trying to consume the futility of my body.
I welcome the cleansing fire of renewal.
Words on a page.
I can’t make them real to you—hard as I may try.
There is only One who can.
Do I "Do" Poetry Now?
Someone left a comment, asking, "you do poetry now?" I find that a funny question. What writer doesn't dabble with a poem every now and again? Does it make it poetry? You be the judge. I have a list of "prose" titles, some may like to call poetry. True poets have a gift for conveying distinct images and emotion with brief, concise words. I am a writer, a novelist, who must also choose words carefully, but I also have several hundred pages to convey a message, sway the reader. Every writer could take notes from a poet, I believe.