While assiduously writing my novel, actually rewriting it, I’ve come across many dilemmas worth sharing to anyone going through what I’m going through—whether novice or advanced—mostly dealing with writing perspectives. You know . . . first person, third person, multi-person omniscient or whatever. I read an article while back by David Niall Wilson—a horror writer with much experience and a growing body of work—about first person point of view, a very simple straightforward post that had a lasting impact on me. The post actually pissed me off at first, but after a few weeks, I realized he was correct in his assertion. I wish him great success and learned a few things from him (listening to others is very beneficial). He is also the site admin and contributor to Storytellersunplugged, one of the sleeper blogs often frequented by serious writers and is relatively unknown, but isn’t that how it is when a blog really has something to say? I highly recommend it as it has 30 contributors and offers a wealth of information on writing, from publishing to craft, a definite unsung gem in the blogosphere. I’d personally be honored to write a post for them if I get the chance.
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Posts Tagged expressive writer
When you write a fiction story, compose poetry, paint a picture or simply create something great whilst in a fit of inspiration–do you get the feeling something otherworldly is going on? Do you force it out? Does it just magically appear in your mind?
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Let’s consider the words expansive and vastness for a while. When considering the vastness of the universe, we believe we have an idea of how big it actually is, but we do not. Compared to the vastness of the universe, the planet Earth is smaller than an electron inside a single atom . . . infinitely smaller. In addition, the universe is not only gargantuan, it is expanding–getting larger every second. Even if we could conceptualize just how big the universe is, by the time we did, it would already be vastly larger than it was upon the moment of our realization.
The Earth is one planet circling our sun. Our sun is one star in a stupendous galaxy, and there are billions of galaxies. But as humans, we really have no idea just how vast our universe is. To make things even more staggering, there is more than one universe. According to physics (string theory and M-theory) there are eleven parallel dimensions. I’ve read several books about string and M-theory, studied physics, chemistry and calculus in college, but I will not get into anything mathematical here–I want to keep this simple and leave the over-intellectual, pretentious and eloquence aside.
There are eleven dimensions, which makes any concept of expansiveness and vastness so small–we cannot comprehend–or can we? There are eleven of you. There are eleven of me. There are eleven of Bobby (that’s me) living in eleven parallel dimensions–this being one of them–and all are connected by a central line–all part of one. We are much more than we believe we are. We are eleven beings sharing one soul so to speak. They left that out of the bible didn’t they? In essence, we never die–not because we end up in heaven or hell–but because we are living our lives . . . somewhere in time . . . eternally.
Let’s consider time. We believe we are here at this very moment, and is the only place we can be . . . right now. Think about this: Every single breath we’ve ever taken we are taking right now. At this precise moment, we are being born, turning 1,2,3,4, and so forth–we’ve already died, forgotten by eternity. Somewhere in time, all these moments are happening and always will be–we just happen to be aware of this moment–our past and future selves are only aware of their own moment–and there are eleven of us. Of course, all these are theories, not necessarily facts. Some physicists say there could be infinite universes–but nobody really knows. I’m not here to argue about theories, but to share an idea:
All said . . . as mind boggling as it may be . . . I arrive at the point of the article. The central motif. When considering the words expansive and vastness; how they relate to your understanding of the universe and all eleven parallel dimensions–our minds are more vast and more expansive than everything. Our minds are limitless. Our minds more vast and more expansive than the universe and all its dimensions.
I strongly correlate these concepts to my life long study of Taoism, Zen and Yoga. The idea of enlightenment or illumination is really the same as understanding we have no limitations (as long as we’re healthy and alive). All beliefs of limitation are myths and self-imposed. We believe we can’t, therefore we can’t. We believe we can, therefore we can. Easier said than done, but we can overcome limitations.
Something simple we can all relate to is writer’s block. Writer’s block is a myth. There is no such thing. It only exists if you want it to. When you crush all limitations, smash all boundaries–all those things confining us no longer exist. Think limitlessly and be like water. If you think I’m wrong, perhaps you should spend the rest of your life studying Zen and Yoga.
In my case and my writing, I apply this universal idea to my fiction. This is probably one reason I write what I do. Here’s one small example: I never say, “I can’t write this or that. I’m not knowledgeable enough to write this or it’s not accepted by society. This is offensive and people may not like me. This is so revolting, it is a disgrace.” I never think this is what I consider quality or good and limit myself in such a narrow fissure.
I reject all precepts of what people believe good, skilled, beautiful, meaningful and artistic are. These ideas are merely opinion and are irrelevant. If a so-called master of poetry or professor of literature thinks my work is either great or drivel–it is just one person’s opinion and offers no validity whatsoever. They may not understand it. They may just be so set in their ways, only certain subjects interest them. I reject this entire notion. I cannot be set in my ways because I have no ways. To be truly artistic and creative, you must be free and absolute in your conviction. Societal norms, taboo? I say bah.
One writer with an extreme influence on me is Carlos Castaneda. He says humans have four natural enemies. They are listed in order as you cannot understand the second until overcoming the first.
- Fear of Death: We must overcome the fear of death before becoming an official beginner in life. Most people die of old age before ever getting close to this point.
- Clarity: The fear of death conquered, we have clarity. Seeing the truth in everything; unable to not see truth. A pristine and clear view of all.
- Power: The most dangerous. Balancing true power while walking the razor wire of greed and desire. Having the wisdom to know the fine line between power and lustful evil. This is where most fail. Most people with power haven’t gotten past step one and don’t deserve it. True power has nothing to do with money, success or material things.
- Old age: The final enemy. We all must face it if we’re lucky enough to live to this point.
What say you? Do you place limitations on your thoughts? Do you fester guilt for thinking bad thoughts? Do you think of yourself as being limitless? Do you let society control your artistic creativity? Do you judge others? Categorize people? Categorize yourself? Is your mind and expressiveness expansive and vast? Can you do this without ego?
To sum it up, I share my favorite Zen axiom:
Nothing exists . . . all things are becoming.
Change your blogging attitude for blogging inspiration? I know I said I’d never write another blogging tips post, but I lied . . . sort of. I caught glimpse of some Twitter Tweets where a few people voiced their lack of blogging inspiration or they were a little burned out. So . . . what is the cure? What can you do to incite blogging passion–to get excited about writing? Fire breathing, over the top full throttle freaking blogging excitement? Well, I have a few ideas and I will share them with you.
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One of the most important lessons I’ve ever learned is to see the world through a child’s eyes; open, reflective, honest, eager and bright eyed–dying to know how things work, why things happen the way they do and so forth–to maintain an interrogative state of mind. And then the real world stabs you in the heart. It’s happened to me a thousand times over and I perpetually fight my own cynicism . . . constantly.
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A twitching fly danced nervously across her eyebrow with jittery spasmodic maneuvers, foraging for secreted oils and mites along each individual hair strand, suckling nourishment with its moistened labellum. But she didn’t mind. Perhaps it was her pet, perhaps it has a name. Maybe she had it trained to keep her slanted brow clean, providing warmth and hospitality in return. I waited for her to speak, but she did not.
“So, what’s his . . . or her name?” I asked, my eyes intensely focused on her pet fly.
Her head remained locked in position, angled forward and staring down at the table, but her eyes rotated like security cameras towards my mouth, “I am a female. I have the features of a woman. Is this your first day outside?”
I was late for work just trying to read the paper and enjoy my morning coffee when she sat before me. Normally I wouldn’t mind and even converse on occasion, but the fly was still there and her fingernails were jagged, gnawed and thickened black crust lined her cuticles and brims. “Yes, I know you are a woman,” I replied, deciding to steer away from questioning about the fly in case she was the devil, “Names Bobby.” Her eyes rolled back down, shunning me. Words flew from my lips before I could think, “Weren’t you in this month’s issue of High Times magazine?”
Forgotten Slabs of Nothingness
With alien machination, her neck gyrated upright; calcium deposits between her cartilaginous discs crackled and popped within her long stiffened joints. She purposefully and agonizingly extravasated a tear droplet from her left eye as the fly inched in to drink, to humidify and refresh. She answered, “Bah!” She slams her fist onto the table, an unexpected eruption of anger, “Who cares what you say, you cannot fool me, you are not Myiagros.”
Her vicious scowl dissolved in Christmas-morning-funeral-sadness and she began crying, her fly masterfully navigating betwixt an avalanche of tears. Shivering, her filthy hands twittering, I feared surrounding eyes may take notice but I remained hypnotic, still as dead rock, unable to quiver. I offered, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you, I can be snarky at times.”
Like a starving child weak from disease and hunger, thirsting desperately for love, she gazed into me. Pleading for comfort in clairvoyant reverberations, a telepathic resonance of kindness, realizing there was hope after all. She softly groaned, “You hate me don’t you. You despise me, I can sense it,” she tripled her volume and intensity, “after 2443 years, you want back in my life? You think you can dispose of me like a diseased toilet rag and expect my love? You don’t deserve to live you putrid pustule of human trash.”
I was locked in place as frozen bone knot while a whispering, almost inaudible musical note was voiced through my lips: a perfectly intonated B flat beyond my control, “hmmmmmm.”
She began giggling with a little girl’s devious smile. In timbre of angelic desire, her moistened voice slid easily into the blistering itch, the desirous tissues within my throbbing eardrums, a poetry of revelation:
“I am your mother, you are my maggot. This I composed for you my sweet:
Slab Of Chunk
One thousand angles remain uncarved
precise facets itch to be revealed
profuse loaf of marrow
my slab of chunk
parched friction shiv
glossed chimera; egged Neoptera
we give, we love, we taste, we feed
one thousand sculptured futures
could be
chiseled from thickened clot
my bulb root
my dead curd
my bone knot
a chunk of possibilities; my slab of dreams
molded from my gristle plug
a hand forged expression
my tortured hunger
kneading raw lobe
gentle fingers coaxing
chunk shapeless; viscid spume
purging what is not
unveiling itself
unessentials cleaved; liquids interleaved
leaving only you and I.”
By holding my breath and squeezing my ribs inward, I unbelievably coaxed my eyes to scan the surrounding tables. A room full of people eating breakfast, chatting or drinking coffee—but nobody noticed me—in the clutch of supreme terror as this wretched nymph spat linguistic venom in my eyes. She is my master, my instructor, my possessor, she who enforced governance; imposed policy and owned my eternity. It seemed I was here for years enshrouded in her being.
With razored exhalation, blood steam escaped her lips shaped as mucid wasps, hissing shades of twirling flame, scented in raspberry. Her flavour the stink of unbathed sex, immoral and pulsating. Words egressed from her sweetly, “Thank you for this my lover . . . kiss me.”
Her flesh disrobed in nakedness, her wet tongue engrafting my entirety. Her supple breast melted into me as we grew together as epidermal slabs, an undulating mass of human dough for all eyes to devour. Floating within parallel dimensions, we were exhibitionists, loaves of enjoined marrow, unsculptured futures carved by Leviathan.
Cold fingers of jagged bone slithered from her gaping cleft, locking vice claws into her face as the stench of rotting death bathed my soul. Frigid vibrations of scorching acid shredded my bones into jelly, she rejected me, bone nails peeled her skull of flesh revealing blackened morbidity. Raped by demon. My cloaked seductress. My unforgettable lesson.
I exploded forth, escaping this depraved madness . . . screaming, “Get off of me you cantankerous hideous bloodsucking goth.” My fists clenched into molten hammers as I endlessly beat and pulverized the cyclopean harlot—blood smoke and gristle choked from ghastly lacerations—gnarled organs spilling to the floor.
I was slammed to the concrete, steely hands shaking me while my cranium bounced, splintering between thuds, “What the hell is wrong with you mister? Icy water splattered across my face; my body still fighting. But I was smothered beneath several men holding me down. “Are you in there? Look at me . . . calm down!”
“Yes, thank God, I can see you. Oh please, thank God. Is she dead? Is she still here?”
The man looked perplexed, twisted in confusion, “Sir, what the hell are you talking about? You walked in here thirty seconds ago asking for your mother and blood started dripping from your eyes, nose and mouth. I mean it was freaking spraying everywhere. You collapsed but Jessica, our hostess, caught you in her arms. We placed you right here on the floor. The ambulance is on the way, just stay with us.”
“Jessica . . . it was her, the demon whore who did this—”
Tears oozed atop her brimmed flesh fold, trickling down her cheek, “What? Oh no sir, I saved your life. I’m so sorry, my name is Jessica. I just want you to be alright.” She took my hand and began praying for me, kissing the crucifix draped around her throat. “Dear lord, have mercy on his soul, please let him live. Please God.”
An unknown slab of time has since passed. I am only guessing I’ve been in this medical facility for months. Now, I lay bed ridden in this cold white room. Awake only a few hours, I wrote this, the details of my ordeal to the best of my recollection. I cannot feel my legs. I feel numb, dead, lost. I have no idea who I am, only my last memories, and Jessica. I am so alone, so very alone. Perhaps I don’t even exist, perhaps I’m dead, or in hell. I shall never forget her poetry, her scent or her complexity. I only know I love her. I forgive her and she forgives me. We will be together endlessly.
I’ve yet to see anyone else here, no doctors, no nurses. I would give anything to simply have a fly nest on my skin, to be my friend and receive my undying love. I lay here hoping to know, to know something, to know anything at all.
This concludes my new journal for this unknown day in time, and now I must sleep.Sincerely,
Somebody
*I wrote this unplanned. I sat down and just started typing, allowing my expression to consume me. The experience of writing this was quite visceral and during the entire journey, I was in a trance. Writing is like a drug for me. I care not the outcome. I’m in it for the living expression, to exude a tale naturally and absolutely unforced. I know not what you call this story, but to me it is a slithering organism, a quivering slab of gelatinous ooze. I lived this as it was written, and was detached in a vacuum of becoming. This is my painting. Underlying all intention was a vibe of hope. I hope someone out there enjoys this and moreover, I simply want to give inspiration away.
FYI, the character Jessica or in full, Jessica Lenora Summer, is a major player in my novel. I revealed nothing about her, but rest assured she is responsible for my psychotic meltdown in this tale. She prays from of the kindness of her heart and her intention to save and nurture is authentic, but beneath her facade she is powerful and deceptive. Expect to know her slowly, because in truth, no human should ever even glance at her.
What do you think? Is Profanity acceptable in blogging? For me, it depends on the article. If I write a post about SEO or depression, cursing would be a huge turn off and my readers would take offense to it. Sometimes, I take the approach that I’m talking to my readers as a friend, so I may slip in something as I would in everyday life – naturally, not forced or put there to offend.
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Has it ever crossed your mind that positive thinking has a negative side or that negative thinking has a positive side? Some people get so caught up in self help and being success oriented that they over do it. Sometimes, I just want to yell something negative at someone or say something incredibly pessimistic. I have a dark and sometimes twisted sense of humor, and too much positivity gets under my skin.
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