Sparkfest, Day 3

Is there a book or author that changed your world view?

Sparkfest, Day 2

What author/book set off that spark of inspiration for your current Work in Progress? 

 I came across this book quite accidentally, a few years back when visiting my parents in Winnipeg. We decided to visit a recently opened used book shop. As I browsed the shelves, I spotted this gem. I like the concept of a story told through diary entries, such as Sandra Gulland tells the story of Josephine Bonaparte in this book. The first person narrative enables the reader to see through the character's eyes, and only through their eyes. How accurate is that particular character, in conveying the story? These all intrigue me, leaving me want to some how weave them into my stories.

Another book which has sparked me is this one. I very much like the notion of a third person, sort of on-looker, an ordinary voice telling an extraordinary tale. In this case, we view the world of the Tudor Court through the eyes of a simple fool. And finally, though not really a favourite, this book also has sparked me ~ I really like the idea of the secret diary, finally discovered, and the story unfolding through the diary's revelations. Thank you to these authors for the gift of these stories.

Sparkfest

Okay, so I am taking part in Sparkfest because I love books and writing. Today's post answers the first question.

What book made you realize you were doomed to be a writer?

I have always wanted to be a writer, ever since I can remember. But, the book that really sparked me? This one. I liked (and still do) the notion of a story told simply through letters: so much offered up for readers; so much left to the imagination. The longing, felt in each written word, seems to create some kind of tension, which plunges the reader head on into the material. I read voraciously. Many books inspire me, but this particular book provided the strongest spark to my heart and also, to my imagination.

The Book IS NOT Dead!!!

Sure, I've got my on a an e-reader. 

But there's just nuthin' to replace the joy I get 

from an actual, tangible book.

Just a quick post to say hello to all my friends in the blogosphere. I have not been around to read all of your lovely blogs because I am concentrating most of my time writing my book. Love to you ....

Trainwreck

Today you'll find me at Life As A Human, writing more about my addiction. For those of you who missed the first installment, find it here.

Also, I've started a 100 words blog ~ find that one here.

I Write Because ...

I Write Because ..., originally uploaded by anEccentricMagnolia

Far too much time had passed since we last rearranged the furniture in the lounge. Certainly more than enough time to accumulated so much clutter, in all the hidden and unhidden nooks and cranies. Found? A small amount of floor bud, my missing Ado(RED) t-shirt (yeaaaay), a giant clip for my big, unruly hair, a forgotten cat toy, and some dried up ivy leaves from the ivy that used to grow inside the window. Found? A new conception of the same, old space. A writing corner for me (yeaaaay). Zen. Declutter. Unfilled, empty space. I love this, simply love it. Like the skin of a healing scar, my Muse has begun to itch. And itch. And itch. I have finally realized what I must write. I must write what I know. Complicated simplicity, it seems. It all boils down to this:

I write because I cannot help it and, because it is not there.

The Visitor

He visited her dreams, where he kept watch. To sink into her nearness, into the surity of her slumber. How beautiful, his beloved, wrapped in a delicate and oblivious rest. How could he capture the essence of this moment? How could he tell her of his presence? Suddenly, a dove.

Disconnect

Shrivelled. Shut off. Solitary. Disconnected. Unable to shove myself past the enormous, yet compressed, melancholic inertia. Unable to wield. Able only to reproach myself for perceived failure. Failure to grasp the pen or pencil on this particular day and make some writing on the lines of the page. I've resisted my body's urgent desire to embody itself within the creations that ink can manifest onto the pages of my strikingly handsome writing journals. Fuck off, fear.

It's as though, the act of taking pen in hand to make a mark on the page renders an inescapable permanency. It's ugly and uncomfortable - tasting what's raw and visceral, as it flows from my fingers and onto the page. I find that taste intense and unpalatable. How do I temper this loathesome taste? 

By tasting it ~ over, and over, and over again.

By committing to myself.

By connecting to the story.

Can balance really feel so dead and hollow?

My Cat has PMS. Seriously.

She glared at me, eyes wide and tail swishing. Neurotic thing ~ she scratched the front door every time I sat on the other side, puffing. She mewed strangely. She seemed ... unpleased ... bitchy. And, look at that! She just got her period.

My cat is PMS-ing. Imagine that. [Who knew?]

I Believe in Faeries

Of faerie folk, I've imagined highly mutable astral matter coalescing into delicate wings; cascading silver, gold and copper tresses; flowing cloaks; and a sleek, streamlined, supernatural physical beauty. Sometimes a divine and ravishing beauty. And sometimes, awful and monstrous beauty. Always irrational, poetic, absurd, paradoxical and very, very wise.

Twinkle

Photo by YamiChi [deviantART]

The fabric of me began unravelling when my baby grew still, and hardened, inside my belly. My heart ached, cloistering itself in despair. Until summoned by a distant nebula. Twinkle, twinkle little star, how I wonder what you are. Has my stillborn child become a diamond in the night sky?

The Embrace

Photo by swordsman [deviantArt]

My heart sat in my throat like a stone as we embraced. His lips tenderly brushed my cheek and I felt his breath gently rush through my hair. His hands traced the curves of my body, like they'd visited these places before. He beckoned me, silently ~ take my heart.

Hidden Joy

Photo by gottabeagga [deviantART]

Ten years ago today my young son died. I won't tell the story. It's enough that it tells itself in my heart everyday. I don't want you to know the story, only his existence. Spreading his light keeps him with me. And my heart captures hidden joy.

Inertia

Photo by Michael Kenna

During this heart-crushing inertia, words feel hollow and barren, while silence sounds beautiful. I love the anonymity of this city – strangers bathing in silence. I can live in my head, like I have done these past days. It doesn’t feel painful. It doesn’t feel anything at all.

Remembering

photo by 3mil30 [deviantART]

I still awake in the darkness of night, and tip toe to your room to check. I open the door, and see you there, asleep ~ my lovely little angel. Then I feel that cold absence ~ yours. And I remember. And I crumple to the floor. And I weep.

From Underneath Her Woven Hat

Photo by incoldmirrors [deviantART]

From underneath her woven hat, she watches the sunlight sparkle through the undulating blossom branches. The sounds of nearby ecstatic romance leave her feeling cold and empty. She tugs at her hat to cover her eyes. She must shield herself from any joy. She feels unreal. Life has uninvited her.

Absence

 

photo by VladimirBorowicz [deviantART]

In the days that followed his departure, she slept on top of the covers, with all the lights on. She would lay on his side of the bed, and the lingering scent of him soothed her to sleep. She worried he would not return to her. How could absence feel so present?

This Last Kiss

Photo by Gwarf [deviantART]

She remembers the warm, velvety touch of his lips against her own. And the scent of him, embracing her. How she adores him ~ the elemental source for which she constantly hungers. Ravaging passion. She did not know, that day he departed to Afghanistan, she would never taste him again.

Bleeding to Forget

photo by alkadia [deviantART]

She would touch his face, gaze into his golden eyes ... then feel him draw nearer and nearer ... and then, his breath upon  her tender, pulsing throat. Remembering ~ raw grief. She wanted to gouge herself out of existence, when she awoke from the dream. She would bleed to forget.