riotthill

Write like the plague is gnawing at your heels. Find the words that nurse each sentence, be careful not to breath too heavily upon your paragraphs, and dispose of your dead as soon as the body carts arrive at the door.

Does this sound extreme? Perhaps, but when one puts away the ‘art and science‘ of writing, and just writes, the results might very well be a healthy survival rate.

Which brings me to a point that is only slightly related. What to publish, where and how. I have been giving much though to the current transition, growing pains if you will, of the state of the publishing industry.

There is much talk about self-publishing. Write up your story, sign up for a blog and post it. Or sign on to one of the sites that will publish your story in e-book format for others to download. Or explore the possibility of print-on-demand for hard copy… the real deal of a book with covers and perhaps even a number someone might put in a library somewhere — good traditional bones.

Oh boy, what about quality? What about the editing process, the melding of minds to polish the thing to its most appealing form. Well, what about it?

The best, the healthiest may very well survive to attract the attention of serious readers, those types who eat words for breakfast, lunch and dinner. They know a good story when they see one. They see the worth of good editing, polished plot, character development, an underlying message of universal appeal. Something with staying power. A classic. A story to embrace like an old friend arriving for a good long visit.

Then again, there is always the self-satisfaction of simply writing. Perhaps you’ve written something no one should ever see. Perhaps it just needs to be said, without care that it will ever be read. Perhaps that’s the state at which inhibitions slough off like an old skin, words dance and sing themselves into existence, immune to the plague of doubt, of judgement — both internal and external — to survive and thrive, to live healthy, wondrous lives, whether in print or in the clouds.

cross published at Red Room

First thing on my mind when I woke up was dreams, but those illusive little critters, whatever, whoever, wherever they are, slipped right through my thoughts and escaped. I know they are around somewhere, floating through the dust, probably hovering at the corners… you know, something you see at the corner of your vision, but when you turn your head, it’s gone. You wonder if your eyes play tricks, your imagination.

And now I am here, in total, wondering what to write, why I can’t when my hands are itching across the keyboard, my eyes guarding each word as it appears upon the screen.

Read a beautiful blog today — it contains fish, montages of life and a hoard of wonderful stories of faded pictures and sketches and songs whose translations are obscene.

It is called, appropriately enough, Excavations linked to my Ca’ancartti notebook — if you rifle through the pages, you will find it.

It’s a self-mindf**k, I think, wanting to write down everything, but saying nothing, just ramblings and outlines that go nowhere and self-doubt that catches on the edge of a deep well, stumbles, falls and falls and falls. There is no splash because there is no bottom.

If I became an acrobat on the way down, I could twist and turn and open my eyes. It is very light at the top, a tiny circle of brightness. My arms swing upward without direction, my hands grasping desperately; the light is energy, it stings my hands like burning rope, but I claw at it, hoist myself upward — remember, I have become an acrobat on the way down. I have used the safety net and bounced myself up, high, through the circle of light and into the open air.

I can breath.

I can think.

I can feel the dark silence around me, warm, but I refuse to leave the light that has captured me. Now I want to dream of flying. I want to re-visit my old dreams, remake them, tell them who I am… to write them into life.

(cross-posted at Redroom)

How you treat me is your karma, how I react, is mine…

Oh, yes I own my thoughts, my choices, you yours, but do we only speak and act but once? No. It echoes down the highways and paths of time, embracing those who would listen, nipping at the conscience of those who would not. That pre-supposes there is conscience, that we are not just sentient, but feeling, compassionate. When I treat you, I treat with myself as well — it does catch up, bite the ass that commits. Your choice and mine, whether it leaves behind a playful love-bite, or something scarred and ugly and permanent. If I am to extend an act of kindness, should it not reflect in the light that brightens your eyes? And the crows feet that line my eyes will cackle and crackle when I receive your kindnesses, yet we are separated by the very karma that defines each of us, leaving us breathless but still anxious to own. Choose another path and commit harm, in words or actions; go ahead… whisper those nasty innuendos, or shove someone aside, or use your pen like the proverbial sword. The slices are deep, they attract infection and never really heal. We own those too.

If you investigate Wicca beliefs, you will find one of the statements goes something like this: ‘Once done, thrice returned’. This, along with being a marvelous credo for living one’s live, is also a form of karma, don’t you think…. more like instant karma? And isn’t that a phrase I seem to remember from the way-back days of flower power and love-ins. But it rings, doesn’t it?

The statement above is a concept sadly lacking in today’s world of victims and perps. None of us seem willing to accept responsibility, much less consequence. We like to blame, it’s fashionable, the first knee-jerk response to all those unexpected, sometimes terrible events that happen. Whose fault is it? Not me. Not mine. Oh, boy, I’ve been harmed, now I can be a victim. Not to sound trite, but this common reaction diminishes the tragedy of those who truly are victims. It makes us forget about them, look the other way, and there are oh so many other ways to look in this world of information saturation. It robs us of our compassion, blinds us, deafens us to the point where we become those wooden automatons trying to sell us all matter of products to make our lives better, healthier, wealthier, more satisfying. But the truth is in the karma.

As writers, the caution is perhaps twice, or thrice, as above. Putting something nasty about another person into words can and often is — aside from being willfully harmful — permanent. And, it is no longer a case of the intimacy of a private letter, but that which can and does broadcast itself worldwide. Think of the smear campaigns waged during elections. They rob you of compassion. They assume you cannot think for yourself. They take from you that ancient reminder ….’there, but for the grace of God, go I‘. The truth of these campaigns of mud-soaked words may have roots in accuracy, but the reality is the fuzziness left behind, like the aftertaste of a bitter drink which is definitely not medicinal. It’s cowardly, too, since the authors are hidden by anonymity, leaving no distinct individual to respond to. The subject is left to address the public in self-defense without the ability to confront those who would directly harm them.

Inflicting harm, whether it be in attack, or in response to such, is pernicious to both. Inflicting kindness or love, receiving, sending or in response, is compassion at its finest. And karma incurred, tabulated for later return is like calories. Your body counts them whether you do or not. Eventually it will show.