Monday, 10 April 2017

Another small celebration :)



A portion of the poems that I have completed this year.
collage made at www.photovisi.com

Today marks #100days of consistent, daily writing. In that time I have completed 64 poems (some were started over 20 years ago, but most have been from 2017), written many more draft poems (the number is well over 200 at this stage), resumed blogging and writing reviews, started sharing my writer's process with others, made a dent in organising over 20 years of writing files and more. 


On January 1, 2017, I started a new personal writing challenge, #anideaperday2017. Ideas are very rarely a problem for me, but I like the thought of creating ideas deliberately, and taking more pains to record my numerous ideas. In 2015 this started out as a story a day, but that faded. In 2016 I changed it to an idea per day, and made it through most of the year, but the ideas were mostly disorganised. For 2017 I expanded on the idea to include the photos and scribbles that I often use as notes to myself. I've still got a ways to go before I am organised with the record keeping but it's already far more organised than in previous years. The ideas include new characters for projects that I'm working on, ideas for blog posts, courses, articles, names and more. The treasure chest of ideas is bursting, ready to explode. The catch is to actually use them and not just hoard them away.

From January 4, 2017, I have begun to throw myself into poetry, and I have already surpassed my most prolific time from years ago. The dream of releasing a book of my poetry is looking far more possible this year (finances aside) and now I'm looking at releases VOLUMES of poetry. The response has been fairly positive so far. I'm still cautious about sharing my poetry as it is very intimate; this is showing everyone who I really am behind the facades, It's easier for me to strip in front of strangers than it is to share my poetry.

When I first began to share it online in 1999, with an international audience, the response was positive but over time I lost my confidence with my writing and went into a black hole. Writing has always been a way for me to make sense of the world around me. Writing is something that I do constantly, even if it doesn't always make it out of my head. Writing kept me company when I felt at my loneliest, and my darkest. And poetry has always been far more effective than a journal ever was at recording my life's experiences. I love poetry in all it's forms, but my personal favourite is free-form or realistic poetry. I've always written from the heart, so it's often raw, and can be confronting. To find that my words resonate with others is a bonus; I write for myself, but I share my writing with others in the hope that they realise that they are not alone. I know it sounds corny and clichéd but at times I tend to be a walking cliché, so there we are. The reason that the words are pouring more freely this year is because I just stopped caring what people's reactions could be and I just wrote. And that has given me a freedom that is very addictive. And can only lead to some interesting experiences.

I have poured this new literary freedom into other areas of writing; blogging a little more, sharing more over on Patreon and my Facebook writer's page, and sharing sneak peeks into my drafts here. But all of this writing, this stirring up of emotions, this stepping outside of my comfort zone does occasionally set off my anxiety and I spend a few days here and there hating my words and ideas. I am just coming out of the latest cycle; I did keep writing in that time (though my blog posts for #BYBin30 and #campnanowrimo are in draft form at the moment), but I was gentle with myself, I recognised that taking it a little slower was fine as long as I kept going in some way.

 Today I was still coming out of this pit, but I did make some more progress with "pr-aA sAt";  it just a couple of key background points but it will help move the story along and give it a bit more magick. I can't get into it too much as I want to keep as much of the mystery as I can at this stage but it helps me to get past a few stumbling blocks in the storyline, and that is more important than having excerpts to share.

I have continued with the editing and tidying up of "This is NOT a Fairy Tale"; I've written an additional800 words since #campnanowrimo started, which isn't a lot, but my focus is still on editing and organising what I have from 2015. I will share an excerpt from what I was playing with; it's from Chapter 4 and some people may find it a little confrontational.

The mother-fucking beast lunged out of the dark at him. Hunter had no warning it was coming. This was an unexpected attack. Hunter had been having a great day; a rare thing lately. He felt better than he had in a very long time. These unexpected attacks were the worst. There was no way to prepare at all. The beast would leap out of nowhere. Duck and cover seemed to be the best method to dodge the worst of the attack. The beast’s razor claws were slashing; left, right, up, down… Claws were gripping at any available bit of Hunter’s skin. The beast tore through his clothing as if like a hot knife through butter (great, he was resorting to using clichés). He felt raw. Tired. Drunk. Everything around him began to slow down. He felt as if he was jogging through molasses; with weights on his wrists, and on his ankles. His feet wouldn’t move. The ankle weights turned to lead boots. His arms were unresponsive. His head was full of cotton wool – he could not think. He could not keep a train of thought in his head. The attack was savage; it was brutal. He forgot how to breathe. “Breathe!” he reminded himself. The adrenaline rushed through his veins and he finally remembered how to use his feet. They were still heavy but no longer did they feel as if they were encased in lead boots. Running as if intoxicated, he stumbled around, trying to get free of the beast. But the beast was winning this round. The beast was stronger than ever. How had it crept up on him unawares this time? He felt no sense of warning at all. And his guard was down. So the black dog was able to take him for all that he was worth.

Hunter was not sure he could make it through this attack. It had been some time since the beast had put him through the wringer to this extent. He was feeling dizzy and he was not sure he could keep going. Suddenly the beast dropped him and slunk off. Hunter was not going to question this lucky stroke. He sat up to gather his thoughts, assess the damage and grab a breath. He could see he’d need stitches and some medical treatment so he did not get infected. Whump!!!!! The beast came in from behind and knocked him on to his face. He’d lost track of what the beast was up to and had let his guard down again. His ribs cracked, with a sound to rival that of thunder. The pain took his breath away. The beast was determined to kill him this time, Hunter thought. Could he crawl away in time or would he end up defeated in a pile as his last breathes were squeezed from his lungs?

Oh jeesus – did he have to sound so fucking corny in his dying moments? Oh come on, he had to have had some fight left in him surely. He was not going to roll over and let the beast have its wicked way with him. But it was tempting to lie down and just sleep. No fighting. Just rest. Just sleep. Hunter was weary. He could not keep on fighting. Not this time. The fight was gone out of him. He was so weary. Beyond weary. He was exhausted. Falling apart. He did not want to get back up. Just rest. It would be OK if he didn't fight this time. Everyone would understand that the fight was too much this time, wouldn’t they?
So all up I'm happy with how this 100 days has progressed, on the writing front. I'm sure I could have got more accomplished in that time, but that kind of thinking does lead me back down into that deep pit, so I'll stick with celebrating the small achievemnts for now.

2 comments:

Becky Fyfe said...

I love it! Thanks for sharing some of your writing! :)

Bron said...

Thank you. I still feel awakward sharing my process itself, let alone anything that has been written (prior to finish) but your encouragement has made it a little easier. :)

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