muse

A Dreamer

/ inkspeare

I dream more books that I can write. I am a dreamer in every sense of the word. Today I wrote the last chapter of Sunrise Souls, the end of the trilogy – The Dinorah Chronicles. It took longer than anticipated, moving the December 2014 deadline to March 2015, and going past that deadline to the last week of April, today. This is the first draft, and now the hard work starts – rewriting, editing, and going through several drafts until it is ready for publication. I am very happy, and the last chapters have been written while I am going through excruciating lower back pain, taking breaks here and there, as the chair feels like a torture device, and my bed turned into a nail bed. Hey, it is all good.

The cover has been finalized, and I even ordered promo cards. Originally, I had a deadline of May 2015 for publication, pending for now, of course, due the amount of work that needs to be done. The experience of writing the last book in the trilogy was a bit different. I felt the pressure of the ending, as I became more critical of my writing. In addition, my health was challenged last year, my mood declined, and it added to the anxiety of meeting my expectations. Thinking of every roadblock I encountered, I don’t think that I performed too badly, as far as having the first draft ready today. I am grateful for that.

My next novel is waiting for me, and I think that I’ll put trilogies aside for a while. I have several novels waiting to be written, but I am letting the one that speaks louder to me become my next project. It is a process that I’ve learned to recognize as it filters to mind during my day, and captures my thoughts in the evening, sometimes making its way into my dreams. It demands to be written, thus muting the voice of the other possible novels.

I’ll share my progress here, and for now, here is a lovely picture of the first draft of Sunrise Souls.

SUNRISE SOULS

First draft – Sunrise Souls. Photo by M.A.D.

 

Writer’s Predicament – WWTT?

/ inkspeare

WWTT? – What would they think?

At one point in our writing we will ask ourselves that question. It comes from the concern that readers will associate what is written with our personality and think that we are it. Some readers will, some will not. That is a chance that the writer will have to weigh, and decide. I think that the work speaks of the writer, however, it does not define him/her.

As writers we decide how far we want to go with our writing, and how true to it we want to be. As an example – If I am writing a murder scene, you bet that I am going to be as descriptive and gross as I can be with the pen to capture the scene and translate it into a visual picture to readers. If I am writing about the killer, I will want to get as deep into his/her psychological persona as I can, to give the character life. Does that make me a psycho or a murderer? I don’t think so. Then, why do we hesitate to write? Out of concern – WWTT?  It is the predicament that stops the pen, the mind, the Muse.

Fiction writers have the “peace of mind” (do they?) that readers will take their works as fiction, but sometimes interpretation goes beyond, and the lines become a bit blurred, not so much for the author but for the readers. A latest example of this is the book Fifty Shades of Grey by E L James. A fiction novel that stirred so much controversy and continues to do so with its movie incarnation. I have not read the book but you would have to live under a rock not to know what is going on with it, that is, if you are an active reader or movie lover. J K Rowling had to deal with the witchcraft criticism of her Harry Potter series, and I am sure that you can think of many other examples.

In the end, a writer decides how far to go with the pen, and how important WWTT is to him/her. To be or not to be, that is the question – Shakespeare.

 

How to Tame a Multi-Creative Spirit

/ inkspeare / 2 Comments

Tame – Changed from natural wilderness to a manageable state. (American Heritage Dictionary)

 

The above definition will serve the tone of this post. As creatives we have an abundance of inspiration flowing, and many times, this same flow overwhelms our creative spirit. A person who seems to have many talents, or ways in which this flow of inspiration is expressed may find it difficult to focus on one talent, thus making it challenging to grow or develop a talent further. A multi-creative spirit may find itself in creative chaos at a particular moment becoming a bit confused as where to focus the intention to create. A writer may feel the need to pursue painting or photography, or any other artistic interest, pulling himself/herself away from the writing career that he/she is following. Many times, this burst of creative passion leads to doubt as to what path to follow. A person may be talented in many areas, however as human beings we live within the constrictions of a material world ruled by time and space, making it difficult to create as much as we wish to, and leaving us in creative exhaustion, spreading ourselves too thin, and eventually opening a door to frustration. So, what is a multi-creative spirit to do?

Focus seems to be the answer. Whether you are great at writing or painting or many more creative venues is not the issue here, but how to manage your creative state in a way that leaves you feeling outside of creative chaos, more fulfilled, and with a clear vision. It is fine to love all your talents and feel equally passionate about them, however one of them will need to be placed first in your fulfillment scale. Prioritizing next the rest of your passions. You may want to dedicate more time developing and growing as a writer, while enjoying your painting as a hobby or as a secondary source of income or fulfillment and not necessarily tied to your income, to present an example. This will take the pressure of the need to be “great” at every talent or perform 100 percent in all, at all times. It brings to mind the adage, “Jack of all trades, master of none.”

As we live, we evolve, and so do our interests and passions. Wanting to excel in all our creative passions/interests might feel natural; however, when we learn to tame our multi-creative spirit it might lead to a better use of our talents, less frustration, and peace of mind, thus a more relaxed state of being that becomes fertile ground for inspiration to flow without the natural constraints that we put on it. In the end, it may work to our advantage and facilitate a state of creativity that leads to mindful fulfillment and nourishing of the creator in us. In this way we respect our gifts, as well as our creative self, and ultimately, the Creator and Giver of it all.

Intellectual Filth

/ inkspeare / 1 Comment

A poem.

 

 

Intellectual Filth

 

Hate, war, pestilence, blood, deceit …

The legacy of human beings.

Oh God, why create such intellectual filth?

Nature does not need this sickness within.

 

The more I think, the more I see,

Faith slowly morphs into pain, hopeless disbelief.

Thin needles slowly prick a cold blue heart,

Bleeding its love, ice melts divine.

 

Oh God, why save such impure hearts?

Isn’t Earth better without virus-man?

Why not clean Earth, wipe us all out?

Have you ever thought of taking us out?

 

With a heavy heart a true voice I heard,

Buried deep in ice, breaking through mind’s cares.

“Many times I thought of doing just that,

Then I saw the one carrying a just heart.”

 

“Oh Child, there I saw

My early gifts bestowed,

Love, peace, compassion, trust, hope…

The pain and desire for a better world.”

 

“Love thriving in one changed a multitudes fate,

Then the one I sent with divine intent.”

“Pure love made flesh, the ultimate gift,

Myself wrapped in him to wipe all the sin.”

 

Oh God, nothing changed, I still see the same.

Destruction, pain, and so much hate.

I close my eyes to not awake,

Hoping not to see another such day.

 

“Oh child of mine, your cares I see.

I see the pain, the heart within.”

“If only you would let Him in,

The love you need will pour right in.”

 

Oh God, you know the world is not me,

The love of one enough won’t be.

Maybe it is best to let me be,

I close my eyes; I rest in peace.

 

“Oh child of mine, did not I say,

That for the one my love remained?”

“The virus-man Love inoculates,

Today I listened, and you I heard.”

 

Respecting Your Craft

/ inkspeare / 3 Comments

Each one of us has a journey, and as we walk the path, we give of ourselves, inspire others, take what is given to us, celebrate, and we share our talents. We work hard at a craft that we identify as our talent, our calling – that thing that makes the heart flutter with delight and anxiety at the same time, and gives us joy. Whether for you it is writing, or something else, how you treat your craft will determine how far in your journey you will go with that particular talent. It starts by respecting your craft.

Respecting your craft is personal; you decide how hard you work at it, and the priority you assign as well. You decide to block time in your busy schedule, and to respect that time as an appointment with your talent (or Muse). You decide how far you let others interfere, how much to share, and your level or degree of dedication. You deprecate your craft when critics belittle, or you stand up straight, dust off the venom spores, and keep the focus. You crumble in defeat, or you realize that it is just another step in the long journey, and after all, every soul is on a journey, and as you learn to respect your craft, so will you learn to respect another’s journey – understanding and vision come from doing, and living. Respect your craft. “Do unto others as you would have others do unto you.”- Matthew 7:12

My Cloud

/ inkspeare / 2 Comments

A poem.

 

Photo by M.A.D.

Photo by M.A.D.

 

 

My Cloud

 

I saw my life in a cloud,

painful memories within.

Hurt and pain, erased filaments of the soul,

Locked up tightly without hope.

 

I saw my life in a cloud,

passing by so fast, remote.

I saw myself as a child,

The adult I have become.

 

I saw my name in a cloud,

called aloud by beauty, white.

Aloofness turning to trust,

Forgiveness gave in to Love.

 

I saw myself in a cloud,

years of pain turned upside down,

by a dream pristine so clear,

that I could believe was real.

 

I saw my life in a cloud,

Beginning, between, no end.

As white blanket dissipates,

Angel mine, at the end awaits.

 

 

Bovine Rant

/ inkspeare / 4 Comments

Poetic rant.

 

Photo by M.A.D.

Photo by M.A.D.

 

Bovine Rant

 

It was at times when I did not follow the herd that I was ignored.

At times when I walked to the beat of my tune that no one heard my voice.

When I painted my picture that eyes were shut.

When I opened my door that other shut theirs.

It was at times when I disagreed, that silence befell.

The rest of the time, the pasture was green.

It was the hardest lesson I understood,

Stepping into my journey did not make me bad,

And refusing to judge got me out of the barn.

 

Maria Antonia Diaz

The Day I Cried

/ inkspeare / 2 Comments

A little piece of inspiration.

 

The Day I Cried

 

It was eight in the morning. It was Wednesday, or was it Tuesday? I grabbed a cup of coffee that was already half-empty, half-warm, and stared at it. I looked at the calendar and could not decide what day it was, was it Tuesday or Wednesday. I took a sip, and put the cup aside; who likes cold coffee? The day seemed to drag as usual, soon working hours, nothing out of the ordinary. Ordinary, orderly, order, who wants order every day? I looked outside and saw a leaf flying in the wind, or was it a piece of paper? One of those thin-weathered, annoying pieces of trash that seem to appear from another dimension when you least expect it. Was I expecting something? Who likes the unexpected? I turned around to grab a second cup of coffee. This time, I intended to drink it hot. I poured the sugarless black coffee on a new cup. I set it aside; something caught my eye. A black ant struggled by the windowsill; it had three legs, three legs. I watched it as it moved, as if performing a dance of pain where the only audience was a lonely observer. I thought of my coffee. As I went to grab the already warm cup, I collapse on my knees. The cup went flying in the air hitting the windowsill and almost sending a rain shower of warm coffee to the struggling ant. Shattered. I grabbed my chest; the pain I felt sent waves all over my body, chills down my spine converging in my head. I let myself go into the agony of crying as I felt the weight of the world crawling out of my heart, slowly, as a river of pain that floods the spirit and washes the soul. I lay on the floor, on one side, watching the struggling ant reach its destination – the flowerpot near the window. She was safe now. Images of war, revolts, disease, and technology zombies clouded my brain, revealing a dirty planet. I closed my eyes, as if wanting to shut the dams of the heart, only to find out that the more I squeezed them shut, the river grew bigger, and the sound of agony came out of my mouth, a symphony of despair, a song of hopeless cries that shoot into the heavens as hungry ravens in search of food and back. I opened my eyes; the ant wasn’t there, coffee all over the windowsill, a ray of light filtering through the cloudy glass, kissing my forehead. I sat up. The ravens flew away. The spilled coffee seemed as art in an ordinary day – orderly, order. Was it order what I felt? I wiped away the tears, and one by one, collected the pieces of an empty, shattered cup of coffee. There was art in the windowsill, and life in a flowerpot. There was life, after all.

 

Hope you enjoyed it.

In Retrospect

/ inkspeare

As the end of the year approaches it is natural to look back and contemplate all the things that we could have done better, and those that were accomplished, but usually, as human nature dictates, we focus on the first. As writers, many times we are hard on ourselves for not producing more, faster, even when we have dedicated an entire year to the craft. It is as if madness had taken over our souls, that is, the madness of the pen, and for a while the only thing that may count, absorbing all our energy and persona. Is it madness of the soul or of the mind? Maybe a bit of both, maybe none. Maybe of the heart. And we dare to follow our heart where it will take us because we are writers, and mad at it.

Well, for me this year has been a bit of a surprise in many areas but one thing that is a constant is my love for the story. I am still working on trying to meet the deadline for Sunrise Souls, however insane that may seem.

One thing I learned over the past year is that inspiration listens to mood, and mood to no one, however I control my mood – allow the mood in understanding – to regain inspiration. Many times, we take inspiration for granted, and it lets us know that it lives in us but we must give it life. It doesn’t flutter around like the Muse we call it, or resides outside ourselves, in another realm – no, it is a part of us, one that is to be summoned by will and faith, and even by desire, one that must be respected and encouraged, and dignify. When we respect ourselves, our work, our surroundings, we are summoning inspiration, our Muse of all sorts, and with it Creativity and audacity. Writing is not for the faint of heart or spirit; in it many souls have gone mad or desolate, but also in it others have grown wings to other realities, paths to other worlds, the solace of the word, inkblood to the soul, inkspear to the heart, and freedom to the mind, but overall essence of the soul.

I will continue to try to meet my goal this year, and await the next with joyful anticipation of good things to come, although these have always been in the now. I wish you all a happy and healthy Holiday Season, and beyond, and a very Merry Christmas to those who celebrate it. May you inspire this new year.

Love,

Inkspeare

Heresy – A Writer’s Trial

/ inkspeare

Poetry comes to me at odd moments. I wrote this poem  when I opened my eyes Saturday morning. I keep pen and paper next to me for moments like this. Don’t ask, I have no idea.

 

Heresy – A Writer’s Trial

 

Typo, here on the white page

Reader bewitched, writer cursed

The execution begins.

 

Beheaded, hanged, flagellation of the pen,

Blood cleansed, Ink purification.

Punishment, stones casted.

 

Writer’s heresy exposed

Excommunicated from the page

Sins atoned.

 

Book, Bell, and Candle,

Reader’s assembly, Typo exposed

Writer is hanged on the page,

Ink turns to blood.

 

Photo by M.A.D.

Photo by M.A.D.