I heard a voice calling out my name from inside the house, and when I opened the door…
Music floated from the ballroom as wraithlike shadows slinked along the walls. Though the doors were open to the frosty night air, it was hot as hell in here. A man in a tuxedo beckoned to me from the dance floor.
I should have been scared, but the sound of the waltz impelled me to approach him. He took my hand and his touch was a live wire. We whirled and twirled to the ethereal melodies, the notes falling over my skin like electric rain.
“I don’t mean to monopolize all your dances, my dear,” he said in a voice rumbling from the abyss.
“Yes, you do!” I laughed as I trembled in his molten embrace.
“True.” He acknowledged my words with a sinister grin, and claimed my mouth in a devil’s kiss.
I inhale the sweet scent Of your fragrant bouquet, With the promise it implies Suffusing my mind. Surely no man who Gifts this exquisite display Could be anything but Reliable, gentle, and kind.
Image is mine. Poetry form is double quatrain.
Welcome to my Friday afternoon paint chip prompt. There are other paint chip prompts out there, but they’re very precise in what they ask for. Mine is open ~ write a poem, a story, a memory, whatever you like. Take your inspiration this week from Valspar’s “fragrant bouquet” and/or “promise.” Tag your post Paint Chip Friday, or PCF, if you wish. Prompt will continue until December 31.
Grandma’s china is delightful, On a night so cold and frightful. As ghouls and goblins shriek and moan, Why not try an almond scone? Would you like some tea to drink, While the demons darkly slink? Shadows pass across the moon, And you’ll be getting sleepy soon…
I’ve seen some peeps asking about NaNoWriMo, which I have participated in many times over the years, hitting 50K words on several occasions. I did not NaNo last year though, nor am I doing it this year. Frankly, I can’t imagine ever doing it again.
I achieved my goal of completing full-length novels ~ I have 4 novels, 1 novella, 4 short stories, and 6 books of poetry, all available for purchase on Kindle. None of them sell, partly because I despise marketing and partly because there are so many indie books for sale that it is impossible for an ordinary writer to get any attention, marketing or not. I have friends who advertise and they do sell more books, but the sales do not exceed what they spend on ads. And maybe the simple fact is that I am not good enough to stand out from the crowd… something to consider.
But doesn’t my love for writing overcome such a silly concern as making money at it? Well, yes and no. I can post poetry here on my blog to get my words seen by readers, and that’s satisfying even without financial compensation. Toiling away on a novel month after month only to get a handful of buyers? Nah. That is not appealing. In fact, my feeling right now is that I will be leaving my half-finished novels in the cloud until the end of time, or deleting them. It troubles my OCD to have WIPs lurking, so it’s more likely I will delete them. They are romances, so no great loss there.
I have something else however: a series of longer short stories that ultimately connect into a whole. About half are finished, which leaves 6 or so to write. I really like these and don’t want to abandon them, so I’m thinking about posting them here. I don’t want them lost in the mass of prompts and such, so I’ll have to figure out a better way, such as making a separate page for each.
There’s a quote going around about how writers turn into monsters if we can’t express ourselves. First, I think it is bad for anyone not to have an avenue of expression for their emotions, whether it’s writing, painting, or simply chatting to a friend. Second, as far as my “monster” tendencies, they have nothing to do with writing (or not writing) and everything to do with stressful circumstances. Finally, for the past few weeks, I’ve been watching more TV than writing, and I don’t feel the least bit monstery because of that.
But what if I didn’t even have a blog? Well, for most of my life I didn’t have one and that was fine. There were many years I wrote nothing but the occasional letter. I am still enjoying this blog though, especially since my refresh, and I appreciate the blogging community. But I do have to take the occasional step back and reevaluate all the things. I haven’t been participating in as many prompts as I used to, particularly the ones that specify word count and/or syllables. I find that makes my work sound stilted. Basically, I only do prompts that actually inspire my creativity, including words of the day when they combine to trigger a fictional scene in my mind or a burst of poetic lines.
I am a vegan vampire And also gluten-free; I don’t wanna drink your blood If you’ve eaten at McD’s. I maintain a clean deadstyle, So I stay away from bars And biting necks of those Who drive gas-guzzling cars. It’s so hard to find a perfect Person to feast upon; I’m passing out with hunger— And look! It’s almost dawn!
I used to wear a mask And hide the truths about me, Worried if people knew There’d be no sympathy. But one day I removed it, Put it high upon a shelf, And no one cared at all— They were focused on themselves.
It wasn’t enough To write away the pain In fictional realms of romance. The writer herself became A character, And that additional distance Enabled the flow of words From brain to pen, Then back again.
Layers of illusion clothed her Like the most exquisite satin gown, As she boarded the coach Of the unreliable narrator. Does the writer create the writing or Does the writing create the writer?
Words tangle and tango, swirl And whirl upon the page In a glorious dance. Some remain and some return: They breathe life into the mind That feeds them.
Nourished with her own words, Encouraged by action verbs, She flitted comfortably Between first person And third. As her tears turned into ink, Blurring the page numbers, The love of writing made her real.
She reassembled broken sentences, Which formed the story Of herself. And when she got lost in the forest, She stretched her limbs, Real as anything. Leaves crunched under her boots; A raven grabbed her pen; The wind whispered,