The Writer


Writen 07-06-2016


     His head cracks open, spilling words, plots, and characters onto the fertile soil around him.  They dance, swirl, pirouette, and bounce around and around clumsily until they slowly began to take shape, sprouting the most tentative of leaves and then burst forth into a story.  The story has more words than one can shake a stick at, yet it lacks life, its reality is a two-dimensional rendering of a sketchy idea filled with dark murky potential.

     Squeezing out with his life-blood, a small ragged chunk of his wounded heart, a jagged memory of a time coated in layers of exquisite pain – maybe that one when the girl of his dreams, the one he worshiped with all his heart stabbed him with a dull bladed knife of infidelity, twisting, and ripping with all her might.  Then as a supernova, the structure blossoms into something different.  A peacock fan spreads drawing eyes into a mesmerizing swirl of meanings. 

     The glowing aftermath from the creation of art pulses on the page, still wet from the sweat of effort, the spittle of swearing, and blood from reopened wounds.  It writhes there on the page in pains of after birth.  It is time to put down the pen and rest. 

     When next he visits the structure, he wears a different set of clothes, topped with a pair of safety glasses, a dust mask, an apron, a chisel, and a wooden mallet.  The rough stone of creation requires an impersonal honing, smoothing, stretching to find tighter simpler expressions of life.  Hours, maybe days fall away in chunks and as the dust finally settles, a completed piece stands alone ready for inspection. 


     When the spotlight shines down in all its clarity, critics begin to sing soothing love chants or scream screeching obscenities.  One can never please all, and one must never try – down that road lies certain insanity.

    The only critic who truly matters is the inner self who drives the creation machine, pushes the buttons, twists the dials, and fondles the undulating teats of emotions buried in an overloaded pallet of memory, dredging up glowing sparks from the deepest darkest corners of the soul – dumping them on the page – exposing the most vulnerable pieces of his core being.

     Though satisfying that inner critic is the most impossible of tasks.  It has an insatiable desire for deeper meaning, stronger emotion, creative word stringing.  It is always demanding believable characters, situations, and outcomes.  Even the most fantastical, plasmordial, creatasmic worlds of the strangest and weirdest characters must boil down to contain the basest of human emotions and growth earned through living and experiencing, or death from trying.