How do you fuel the fires of optimism?
How do you fuel the fires of optimism?
I’ve been gone for awhile now
Lost in my mind
I’ve whispered secrets not allowed
Can you hear my cry?
It’s a shame you are no longer here
Did you know the time?
I fear the end has come, my dear
Let’s embrace our last flight.
Laugh at me,
Just make me cry,
Do whatever you want,
But don’t tell me why.
Say that you hate me,
Tell me I’m worthless,
Just don’t say you’re sorry,
If you don’t really mean it.
Do you know that I miss you
With each day that passes
When you told me we were through
I didn’t anticipate this sting
It’s not fair that I sit here
All alone with my memories
As I cope with feeling bare
Cause you took all of me.
It’s funny how I feel the need to justify my writing. I’m practically apologizing for being human and making mistakes anytime a person finds even the most minor of flaws within my creative works. Hell, I’d probably do the same thing here on my blog. It doesn’t really make sense. I should not feel the need to make excuses for something I put so much effort into, because the fact of the matter is the person is trying to help me. Have I mentioned that I’m terrible at accepting help?
Maybe I should rewind.
Recently, I gave my mom the first two chapters of a novel I wrote. This novel has gone through a series of edits, and I finally got to the point where I decided I was going to redo the entire thing. I gave my mother a copy of the renewed draft, so even though it’s way different than the previous one it is still rough. When I came over for dinner with my family, my mom asked if she could write on it. I don’t know why I took it so personally, but I began to feel bad that I had given someone something so unpolished. I shouldn’t feel bad. I’m sharing. She asked to see this, because she’s proud of me or whatever. I don’t need to make excuses. I know this. Yet I do it anyway.
It’s a side effect of me constantly thinking my writing is sub par. I need to break this habit, because I don’t need to be perfect. Comparing myself to others is not going to do me any good, because how boring would it be if everyone wrote the same.
This is where I make a point to start finding the beauty in my style and owning it. Because I’m never going to be anyone other than myself.
~ Johana Spade.
One small fact to know about me is that year round I love peppermint. Really mints of any kind are my go to, so this time of year is extremely wonderful for me. Peppermints can be found anywhere: in coffee, in ice cream, and in cane form. It’s truly a beautiful time for my stomach, because I can indulge in one of my favorite treats in so many different ways that it should probably be considered illegal. No one look into that though, I’d much rather there be no prohibition placed upon peppermints.
Perhaps that little intro made you realize what was coming in, but it is more than likely you’re still left in the dark. My fault really, my leave of absence occurred shortly after I started Nostalgia Sunday. I really can’t blame you for forgetting.
A quick refresher pertaining to Nostalgia Sunday’s would have to be stating that this is the day I reminisce on feelings or objects that bring me back in time. For instance, peppermints.
Continue on if you’d like to read about my strong feelings for a piece of candy, move along if you think it’s too weird.
The smell of peppermint lingers in the air after just one lick. It seems to cling to your person, making you crave more of the succulent treat. The red and white blend catches your attention beautifully, and holds it without even trying.
I can remember it clearly; the sweet taste as it coats my tongue and the stickiness the red and white candy leaves behind on young fingertips. They come in around holidays, with their delicate arcs and graceful curves. Candy canes mean joy with friends and family. Candy canes crafty a point of happiness.
There was always something so simple about holding the thin treat in my hands while I crafted the end into a sharpened point as the sugary goodness dissolved beneath my taste buds. Time seemed to slow, coming to a halt as I sat by the tree – decorated in brightly colored ornaments and shining lights – as I devoured the delicacy.
Cleanup, of course, was always the worst. My mom would take a wet clothe to my hands and face, making sure none of the residue was left behind. The dishtowel always felt so coarse against my skin, rough and grating as it raked over and over trying to rid my flesh of the peppermint scented sugar. Yet, even knowing that I would be forced to endure the same thing over and over again, I always wanted to have another candy cane.
The holiday season comes every year without fail, and with it brings the memories of a stained tongue and minty breath.
This is just an old poem of mine that I’m still attached to. It remains unedited, but very dear to my heart.
The mystical flaw of leaving things all alone
Hides nothing but openness, like a budding rose.
There is nothing but petals, stems, and leaves,
So the only secrets created, are not meant to keep.
There is a definitive potion of absolute serenity,
When cautiously handling all things clandestine.
Just like an old sofa, with fabric of deepened red,
Doesn’t show the sodden stains of blood.
A secret can be exchanged between close friends.
It’s a confidentiality that is given with permission,
Like a gift wrapped with paper in shades of hued gold,
It has a purpose meant to bring people closer together.
The whispered words oft come in a soft sounding caress,
It’s the reason they can sometimes sound more than a little sad.
But a small child will only shed tears when he or she is unheeded,
So always share your closest words with those that are the best.
When reading for fun, do you usually choose fiction or non-fiction? Do you have an idea why you prefer one over the other?
Reading happens to be one of the greatest teachers out there, and the fact that reading is a way to gain knowledge has never been lost on me. The amount of textual experience I have gained has made me feel cultured in a way that my limited funds and resources could not allow.
‘All good things come in moderation’
Is what you always say
But I’m not all that sure what it means
Or how to make you stay
You tell me I should keep my head up
And work for what I’ve got
But in my mind, I do all of that
Yet always miss my shot
The words you say can sound like advice
But I take them all with salt
Cause when I make all my dreams come true
Only I will be at fault
“I would have written a shorter letter, but I did not have the time.” — Blaise Pascal
Where do you fall on the brevity/verbosity spectrum?
As I sit here and contemplate where I stand on the scale of brevity versus verbosity, it becomes quite obvious that I tend to be more on the verbose side of things. After all, I did just spend the last couple of hours creating an outline – that is right an outline – that ended up being 5,000 words. The outline was probably far too detailed, but I guess hopefully this way writer’s block will not be an issue.
There are times when I fall more towards brevity. If I do not wish to be talking, which sometimes is during verbal presentations, or if I’m tired or angry I tend to be more clipped with my words.
Whether it a person speaks or writes with brevity or verbosity, it does not make one better than the other. Sometimes brevity works and the same can be said for verbosity. The real talent is finding out which works under the situation. If you can combine the right amount of brevity and verbosity into a story then you will have a true impact. After all, it’s the difference between show and tell in a creative environment.
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