Winter Writing and Introverted Calm

Writing in the winter is always such a moody thing to do. It sounds odd, but for a moment imagine sitting by a window, and beyond the glass there is a bright grey overcast and a beautiful cold stillness. Every ounce in a while the wind blows reminding you the world isn’t a painting. Something happens in the winter. Something that makes a person connect to something from long ago. For some reason you can imagine someone in 1803 sitting with parchment and quill, and feeling the same as you. There is something timeless about the cold winter that inspires quiet reflection whether on your health journey or your emotional journey. Perhaps it is the knowledge that things are slowly dying, waiting to be reborn anew. Maybe it is a natural reaction to the cold, as we physically draw inward for warmth. I do not know, but I welcome it. Some people find it strange that I adore the winter, but there’s something wonderfully romantic about the cold dry air. Somehow it always inspires me to write and write in different new ways. In a way I am most at peace with my being an introvert during the snowy heart of winter. The stillness that radiates from house to house and tree to tree inspires me in a way that I am only now beginning to understand. The outside world sort of pulls out my inner struggles and thoughts over the past year and forces me to reevaluate. That is how I come to appreciate myself and my growth.

As the winter unfolds in my part of the world I wonder if you have any interesting feelings about winter? Do you think the seasons affect you as a person, blogger, and/or writer?

The Distraction of Writing.

Writing can be a very good distraction from life. That can also be a bit of a problem, but right now I find it to be rather enjoyable. When you write it allows you to step away from yourself even if you’re right about you. Your just surrendering to the moment and the act of creating something wonderful. There is nothing more awesome than the exchange of ideas and we’re lucky to live in an age where we can do it from virtually anytime or anywhere.  Since about 2pm I’ve been reading different articles on writing and marketing on different blogs. It’s been very enlightening and I’ve realized that writing is a source of power when used correctly. Regardless of what you write you begin to step away and just go for your thoughts and getting them down on paper or screen. You manage to keep yourself going. Lately I’ve been struggling with my life. I’m not unique. I won’t claim I anything is special about me. I’m smart. I’m talented. And unfortunately that isn’t enough. It doesn’t matter how hard I work or for how long. Sometimes life just doesn’t go in your favor or how you plan. That’s not sad. It is just life, and our goal is to take a step towards what we want with every single day. I got rejected from two literature magizines and the Bitch Media internship I applied for, but does that mean I am bad at what I do? Not at all. What it means is those things didn’t come through. Nothing’s changed and I just have to keep trying. I write. I spend hours on reading marketing, reading in general, and then I spend at least three hours a day writing.

It is a great distraction.

I create worlds and build characters. I make epic action scenes and intensely romantic works that make me smile, and I hope you smile one day. I’ve accomplished a lot in the last two months.  Suffer too Good and Dirty Honey were written and published. I have a few older stories I’m slowly working through. I’ve edited stuff for another author. I’ve been trying to engage more with the world around me and that makes a difference. Depression doesn’t always care, but all of that means something in holding back the tide. I just wish I had a few more bucks in my pocket, but don’t we all.

A lot of times I hesitate in posting these reflections because so often people look at millennials and call us complainers because we should just swallow everything and pretend things are fine. But truthfully I guess I don’t care. If I’m being wholly honest I only care to preserve my image. Yet I will say here I do feel like I’m standing in a realm of possibilities without any chance of getting to move towards any of them. College debt, lack of job prospects, my current job not actually letting me work, and my floundering sales do a lot to damage my sense of self both as a person and a writer. Worse they make me feel unstable. Sometimes I wonder if I should just call it quits. Not because this is hard, but because I don’t know how long I can live with the state of things because I don’t know if anything I’m doing is worth a damn. No one really does know until someone else tells them, and they say the definition of sanity is doing the same thing repeatedly, which sucks because writing is a repeatable practice. The best writers can do is try and recognize that we could be the next Shakespeare, Tennessee Williams, or Arthur Miller but never get our break. BUT we could. Any day now someone can swoop in and pick up your book, click your blog, or hear about your journey….and turn you into the next big thing. Someone could find value in all that you do, and that can revolutionize your entire life.

I hope for being seen, read, and loved. Any writer who tells you they don’t want that is a damned liar and you can tell them I said that. We write to connect if not with others than ourselves. The irony of that is that is what makes writing such a great distraction. Regardless of whether I get my big break or make some cash to pay for my studies I will always hold a pen in my hand. So I work on building my character, my life, and my world into a better place and me into a better self. Writing allows me to think both in and outside myself. It allows me a distraction from the crippling doubt and the depression that makes me wish I wasn’t going to wake up tomorrow. When I can’t sleep from the thoughts in my head I distract myself with stories and writing. The worst nights and days are the ones where that doesn’t work, but luckily those are few and far between. In today’s world every person has to be there best advocate, their best friend, their kindest listener, and in world of creatives their strongest mentor. More than all of that we have to be willing to distract ourselves with our writing because that keeps us going. It pushes us to evaluate, to debate, to think critically, and hopefully come to understand our best assets.

As time goes on I hope to find my place in the world. I don’t want to be rich. I just don’t want to stay poor. I don’t want to be happy. I just want to be content. Until I am able to get to a place where those things I want come true all I can do is write and pray for the best. We all must push forward….the problem is knowing where forward is and how to get there. That’s what no one ever tells you.

 

To Kiss A Girl? Poetry for the Idle Mind.

What does it take to kiss a girl?
Must you be filled with desire?
Must you be ruled by primal compulsion?
Perhaps you must feel brave and full of things,
No one could ever give word to.
What does it take to kiss a girl with,
Diamond eyes,
And fire lips,
And fuller hips,
And a laugh like vinegar,
But that never makes you wilt.
What is it like to kiss a girl?
Is it soft like feather down,
Or warm and spiced like warmed cinnamon,
Or mulled wine?
Is it spicy like raw chilis against your lips,
Or tantalizing like chocolate covered chilis
Repeating the nature of artisan delights,
That excite…that burn…
That leave you quivering and aching and…
I do not know.
I wish I did, but I do not know.
But if I did know I’d imagine it’d be
Slow…
Warming until it explodes…
At once sweet like sugar…
And creamy like the finest custard,
I imagine it’d be a lot like this poem.
I imagine it’d be a new kind of perfect.
*************************************

Oh I should mention my books are out now:
Suffer too Good

“If the last round left me with only pleasure to think about…this round would leave me with only him on my mind. Mike promised to push me when we started this, but he could be full of more surprises than I ever knew.”

Dirty Honey

“In the world of lust and the taboo there is fear, but there is also unyielding passion. Eve may be an accountant by day, but Carver has opened her eyes to that world of bondage, submission, and connection that shows she’s far more than the chubby girl her co-workers know. The world doesn’t know their deep dark secrets, and they’re beginning to push how far they can go before someone figures it out even if it means risking everything for a public thrill.”

Dreaming Through.

Dreaming through the circuit.
Power cut
Full of rage.
Cogniscent and untamed
Grabbed then by unyielding lust,
Lingering trust,
And pinned beneath the full moon,
By old egos and,
Broken shadows that,
Cannot breathe, but remain alive enough to gasp.
Short circuiting electricity through bruised sockets,
And wounded knees,
And itchy eye lashes,
Over eyes that stare at the screen and,
Don’t care if you’re mean or green,
Just seen.
Dreaming through the circuit.
As a circus of baby pictures, and baby’s baby pictures,
Play across my technological miracle faster than I can see.
Pseudo lovers converse over memes,
And a man bleeds onto the streets while,
Someone laughs insensitively,
And another scrolls past sensibly because,
Another death will bring them to their knees,
And another death because they do what they please,
And here they all hopeless romantics dream.

And pretend.

And Sleeze

And Spend.
And end.

Burn Out.

Burn out…
Tired brain,
Aching eyes,
Pushing myself until I,
Despise,
Can’t speak.
Can’t Move.
Can only be.

*
I have burned myself out. Editing three books, two short stories, and trying to figure out KDP publishing has wiped me out mentally. Yesterday I discovered something very important to my future may be compromised and I am on the verge of a panic attack. So original content may be sparse for the next few days because I am just struggling. I made rookie mistakes in helping my friend publish her book, and she made a mistake with publishing an enhanced cover with the wrong title…but she won’t be able to fix it until tomorrow, so I have to fix it for her since she won’t be able to. Had to fix a bunch of errors with my new book….oh yeah pre-promo… Suffer too Good is my first release erotic story. I’m hoping I make enough to cover a transcriber since I seem to be getting a bit sick again. I’ll give more info about the book later but I’ll conclude with this…
Being working class fucking sucks. Being poor sucks. Not gettin’ enough hours to live on sucks. But I’m going to put on my best smile because there is only one Rosie and she is a wonderful person.Some weeks are harder than others. this week I’ve nearly hung up the towel and called it quits several times…but here I am. Trying. I’m one of the lucky ones. . So if you ever feel like the world is against you just try and remember you are special. You are fun, and I’m glad you’re reading…so at the very least you’ve put a smile on another person’s face.

Forgive Me

I put aside your name.
I cast you out in the name of
Love. 
What thing have I done?
What crime have I committed?
A great sin weighs on my soul.
Cast out the name of love in the name of
rhapsodies made in easy weightless bliss.
Cast out the feelings and the spite.
A great heaviness clings to my heart.
What can I do to undo this crime?
What can I do except accept the crimes I committed
Destruction.
I cast you out in the name of weakness for other weakness
I put aside your name.

For K.

(Can you tell I’m a trained Shakespearean actress?)

Allow Me

Allow me one trespass,
One transgression against myself,
Allow me to rejoice in your softness,
To seek shelter in your laughter,
To relinquish the reigns of self control for,
An eternally mystifying dance,
As I move my hips,
And move to kiss your lips.
It is best if I am good and proper,
But I cannot resist any longer,
Allow me one trespass,
One moment where the world,
Is no longer against who we are.

Concrete: Warm Up Poetry

Concrete.
Smoking as ash dusts over its surface.
Lacking a human touch.
Too afraid to breathe.
Too afraid to run.
Undead earth.

“Fuck”.
The only words in the apartment as they rut like animals.
Grunting, screaming, moaning.
The wet needing openness of lust,
fills with every loving thrust.
Another kisses her mouth,
He grabs her hair and lifts.
From her to his lips.
From her to her to him.
The lonely three in a concrete city,
Finding solace in each other as
fingers find soft and yearning sacred grounds and,
Tantalizing brown and white and red flesh,
She counts the bruises on her neck.
He counts the scars on her shoulders.
She simply screams beneath them both.
Their love is not some ephemeral thing.
Not some weird toy.
Not some sinful thing.
It is simply one thing in a maze of concrete,
And empty houses next to empty homes.

Identity — Amitav Chowdhury

It’s impossible to read the thoughts in a crowd Interfering wavelengths permeate to jeopardize consciousness Seeking an individual identity through perception of others Dichotomy creates an alternate reality, mirrored images Unseen hands can manipulate with the angles to distort an image Yearning to connect for validation of repeated thoughts A single identity is separated to create […]

via Identity — Amitav Chowdhury

I connected with this profoundly. Maybe you will too.