In Hiding

When I'm reminded
I wonder how I survived
Why I survived
When old lines, old words
Decide to reveal themselves
After all their time in hiding
They're like stabbing knives
Reminding, reminding

How could it be possible to overcome
How did I endure, what was my motivation
When I had lost everything that meant something
When I had lost everything that was me

How could I not have seen it coming
How could I not have known
Was I really that naive
Was I really that blind
To think that I would be an exception
To think that you would be
To never imagine you leaving me

Without explanation, without reason, without sense
You left me with an aching hole,
Left me with decadence
Left me to die
Left it all to die

When I'm reminded

I wonder how I survived

Why I survived

When old lines, old words

Decide to reveal themselves

After all their time in hiding

They're like stabbing knives

Reminding, reminding

Self-preservation told me otherwise
Told me I had healed, and that aching hole had sealed
Stubborn self-preservation, telling me lies
And the link hasn't worked for years
But it can still fuel screams
It can still fuel tears

When did I make the decision to live
When did I decide that one day it would be worth it
One day I'd look back and be grateful I was still around
When will it be worth it
When will the pain truly subside
When will I stop panicking
Because I'm alive

When I'm reminded

I wonder how I survived

Why I survived

When old lines, old words

Decide to reveal themselves

After all their time in hiding

They're like stabbing knives

Reminding, reminding

It tears the hole up every time

With every word, with every line

And again it aches, and again I break

Every time I wonder how I survived

I thought the first cut was the deepest

That I'd only be left with scars inside

It was self-deceit, it was all a lie

Carefully told

I was never meant to suspect

It would worsen with time

I was never meant to realize

When I'm reminded

I wonder how I survived

Why I survived

When old lines, old words

Decide to reveal themselves

After all their time in hiding

They're like stabbing knives

Reminding, reminding

Do I really want to fall asleep

What if I dream your voice to life

What if I revive your words, your lines

I can't do it all over, I can't do it one more time

I've managed to block out all their meaning

I've managed to blind myself to their power

I can't lose them one more time,

I can't lose them again

I can't lose you again

Even if it's only in my dreams

Even if you're only conjured by me

Symbols & Signs

Aren't we too different to speak of this
Shouldn't I have known it wouldn't be meaningful
That only in my own mind does it make sense
Do the words and thoughts have any power
Only in my mind do they seem real and true
I shouldn't have come to you

Is this how it was meant to be
Will the poet always be lonely
Lacking understanding
Dead heads only nodding
Dead eyes that can't read
Between lines
Eyes that can't see symbols
Symbols and signs

You never shared my love for abstractions
In your world everything's for granted
Realizations about life and death
Aren't allowed to stray near you
Only in my mind do they seem real and true
I shouldn't have come to you

Is this how it was meant to be

Will the poet always be lonely

Lacking understanding

Dead heads only nodding

Dead eyes that can't read

Between lines

Eyes that can't see symbols

Symbols and signs

I don't make divine observations

Life isn't a starry sky to be analyzed

But I live for everything between those lights

Everything that can't be seen by our eyes

Everything that can be imagined

And at the same time is more real

And says more about you,

And about the world

Than anything

Is this how it was meant to be

Will the poet always be lonely

Lacking understanding

Dead heads only nodding

Dead eyes that can't read

Between lines

Eyes that can't see symbols

Symbols and signs

Life lines

Family Values

I think that everyone basically have a love-hate relationship to their close family. On one hand you love them to death, you grew up with them, you've shared the same jokes and lived under the same roof and have many mutual experiences and you know their behaviors and choices of words like the back of your hand. On the other hand it's not very common that everyone in the family shares the same interests, quite the opposite; and it's been said many times that your friends are the family you got to choose. And even though I love my family very much - it's still going to be somewhat of a relief to be around friends, to travel, to have a couple beers, to write and have coffees until the dead of the night and just not really give a shit about anything. Who's in favor? I am! That does kind of make me crave a coffee, I might just have some, hell, it's only 10 PM and hell, I don't start working tomorrow until 4.


Like my dear poet friend Roccari, I'm currently struggling with some writer's doubt and I'm not entirely sure how to deal with it. I've got the idea, the background and basic plot all thought out for the short story contribution I am making for the Metro 2033 short story contest; and still when I write on it, all I want to do is scrap it and start over (which violates the very writing tips I myself posted here not so long ago, oh, the irony), and still it never really feels as if I can get it the way I want it. I'm hoping that writing for all these contests will teach me a thing or two about letting a piece go and not overwork it anymore, that it might still be good enough to submit to a contest. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I either have to write it as a masterpiece right away, or I'm unworthy for any competition; which, of course, isn't a very nuanced image of actual reality. There are plenty of people who, for one, write mediocre pieces and win contests of the like with them; and secondly, there're plenty of people who don't feel the pressure to write a masterpiece or overwork it down to the last detail; but who sees the contest announcement, gets inspired, writes their piece and submits it. I'd like to be one of the latter people... or at least I'd like to have a similar attitude towards these kinds of contests. I think that a writer still always has to have the will and desire to improve, or they won't go anywhere. But there's a limit you reach when perfectionism only slows progress, perhaps even brings it to a halt.


POET IN THE SUPPOSEDLY EGOCENTRIC BUT ESSENTIALLY ONLY APPRECIATIVE JAR

Rainy, Sentimental Days

What do you say of a memory that you just can't be rid of? What do you do with it, when you've treated it in all sorts of ways and still it stays? Isn't it tiring that we can never entirely forget what's really better left forgotten? There is a belief some people have, that without your own particular path in life, without your own particular memories, you wouldn't be where you are today; and you would perhaps not appreciate the good if you never knew of the bad. But I'm not asking for redemption or complete bliss. I'm only asking that I could leave a part of my life that didn't go that well behind me, and let it be. I don't want sudden flashes, images, voices, sounds, that particular, special joke; those particular, special eyes; to attack me when I least expect. I simply wonder - would it be too much to ask to lock these memories up, store them somewhere safe; and only bring them out on rainy, sentimental days, when you conjure them by conscious effort. In my experience the answer's yes, that would be too much to ask. Seems that we humans are meant to be tormented by our past lives, regardless how well we live in the present. Or, which seems more likely perhaps, this is only the case for those like me, who tend to get too emotional over small things and who can't simply slap evil in the face and get on with their lives. And still I wouldn't change myself. Mostly because I spent too much trying to change, way back, in order to deal with these things; and it didn't work that time, and I doubt it would work now. I've come to the conclusion that over-emotional, over-thinking, over-sentimental people such as myself are deemed to be artists and that is that, story is over.

Any writer with self-respect has self-doubt. There's lots of that going around at the moment.
POET IN THE JAR

Towards Madness

I wonder why I, of everyone out there with the same dreams, would have my voice heard? I wonder why my lines should be heard, why my words should matter? I'm only one person, one who constantly thinks about things, thinks about life, thinks about death. I'm no chosen one. I don't have any special abilities. None of my thoughts are really unique. They've all been thought before, they've all been heard before, everything's been done before.

I'm the last one to deny I have a dream, and that the dream is to be recognized for my writing. To for once be able to look at something proudly and say, 'I wrote that' and 'I made that', and be renowned. Too many times lately I've thought I am writing for nobody's eyes. I'm writing for nothing but my own eyes, and who cares? Really? No one cares about anyone's eyes but their own. We are so quick to say we are misunderstood but none of us ever tried to understand others.

I will always be driven to write. Maybe one day I'll be rewarded for it. But more often than not, I ask myself why this should happen. Why I keep clinging on to the hope that someday, someone will pick up a book of mine, read it and have their world changed, have their world revealed. There are no little golden elfs to hand out riches and fame to the struggling artists. A struggle is all that it is, and still we can't keep ourselves from doing it, we can't keep ourselves from putting pen to paper. Is it naive or brave? Is it stupid or ambitious?

I've always said I write in order to deal with hardships in life, and it is true. I write to distance myself from thoughts about mortality and monsters under the bed. I write to get it out of my head and onto paper where it's safe. But what do you do when the writing isn't enough? What do you do, when all you do is write, all you do is pour and pour from yourself, and still you never dry up? 

I feel so lost, and confused. The more I write, the more my angst shows through. The more it seems like a game and a folly. What madness is this?

Why do I drive myself toward madness?

POET IN THE JAR

Writing Rant

Despite my previously mentioned ambition to post writing-related progress on my Twitter account, I can't help but drop by here and proudly say I just submitted my three-paged essay to the essay contest arranged by Vulkan. First prize is 10,000 SEK and an Iphone 4, but more importantly, the top contributors get to be published in an anthology with their essays. Sometime in August I will know how it went, meanwhile I'll be crossing all my fingers, arms and toes for luck. To be perfectly blunt and honest, I would rather go far in a contest of short stories than in one of essays, but they're all writing contests after all, and I've decided you've got to start somewhere. Remaining for the time being are three more short story contests and one contest for a play, which might be a challenge since it's entirely new to me to write plays. No matter how it goes in the contests, I'll be developing in the process, and writing challenging things will develop me twicely so!


I also had an idea to myself that if I shouldn't go far in any of these contests I will publish my own anthology with the stories and make them available that way. But now, I believe I'm going to continue re-reading Ophelia's Photograph and dwell in the sad yet beautifully worn world that is Cade's and Ophelia's.
POET IN THE JAR

Treasure Hill

What interest have you in my thoughts, my wishes
Of how I daydream or how I dream at night
What does it matter to you what I read,
What I write, what I make, what I create
If it isn't aligned with yours it's insignificant
If it isn't already in your thoughts,
in your wishes,
it's invisible

You're too attached to daily appointments
To promises that you made to yourself
That the world follows with gaping eyes
Like they'd never think to follow mine
My wishes was always too abstract
For anyone to even consider as real

I miss even the darkest times of living
Then at least I felt I fought for something
Then there was something more than illusions
at the edge of the treasure hill
And there was something more than just dread
To kill

Couldn't you just once open this wine with me
Finish it while speaking of unspeakable things
And what you think of when you dare to think
Couldn't you just once stop, and listen,
and find my words meaningful

What interest do you have in what I value
What interest do you have in any of my visions
Since visions never fed anyone or paid their days
They're rendered useless, aren't they
Useless in your eyes

You could stretch to agreeing they were beautiful
but soon enough you'd be lost again in fleeting errands
Soon enough you'd have forgotten it all
What we might have shared over bottles of wine
What you might have found meaningful
beneath the starry sky
would be useless, wouldn't it
Useless in your eyes

Warden

You can't break glass with silence, trust me, I've tried

And you can't put out fires with tear drops

You can only gather them in vials

For when they should stop

You can fling them open again

When you've run dry

Automated eyes

Automated life

What am I to do with these faint images

They are bleaker every second

What did you leave them for

Maybe you believed they were dead

I could keep an eye on them

but they are only dying slowly

You didn't make me a gravedigger,

You made me a reluctant warden

And I'll never be awarded

You can't chase shadows in the night, trust me, I've tried

And you can't drown sorrow on desert plains

You can only carry it inside

Carry the pain

You can release it again

When it can fly

Automated wings

The conditions you left me with are unfair and desperate

You never spared a thought for what would come

Once you had secured your own escape

You weren't even brave enough to face me

You didn't have what it would take to stay

Forgive me if I won't guard your institution

Your well preserved memories

I scattered my copies

Left it to them to survive

You stopped yours in flight

Then imprisoned them

And turned your back on them in denial

I can't bear to be your warden

I can't bear to see the memories die

You weren't the only one who created them

The other creator's hand was mine

I'll spread them with the others in the memorial grove

Spread them with the others across the sea

They were meant to fly over it, one day, with me

But they never got to see the day

So I'll set them in flight before they die

Maybe that can keep damnation at bay

You can't break glass with silence, trust me, I've tried

And silence is all that is left after us, after we died

Maybe it was for the better, after all,

no more glass will break

And there'll be no more lies

Without Sound

After years and years I never thought I'd see this day
When I'm wide awake and can't even remember your voice
So seemingly brief and unimportant, so seemingly silly
To reminisce about these things that are better left forgotten
And still having forgot is what bothers me
Pierces straight through my heart
I thought these old wounds were quiet
Woven into scars the way they were
Woven into old images without sound
I was mistaken, deceived by myself
To ever think there was a stop to hell

And hell it is when you torture yourself with what was
You had the realization about mortality and shortage of time
It doesn't help, you can't make the minutes obey you
And sometimes during insomnia they rebel
They showcase what's really there under the surface
What you always run from, the monsters under the bed
The monsters in the darkness

You claim that the effects wore off eventually
And that you've done what you can to be finally be free
But your hollow lies don't impress or fool me
I know you for what you are and for what you've been
In the end, aren't you just human with all your flaws
Feeding on your own fear to build your life around
Old images that have lost their sound

And I can't even remember your voice

Buzzy Bee

Leaving tomorrow for a mini-trip until sometime this weekend. I plan to take lots of pictures, go for walks on the beach and generally enjoy my free time. Until then, my head is buzzing with different dates for the many different writing contests I've pledged to participate in throughout the year. I've had one short story down and sent in, currently working on the second one which is also soon completed and about to be submitted. That will leave me with another two short stories, one essay about stereotypes, and a screenplay to write, all before September 30th on varying deadlines. Come to think of it, it might be a good idea if I brought a notepad with me during the next few days, just in case I should spark up any ideas. I'm pretty empty at the moment.


So, basically, I've had no real time to breathe here, I arrived back just yesterday and unpacked only to pack again. What happens after this week is pretty much up for grabs (I'm hoping as little as possible). I might work some more if I need the money but overall, I'm going to avoid it. If anyone could use some time off, it is definitely me.


Also, I think I'll go buy myself an egg timer in order to make word wars much simpler.
See you in a bit, whenever I return again from the road,
POET IN THE JAR

Cocoon Rant

I feel reluctant to leave here and return home again. This place is so timeless and peaceful, like a cocoon of time where all your worries simply fly away. It's heaven for a writer, a real muse for inspiration, and there's so much left to create, so much more that I could DO here, if I only had the allotted time. I don't miss home that much, most people have left for the summer anyway. Surely if I wasn't working I could really do wonders by staying here, even in the company of the Ants, who'll be arriving home in around an hour... It's sad that I can't, at least not for the time being. I'll be leaving on Sunday and I'll miss it. But on the other hand, I have like five or six weeks to spare after next week that I can spend however I like, and I might just use that time to come here again. There are no limitations, only the ones I make for myself. Yeah, I might do that, I'll see how I feel later and maybe I'll resort here back again soon enough.


Short post for this time around.
POET IN THE JAR

Straws Of Grass

It amazes me how dependent you are on worldly things
How truly you can't breathe without your daily dose of trivial
How can you stand yourself, being so blunt and blind
Losing pace, you actually froze in time

You couldn't tell a straw of grass from your bills
You can't remember your latest thrill
You'll always cower behind crosswords
And hide from anything that might hurt

Your meaningful discussions, I reduce them to nothing
Since nothing is exactly what they are
How can you not see that
How can you not see what you are

You've always been good at keeping yourself busy
Your way of protection against late night thinking
You fall asleep and leave the real issues awake
That way you bought yourself another day
You avoid the notion that being saved
will eventually take its toll
It will eventually have a price

Listen to your laughter, it's so hollow
I can see through it, it's so transparent
Like your dreams of tomorrow
Those are just your automatic reply
To my inquiries about ambitions

It doesn't matter if you claim to be happy now
It doesn't matter how you feel about your life
You still created it out of your own contempt
And gave it your holy bliss and consent
Isn't that hypocritical, how can you deny
You've become a reflection of everyone else
And still you make time to mock them all
As if you were better than them

But you're not, you're just like them
You're just someone who gave up on their beliefs
For the benefit of the most conventional kind of life
And without any interest in me
Without any effort for me

You wouldn't even be alive without me

Castle Of Paper & House Of Cards

You made yourself a castle of paper
Folded out of hopes and thoughts
Every tower impossibly delicate
Every door closing at your command
A swirling castle
Made of paper
By your hand

I made myself a house of cards
That sways unsteadily in the wind
And sometimes falls
I rebuild it every time
I built it out of wishes and stars
For every wish I fail to fulfill
The cards fall down
And I restart

There's hills and valleys between us
They are made of papercuts and stamps
I can see them when I balance carefully
On the highest cards of my deck
And sometimes the knight lends me binoculars
Sometimes when the mist clears
I can see the writing on your pages
Sometimes

The ink hadn't dried when you built your fortress
You built it on sore print that became indistinguishable
You built it fast so that no one would be able to read the letters
And you built it high so that no one would be able to climb
You were careless and blind
Your paper doesn't obey you
It secretly rebels
To overthrow you

I never said I was more loyal to my cards
Than you were with your typewriter pages
I never said they speak to me
Anymore than yours speak to you
But I hear the whispers of your house
I hear it carried on the wind
Like a paper plane

I will not take part of or fuel what's there
You already laid out the perfect foundation yourself
It saddens me to see, from my red and black tree
It saddens me to watch your descent
Into denial and addiction
Into fire
Into fire

I wonder if it looks the same to you
If you glance my way on a clear day
If you ever wear those old binoculars
Do you see the same deceit in store for me
Do you see my house of cards
Overthrowing me

I believe you are the one who will fall
After all I have fallen many times before
And I have taught myself how to land
And pick myself up from the ground
You on the other hand never really fell
You spent all your life living on the ground
Until you left, to aim for the stars

I hope you find what you're looking for
That they'll reel down a ladder from the sky
And reward you for all your thoughts and hopes
While I'll fade away in my house of cards
Waving off unfulfilled wishes
As they disappear
Into the mist

Little Twitter Bird

I wanted to have a place to post my writing progress and some overall thoughts about writing - in more specific posts than you'd find here, and I was a bit too lazy to start a whole new blog just for this purpose; so I decided to start tweeting instead. It might also be handy for those of you who are more frequently on Twitter than you are on Blogger (if there are any of those among you).

See you there!

rebeccaferm@twitter

Backwards Storm Chaser

When did everything grow insignificant

Everything that used to touch and stir me

When did I lose my edge against the world

And become this thinker without soul

With only shadows of my former pain

Stinging inside

I'm left only with the thoughts, the ideas, the abstractions

Thinking them all over, pondering them, in my head

It seems I've lost track of all my emotions

Everything I was, everything I believed

Of what mattered in life

How come everything is so pure and beautiful

Until you realize you're going to die some day

You realize, and it stains your every thought,

your every amazement, with a coat of sadness

With a coat of darkness

And the realization is old

You've had it before

You just forced it quiet

I remember when my mirage was to feel, at least once,

every feeling there was to be felt in life and in death

When my presence in the present was the only thing vital

And now I've become a backwards storm chaser,

avoiding everything that might connect me to that time

avoiding everything that might make me tick

and send me back

But who am I fooling, have I ever fooled anyone except myself

Numerous times, thousands of times

Who would buy that trickery of loss of soul

Loss of emotion of all kinds and in all ways

That has never been me

That has never been me

See I was always fucking made of emotions

I was always fucking dependent on them

I've tried to hide them, lose them, sell them, kill them

Tried to shield them, seal them, lock them up, throw them away

Nothing ever works; these fragments always stay

Deep down in the mists of your mind

Where nothing's ever consciously stored

How can I pretend to myself, pretend to anyone

That everything's changed, that I'm different now

That I've become some fucking soldier of steel

That isn't me, that isn't real

But I almost actually bought it this time

I almost actually believed it

I thought I could always live off old diplomas

Dust-gathering in their frames

That it made a difference, that it meant progress

That if I became successful it would be like pointing a finger

at everything and everyone I left behind

but that isn't the case, is it

I'm meant to have these old demons - so are you

It's got nothing to do with fate

It's just the way it works for us

The world was made that way

And so, a moment that seemed completely insignificant at the time

Can be imprinted eternally inside your mind, inside your eyes

Imprinted so well and true that you can still feel your tears burning

Feel your fingers throw your work across the room

Feel the embarrassment rise high on your cheeks

Feel your inability to help it

Then feel your feet against the cold concrete floor

Feel the smell of smoke and oil and gas

Hear the words of attempted but inefficient comfort

Feel the pat on your shoulder

Feel the cold water on your face

Trying to wash it off, to look proper again

To be presentable for the big audience

To be passed down as normal

As if everything's normal

When your life has just been shattered to pieces

There were many moments that were worse, sharper, than this

And still this is what's going to haunt you

We don't get to pick what does

or when it will appear

I admit, shard, you caught me out of the blue

When I thought I had almost forgotten you

I admit that you got the drop on me

And that you managed to rip up my old cuts

But I am going to do the same to you

Until you realize what you put me through

Can't we let be what fucking was

Why so eager to stir up the past

I thought it all had been put to rest

My bad, my bad

My sorrow

The pain is not insignificant

I'm still capable of lies

Although the physical pain has subsided

And only resurfaces at few, given times

It's still there

And the mental pain hasn't faded

It has been blended with confusion

And countless conversations

That never really took place

But in my head

Suddenly it's understandable

Why I traded in my tired, sleepless mind

For a mercifully simple pain

That drove every angst silently away

How come everything isn't pure and beautiful

Until you realize you're going to die some day

9 Tips For Novel Writing

Stephen King wrote that even if you're not writing on your novel, it's alive as long as it's inside your head, as long as you're thinking about it; and I think that's the case with Ella. Although I'm in no mood to write it's always in the back of my mind, and I'm considering how to continue scenes, how to add material, how to make things add up, and so on. Even while doing so conscious thought mostly isn't the answer to how to make a plot that works... at least, it never was for me. Hell, I've gotten the best ideas while dreaming or in my first conscious thought of the day - as if the novel itself feels more comfortable that way, building itself up from scratch in my subconscious. I'm not objecting. I always thought stories did better when they were in charge, even when it didn't turn out at all like I'd expected. On Ella I did write around 600 words the other day, so it's not standing completely still progress-wise, but somehow it feels like the text isn't quite keeping up with the pace the story is evolving with inside my mind. Hopefully, that will kind of work out by its own accord.


I don't by any means intend to come off as arrogant, or professional either, but since I've been thinking a lot about writing lately I thought I'd just randomly share my best writing tips. For your sake or mine? I'm actually not sure, but hell - does it matter?


1. Write in intervals
Set a timer on a certain number of minutes - personally I find that seven or thirteen minutes are good intervals - and do nothing but write in that amount of time, even if sometimes that means staring at a blank document. When the timer rings, stop writing and look at your word count. It's an easy way to make fast progress and it's more fun than long sessions. It's also easy to fit in a few intervals a day. In Nanowrimo context this method is called word wars and can be done by yourself or together with other writers just the same.


2. Don't. Press. Delete.
When you're writing the first draft, the story itself, think of it as a block of marble that you're going to sculpt. There's no need for every detail to be right in the first round. First write the main body of the text and save the editing for later. Make notes directly in the document if you have doubts, but never, ever press that tempting Backspace key, it is known to kill pace and make you doubt yourself. This method encourages writing on the spur of the moment and can boost inspiration and your enthusiasm for the art form. Sure, sometimes you will know you're writing crap, but other times you'll find that on the read-through, there are actually some gems hidden in the text that would otherwise have gone lost. And besides, if the crap stays crap, you can always delete it later.


3. Write for word count
This is basically what Nanowrimo is all about. I was sceptical at first to weigh your writing in a number of words, but it's actually a pretty good way to measure progress. It will feel more eligible to look at your text and say, 'Hey, I wrote 643 words today', than to look at it and say, 'Two hours work and Helena and Jack are still having the same boring conversation that isn't taking the story anywhere'. This method doesn't suit everyone, but then again, none of these methods really do.


4. Eliminate distractions
It won't work to write while you are cooking, talking on the phone, watching TV and checking your Facebook status all at once. Close all browser and chat programs. Only keep your word program and possibly a music player open. Music by the way is a great way to get into writing, and isolate yourself from possible disturbing surroundings, all at once. Choose whatever works for you to listen to, or experiment - sad music for sad scenes, and so on. You get the drift.


5. Ponder!
Even if you don't have time to write that day nothing is keeping you from developing your characters while standing in line for the ATM or sitting on the bus. Keep your story in mind when you can. You don't need to think of new, inventive ways to use verbs or come up with the new epic ending scene for your story; small things, like considering which hair color your character has or how that character would act in the ATM line is enough to keep your imagination alive.


6. Reward yourself
Set up goals, for example in connection to word count - maybe for every ten thousand words you write you get to go buy yourself a video game or a really nice bottle of wine or whatever tickles your fancy. It works better than you might think. For the final goal, set up the biggest reward so that you have something to strive for other than word count and personal development within writing. The average novel is approximately 75-100K worth of words, so you can adapt your goal after that. For some stories, shorter ones perhaps, or stories that don't need any particular length, this isn't really needed. For those stories instead set up a goal for when your first draft can be said to be finished.


7. Don't overexpose
Write on your own until you have grown sure of your story. Giving samples or short stanzas to fellow writers is fine, as is talking about plot problems or characters - but don't let anyone read the text in its entity until you have a rough first draft that has an ending and that feels good to you. Otherwise you'll be easily affected by feedback and might entirely lose focus from the original story.


8. Have fun!
Writing doesn't have to be dead serious, quite the opposite. Don't expect to write a novel worthy of Tolkien or Hemingway on your first try. Have fun writing, and don't be afraid to throw in deus ex machinas and random spoofs. Even if you tried your hardest to write a really bad novel, you'd be surprised at how good it would turn out, and you could probably use big portions of it to turn into a pretty good story. Enjoy your writing, and don't take it all too seriously. That could set you off into a writer's block.


9. Believe in your work
Sometimes I've felt like what I've been working on isn't original enough, or that it is just a copy of all the other millions of stories out there, that perhaps it even has been told before, but don't get caught in that trap. Don't listen to what people may have to say about your ideas or what they might compare it to. Even if the story has been told before, YOU haven't told it before, and that can be enough to make it entirely unique. The important thing is that YOU believe in your story, or writing it will feel meaningless. Don't be intimidated - encourage yourself.


That's all I've got for now and come to think of it, I think I wrote it for my own sake. I feel strangely encouraged to go write now. Funny how that works, sometimes.
POET IN THE JAR

Longest Shortcut To Misery

You haven't changed, have you

Although you traded small town angst and hate

for countryside indifference and ignorance

You're no different, have no other goals

No other wishes or dreams

On the outside you look just the same

You haven't changed, have you

Don't look down on me, don't you see

That I'm the one laughing at you

You have no ambitions or aspirations

To become anything or anyone

To improve your current conditions

A few key matters still are the most important to you

How to be adored by your friends and local establishment

Your so-called friends have back-stabbed you so many times

That you've forgotten that you used to think it hurt

Now it's your everyday situation

You don't know how to feel, anymore

You tell yourself it's what you wanted

For self-preservation

Did you circle any of the ads in the paper

Did you ever get an interview

You didn't, did you

Barely finishing school is still the highpoint

of your life as you remember it

You haven't changed, have you

You're still the same

You still take the same walks

Still walk the same road to the same bus stop

Still live in the same house with the same ignorance

The same fights and same mess and same piles of junk

What can I do but laugh at you, pity you

You haven't even attempted to leave

Every same day of neglect has become a shield around you

Without any love from those around you, you had no other choice

You seek it out elsewhere, wherever you can get it

But you confuse love with admiration

And admiration is temporary

You have a role model, a hero of sorts, to inspire you

Letting you know you could always move three miles away

and hook up with the first loser you see

So you can still stay in range of what you know

The same fights and same mess and same piles of junk

Just in a different house with different faces

You haven't changed, have you

Should I stop laughing now, or stop pitying you

and actually lift my hat off for you,

and congratulate you

You found the longest shortcut to misery

That's always something, isn't it

Congratulations

If you ever rediscover how to hate

How to discard the empty and apathic

Let me know, hell, I'll buy you a coffee, or a beer

You'll deserve one after your time in the desert

I'll still be the one laughing at you

Hopefully I won't choke on my laughter

Coffee Cups And Stars

I dream of a big white house with wooden panels and old bricks on the exterior, a big white house with a big garden and only a grassy slope from the mossy lake. It will have an entire room just for writing, a big room with bookshelves lining the walls and a giant stereo that can play my favorite songs really loud without disturbing anyone and a giant desk with a typewriter and plenty of room for spare pages and coffee cups, and behind the chair there'll be a big window facing towards the lake so that when inspiration ceases to come I can spin the chair around and look out into the sun or rain. There will be a washing machine in the kitchen and a tub in the bathroom that is built inside the floor and the walls where I can take long bubble baths after long walks, and there'll be gravel roads and narrow paths throughout the forest where I can go for long walks with my German Shepherd called Max that I've always wanted to have. There'll be other houses around the lake at a convenient distance and I will know everyone who lives there and we'll go to each other's houses for dinner parties and barbecues or for cups or tea and talk about life and about books and about the great that was, and about the great that is still to come. I dream of a big white house with a big kitchen where the refrigerator is always filled with fresh food and with a cold pantry where I can store cans of jam and lemonade and carbonated water. Down by the lake I'll have my own little bridge out into the water and on the rainy summer days I'll wrap myself in rainwear and watch the drops hit the surface of the water and cause thousands of ripples before my eyes. And there'll be a big living room with many different kinds of sofas and stuffed chairs and a fireplace for when I invite people over and there'll be at least two guest rooms where they can stay the night when they are visiting. I dream of having a four wheel drive jeep that I take into the city to buy groceries or go to the café or stock up on paper for that typewriter and the city isn't more than twenty minutes away. And when night falls the lamp posts in the garden will light up and keep shadows at bay, and we'll sit in the garden and talk about everything until the sun has finally set and then a little longer still until the stars light up the sky as light bulbs against black silk, far, far away from where we are. A big white house that will be everything and nothing, and that nothing that is everything, to me.
POET IN THE JAR

Harvest Safety

I don't want to know how you harvest safety

Spare me your instructions, please

They serve no other purpose to me

than to make death and aging tangible

You remind me that our days are short

With all your talk and bureaucracy

Please, leave me to find my own peace

when it's not dependent on plans for my future

that you have created for my own good

Seriously, do all your words make you any happier

or any less vulnerable to pain

I'll let you take care of the numbers and recommendations

while I savor the moment, while I stay sane

_____________________________________

Yeah, I promised myself to start putting away money for my retirement by the time I hit twenty-five. Maybe... hopefully... if I have any income by then... honestly... well, we'll just have to wait and see.

POET IN THE JAR

Ultimate Selfishness

Was this the dream you wanted
You claim to be different, to be special
but what are your words worth,
your empty promises, whispers of gold
when every aspect of your life was carved from the ordinary

What does it mean to question everyone around you
for having become spectators of their lives
when you too watch yourself from a distance
If your name hadn't been written on it
you would have ridiculed your own life
What does that say about you

You took those vows for your own sake
and said you would never be living in the shadows
you said you'd never hide away your true core
and you'd never conform to fit in the big picture
It was for your integrity and for your soul
not for your protection, really
Protection was exactly what went wrong in the first place
it became a bubble of denial of who you were
You said you couldn't live that way
You said you'd die fighting, taking your last stand
rather than rot away in indifference

Take a look in the mirror now
Ask yourself how a stranger would view you
Would they really see all the complexity under the surface
Would you?

To everyone else, and even to yourself
you aren't different or special or complicated
They only see those basic things, those highlights
describing your life in five short words
Without having read all the poems you wrote
And they dismiss you just as easily as you dismissed them
on first sight, based on those short words,
based on their listings in this world
Isn't that the ultimate selfishness

Couldn't you please stop trying to be above the rest
Trying to fight the conventions residing in your very bones
Couldn't you ever settling for being, for existing
Doesn't sometimes ordinary do the necessary trick
but I know the answer before you even reply
you're a visionary and a poet, just as I
and to us the regular just doesn't comply
Don't I know, because I have been where you are
I am there now, without knowing if it'll ever change
I've managed to find some comfort in the smaller things
A breath, a whisper, the sun on my skin
but every now and then the realization breaks me down
I am no special, no different, from anyone else
Maybe it would be easier to bare if I didn't care
but I set out for extraordinary
I set out for the world

There's still some part of me that believes
if you aim for the stars, you could land in a tree
And from there it's closer for shot two and three
should you want to, you're free to try it with me
Maybe I'll even tell you you're special

Temporary Antidote

You can't kill tears with laughter
It's just a temporary antidote
And shallowly, it cures you
But it leaves a hollow inside
Filled with emptiness
A home for your sorrow
A safe place
Where time cannot repel it

Doesn't it feel safer to keep it
You know that it's there
Even though you pretend it's gone
Who was the exorcist of your grief
Someone who agreed to take the blame
Agreed to maintain your shield
But it weighs heavily on your heart
To carry

Is it too late to dream
When all the voices that whispered to you
Were banned from your mind years ago
All those whispers that were passionate
That told you about wonders of the world
Beckoning you to follow
Is it too late to awaken them

The walls you've sealed yourself in with are too high
Habit and denial keep you from tearing them down
There'll be no catapults to attack you here
All they need to do is wait
While you corrode
While you rust away

The damage is done and you're the maker of your own disaster
You were too blind and young to make the right decisions
It could have been undone if you had opened your eyes
But you drove yourself towards destruction
And now you have to pay the price
Pay the price for pride and self-deceit

You can't kill tears with laughter
And you can't afford to be selfish again
Selfishness was what got you here
It's too late to listen to those voices
And it is too late to aim for dreams
They'll always remain improbable, and silly
But in secret you cling to your dreams
And visualize a better existence
When you cry, at the end of the day
And no one sees you
You can lay off the antidote, if only for a while
And let the poisonous childish wishes rule
Aware that they will never come true

And you tell yourself, tears are better
Than emptiness

Ode To Manic-Depression

Don't I longingly speak of you
Glorifying you after you died
I make you swirl with butterflies
And place you in the sunlight
Where you never actually were

Don't I somehow miss having you
Although you chained me down
You opened my veins and let me out
You became my channel for despair
The only way to create the great art

Is there something hollow in my words now
Now that you're no longer my driving force
Don't I admit that it's different now
Doesn't that make any difference

I tried in every way to kill you
While simultaneously clinging on to your presence
Every ounce of you, of your darkness
While I fought you, I would have died
I would have been burned by all the false lights
The lights they turned on me in mutual understanding
Didn't I live, even with my burned skin and my scars
Didn't I prove them wrong, didn't I try

Wasn't for once the solution to grasp desperation
I never asked for anyone to cure me
To lure me in, make me adjust to their standards
Provide me with their only answer, to conform
Do what was expected of me, forget the ghosts
They didn't see that they were killing me

Don't I longingly speak of you
Sometimes, when everything seems hollow
And I almost tip over, almost summon you to life
Just to make my whispers live again

I was only driven towards my fading dreams because of you
You were the only thing that kept me from drowning
Even though I was in your stranglehold
You were the only thing that made me struggle through
I wish I'll never find myself in need of you, again
But I'll be the first one to admit it's empty without you
And some of that fire that burned me, that drove me on
Is now gone

Don't I longingly speak of you
Glorifying you after you died
As so often happens
I owe my life and creation to you
And so I'll always hate you, but love you, too
Just because my whispers are emptier now
And the old desperation is forced by my own hand
Instead of forged by you and planted in my head
Maybe it's the same
Some would say it was
But it doesn't feel the same
It doesn't feel the same

Words, Words, Words

Things seem really terrific at the moment, it's almost hard to believe it. I got quite a few things to look forward to. The biggest, and best, thing is that I managed to get a part time job this fall... teaching writing. Writing! Creative writing! I feel so lucky. My employer sounded really positive, already when she first called me up, but I still wasn't expecting to actually get the position even as I went to the interview. And the interview was more of a so-how-would-you-prefer-to-plan-these-writing-sessions and here's-how-much-you're-going-to-get-paid than your traditional interview. I really had no need to be nervous. The position is at an open form of school, where people of all ages and backgrounds pay to take courses in various subjects. The job stretches over a couple of weeks and I can't wait to get started. I'm really inspired and want to get started to inspire the others, too. I'm also excited because the pay will definitely help me get to London over New Year's. I'm so looking forward to that (although I could do without the winter that inevitably follows).


I got into the 3D-sculpting summer class, meaning I'll be learning some well-needed extra 3D modeling during the summer while also trying to work a little bit; and I'm the 8th reserve to get into a writing class in English that would be perfect to take before I start to work. Hopefully, people will have found other things to do during the summer and decline their spots so I can spend parts of the summer writing. It'll be nice preparation and hell, nice fun too. Also, I read about some kind of Nanowrimo camp where they are going to arrange a Nanowrimo outside of November, which I might take inofficial part of. We'll see. I definitely have enough projects as it is, hell knows that. But just in case summer and all this sun I'm so unused to would bore me, ha, ha.


We're taking a class currently called Digital Cultures that has actually made me stop and think (who knew?). We've been discussing the idea of creating worlds, in which multiple, complex and related stories can take place and together make up a whole, rather than creating a single, one-way story. Worlds with multiple stories within it can cross platforms, and play out in different medias, but still be part of the same universe. I've found this thought so enticing that I've thought to experiment a bit with it in my current novel project. Overall I'm thinking to do some changes to the story after some late night thinking a few days ago - I will no longer tell it from first person but instead from third. This is because telling it in first person will reveal much more about the main character's thoughts and feelings, without even me intending so, and I want to twist the story a bit more into the cryptic. Secondly, I won't tell it entirely chronologically, but rather explain some events as I go, to the extent they need to be explained. Thirdly, I will try to create the universe and the idea of the universe, style and intention of it, and then let this story be one of many that take place within it. The real challenge here is to create a world so believable, yet different, and at the same time rich enough to provide a wide network of possible side references (this, to a non-writer, or even some writers, may seem a bit too intricate, but I actually do find it interesting, and challenging). Who knows? Maybe I'll put something together out of bits and pieces of old gems. Or create it from scratch. We'll see. All I know right now, is that Terry Grant is one of the important sub-story characters, that there will be some element of broadcasting (an invention of mine rather than the traditional sense of the word) and that Five-Eyes will be present, at some point.


In fact, I think I'll head off for some world-creating right now.
Cheers,
POET IN THE INSPIRED JAR

Pseudo World

I have to get my emotional fix
Drench myself in the depths of the sound
Blasting my personal cures to the world
I'm not fully healed,
sometimes it even breaks me down
but the fundamental stays
The fundamental state of mind
And sometimes it's the only way
to drown out the sorrow

I'm sorry if I didn't hear you or even listen
I was in the pseudo world where I belong
The state where I can make and create
Where everything builds up to the greater art
Where everything is about passion, emotion
Where you can feed off air and forgotten love
And you're covered in silver mist and door knobs

I have to get my self-medication
Type in a trance until I drown
Shut out the market of the world
And only feel
Sometimes thought is overrated,
and underrated at the same time
You're not supposed to think
but you're not supposed to feel either

I'm sorry if I didn't hear you or even listen

I was in the pseudo world where I belong

The state where I can make and create

Where everything builds up to the greater art

Where everything is about passion, emotion

Where you can feed off air and forgotten love

And you're covered in silver mist and door knobs

I'm sorry, I know I'm supposed to give of myself

Portion after portion of unconditional love

But I'm a poet, lost in mind, lost in time

Half my heart has to stay mine

Or I might run out of words

And become a copycat, a mime

Or am I lying?

I have no control of my heart

It's a wild creature, intended to fly

But I've let everyone chain it down

And instead I'm stuck with a pretense integrity

Saying I did it on purpose, when I didn't

It was the world that happened to me

and it wasn't self-inflicted

But would you believe me?

Don't you all create your own darkness,

you say, don't you all do it to yourselves

And feel sorry for yourselves as you do

Expecting someone else to repair the damage

We don't

I don't

I can't control the damage

Crucifix

You tell me to be strong but I defend my right to cry
Why should I go through this short life in pretense
Without giving in to my immediate reactions
Do you really know what's behind the tears
Have you tried to live life with my eyes
Have you ever tried to be me
Or see me

I can't control my stormy emotions
I never could steer them my way
They're part of my muse and what makes me
Part of my inspiration, my desperation
And depression
I won't be altered
Just so I can say I was strong
Just so I can say I died inside

I think you're as prone to weakness as me
You are just too stubborn to ever admit defeat
And to keep away the depths of the dark
You shield yourself with a layer of laughter
Reduce everything to silliness and games
I know, because I used to be like you
I used to act the same way

My crucifix was episodes of comedy
Or songs that ridiculed life and the world
It was to keep the biters away, the fangs
And I kept the flickering screen on through the night
As if it was the defense that would do the trick
Against the old demons
In case they returned

I can't control my stormy emotions

I never could steer them my way

They're part of my muse and what makes me

Part of my inspiration, my desperation

And depression

I won't be altered

Just so I can say I was strong

Just so I can say I died inside

I guess in the end neither of our methods work
And neither of us is near perfection
Everyone has their own way to deal with their situations
And it's not in my interest to make you any different
Just don't change me either in the end
And I'll defend my right to cry
Even when you're right
And I won't question you
If you don't question me

I can't control my stormy devotion
I never could steer it that way
It's part of my muse and what makes me
Part of my inspiration, my desperation
And isolation

Park Ranger

This is the last time I'll pity you for falling into your own traps
You were always good at poaching, setting it all up in advance
Then walking into them on purpose, as if you wanted to
As if the only thing that kept you breathing was the pain

Could you buy yourself some time if you walked away
Maybe that would keep the demons at bay
If you listened to that voice that told you,
This time you don't need to walk into the trap
This time don't let the jaws slam down on you
And immobilize you

I used to uphold your comfort zone
Where you could curl up and tend to your wounds
Where you told me this time you would heal
I could only see it was a lie on the bandages you threw out
And left like a trail behind you
Stained with blood and sweet deceit

If everything's really that dark why do you stay around
Why do you let yourself be hit and raped
Why do you stand the jealousy and the abuse
Why don't you just take your car and drive
And go far, far from where you are

There's nothing that roots you to the spot or commands you
Nothing but that old shiny bear trap that you made yourself
And you walk into it time after time after time
How can you even believe things will be different this time
Or that you'll be treated like you should because there's a ring
On your finger that you didn't have to pay

I used to say you were the most wonderful girl in the world
The most wonderful girl who just made the most foolish decisions
But you've surpassed all that as you don't even answer anymore
And you probably blame me for not calling although you never pick up
Blame me for living the life I wanted for myself and forgetting about you

How can you think things like that, with what we had together
In the comfort zone where there was just you and me
Against the world and against everyone that hated us
I could never forget you, hell, even with these words I'm writing
I'm worrying about you
Even though the connection is old by now I can still feel it sometimes
And instinctively know when something's wrong
And something is wrong here
Even more than it usually is
Maybe you walked into your final trap
And this is the first one you couldn't get out of again
This is the first time you wouldn't heal up again properly
Inbetween your self-inflicted wounds

How should I know what's happened
The link is old and doesn't tell me things
Like it used to
How could I resurrect the zone of comfort
When it was a long time since I last pitied you
For your own mistakes
Maybe I'm selfish
Maybe I'm inhuman
But I can't feel for you anymore
Not when you set this up yourself
Don't you know how much it hurts to watch
I can't be your park ranger
You're outside the park now by far
And other rules are valid there
Rules I can't control

You were always good at poaching
I can only hope you had enough sense
To not set them all off yourself
To leave one, only one
For who's chasing you

Gatekeeper

Maybe the downfall is just what I need

The downfall into thoughts and doubt

Maybe it can help me break the blocks

Of rock that pile up ahead

And make everything seem impossible

Maybe I could harvest that power

And turn it into something useful

For unforeseen situations

Maybe I decided on the wrong color

For the paint that breaks into dry flakes

On my walls and become like chains

Telling me who to be, how to react

Why would I need a makeover

To fit into your every twisting need

To transform myself, and dance along to your music

Dressed in the colors you chose for me

Why should I tone myself down

Lower my voice so my whispers won't disturb you

When I just wanted to speak my mind,

Regardless if anyone was listening

I prefer not to conform to what you might want

And not to respond to your every wish

There are greater things than the trivial and daily

I want to be there, for when it happens

Pack my every brown paper bag

And drag them on the train

Maybe I'll go when the sun's out

Maybe I'll go when it rains

I tire of you and your grasp on me

I defeated you once, and more

Isn't that enough for you

Aren't there others you can possess

So your voice can be driven out of my mind

I want to welcome the light, the underwater dream

But you always come back to block me, to stop me

Maybe all you want is to be taken down again

Is there a thrill in the downfall

A thrill in the fall

Maybe I could harvest that power of yours

And turn it into something useful

For unforeseen situations

Maybe I could manage to imprison you

Instead of always trying to kill the immortal

Would it be impossible for a prisoner to turn the table

And switch places with the one who put me here

Maybe if I did that I would stand a chance

And maybe it would be your turn to tire, of me

I can't even say that I fully hate you

Without your hold on me I wouldn't write these words

I wouldn't be able to create other worlds

Is that why you are still around

To work in the silence

To enable the gates to stay open

To make me the gatekeeper

To visualize the keys

Jewels

I've felt strangely wary for a few days, since around Wednesday, a wariness that won't seem to let go of me. I'm aching to create, to write, to paint, to do anything, and still it's like I can't settle down and focus on it, as if my mind is somewhere else. I think I can easily pinpoint my writer's block - a combination of lack of time, and lack of ideas. Also, I have this big idea that everything I write have to come out awesome right away, or it's crap writing, an idea I have to work with getting rid of. It hasn't helped any of my novels to think in these ways and I'm aware of that. So how come it's so hard to get rid of the thoughts now?


To get back in prose I tried a few different things. One was opening my oldest novel for editing, which it needs anyway, but after spending some hours on it I suddenly felt it wasn't worth my time. I then started to look again at Ophelia, which I feel is the best novel I've written, and stumbled upon the draft of its sequel in the folder. It was pretty good. Even though I always felt Ophelia doesn't need a sequel, and never was meant to have one, it might work well to get me back into writing. Ella waits patiently. She is my little jewel. She'll wait until I'm ready for her.


As long as I'm not writing prose, I might as well be writing something. I got a poem written down earlier that's been in my head for a few days and that's at least something.


I'll be off now to check what food I can manage to find in my kitchen and also to possibly check back in on Jake and Madden.
POET IN THE JAR

Shining Letters

There's an overwhelming sadness in me
That not even your laughter can drive away
It came from the depths where I had deported it
Returned from where I had banned it
That sadness and that pain

It spreads through my heart and my eyes
And forces me to see the world
In a different way
It tells me this is the naked truth
I must trust and follow
It tells me all my smiles are worthless
What do they mean, at the end of the day
When the shadows appear out of nowhere

Can you hunt down your demons with light
And turn them into defenseless things
Can you chase away the sadness
And all the tow it brings
Is that why you always leave the light on

When I wake from a faceless dream
And the contours of the room aren't still
What good will it do me with light
What will be changed
If the room
Is kept bright

I was always told to forget about things that have been
To shun away what I've seen in my dreams
How do I explain that I dream in the day
And that the past just isn't willing to go away

Can you hunt down your demons with light

And turn them into defenseless things

Can you chase away the sadness

And all the tow it brings

Is that why you always leave the light on

Can the smoke in this room become the air that I breathe

Can everything be tiring, everything I see

Maybe the words were right, the words that stood out

In shining letters

Maybe this is really how dark things are

And you can never get rid of the undertone

You can never really reach for bliss

Not even when ignorant, like this

So take your comfort in your muse

And cling to it in the darkness

Use it to channel the subconscious

Into images and words

Isn't that how it was always done

Isn't that how it will always be done

Can you deny that once it's gone

When it's gone and you realize you miss it

You miss the demons

Without the demons you aren't alive

And they were right when they said

You lost the meaning of your smiles

Head First

How did I manage to drown my own optimism
Drown my waterfall, that I carefully built
Out of dreamscapes and more fragile hopes
Than was allowed to exist
How did I manage
How did I achieve

When did I chain myself to the ground
And sink myself into the river
With cement blocks on my feet
I couldn't even move
I couldn't even breathe

Your words all made sense
It couldn't be the things you said
And your thoughts were rational
Parts of my own suppressed ones
So why suddenly did I take a turn for the worse
And dive into the darkness, head first

Was it the only thing I had to cling on to
The only remnant I had of a muse
When all my other canals had dried up

Although by now I am chained to the ground
I haven't given up on the dreams that I found
And I know there could be more sinister things
I just need to save up for stronger wings

Drown yourself in self pity and desertion
Maybe that way you could run away
And all the problems that surrounded you
Will magically disappear, with the snap of your fingers
But didn't anyone tell you
It doesn't work that way

As long as you won't face what's ahead
And as long as you don't brace yourself
Against the truth
You won't last
And I won't last,
with you