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Been having an epistemological writing crisis lately. I want to quit writing, not because I have run out of ideas, or don't even like it, but because I feel what I have been working on do not have meaning/purpose and isn't good enough.
I want to write stories that make people think and feel. Stories that are effortless in their execution of concepts, ideals and plot.
I have been feeling as if I am not good or intelligent enough of a writer to bring life to the type of stories I care for.
I know that Toni Morrison quote about writing the story you want to read, but what if I am not equipped to do so. 😒😕
I want to write stories that make people think and feel. Stories that are effortless in their execution of concepts, ideals and plot.
I have been feeling as if I am not good or intelligent enough of a writer to bring life to the type of stories I care for.
I know that Toni Morrison quote about writing the story you want to read, but what if I am not equipped to do so. 😒😕
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I always look forward to October, the month when the world --the western world--celebrates the occult. I have been a fan of witches, ghouls, eldritch, and the macabre forever!
October 2018 was no exception. I looked forward to it, and even the black cat that slipped across my path on Halloween night got me excited.
It was bad omen, of course. Exactly a week later, I experienced the worst tragedy of my life.
My mom slipped from the world.
Every day I wake up and think about the circumstances -- how I could've prevented it, and all the things I did wrong, like being upset she was sick, again, and also not taking her to the hospital in the morning.
I was stupid and selfish, and wished we did more together. But all that has passed. I have no magic wand or time-traveling contraption to return to that day in November 2018.
This October feels sober.
I have all the same feelings of excitement, but they are muted. Each time I allow myself to feel joy, my guilt, pain and sadness stifle that joy.
As the one year anniversary comes up, I admit, I still don't know how to cope.
But I have been dong so for nearly a year and will try ...
October 2018 was no exception. I looked forward to it, and even the black cat that slipped across my path on Halloween night got me excited.
It was bad omen, of course. Exactly a week later, I experienced the worst tragedy of my life.
My mom slipped from the world.
Every day I wake up and think about the circumstances -- how I could've prevented it, and all the things I did wrong, like being upset she was sick, again, and also not taking her to the hospital in the morning.
I was stupid and selfish, and wished we did more together. But all that has passed. I have no magic wand or time-traveling contraption to return to that day in November 2018.
This October feels sober.
I have all the same feelings of excitement, but they are muted. Each time I allow myself to feel joy, my guilt, pain and sadness stifle that joy.
As the one year anniversary comes up, I admit, I still don't know how to cope.
But I have been dong so for nearly a year and will try ...
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Yes, that's a bird named Blanks sitting on my computer. And yes, he's real. #invasionofpersonalspace
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If you knew.
Maybe you do.
If so, you should know.
Like I know.
I sleep and wake up.
It's churning my gut and setting the course for my day.
I am so afraid to speak of it.
I like it and I hate it.
And it hurts; in so many ways, it hurts.
I want you to feel like I feel.
Deal and squeal and reel in the same way,
Pound and yearn and ruin your day.
And still when you sleep,
Wake up to know it might always be this way.
Maybe you do.
If so, you should know.
Like I know.
I sleep and wake up.
It's churning my gut and setting the course for my day.
I am so afraid to speak of it.
I like it and I hate it.
And it hurts; in so many ways, it hurts.
I want you to feel like I feel.
Deal and squeal and reel in the same way,
Pound and yearn and ruin your day.
And still when you sleep,
Wake up to know it might always be this way.
- Published on
I sleep on it. I wake up and think on it. Consider it. Fodder it. Entertain it. Sustain it. Dismiss it. Then I sleep on it. Dream on it. Inspired by it, I wake up. And I linger on it, tinker it, cuddle it, and nurture it ... my heart's full of it.
And the days drift, and I lose it. Then I regain it, pulled from a coil of a dream of it. Then I desire it. I repeat it. And I recycle it. and praise it. And I go on to shape it, imagine it, but never fully grasping it.
I owe it, a birth into existence; hence the persistence. I'll never grow it, and I know it, but I put all my hopes on it ... until the day I die.
And the days drift, and I lose it. Then I regain it, pulled from a coil of a dream of it. Then I desire it. I repeat it. And I recycle it. and praise it. And I go on to shape it, imagine it, but never fully grasping it.
I owe it, a birth into existence; hence the persistence. I'll never grow it, and I know it, but I put all my hopes on it ... until the day I die.
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I sometimes wonder if I am all talk and no action. I have ideas, sure. But where do they go? How many are realized. Completed a manuscript, sure. But, what's the point if no one sees or reads it?
Over the last year, I have been thinking about the words, purpose and productivity. I have been trying to turn dreams into flesh--to be realized.
I realized that one of my problems is that I am a dilettante. I like ideas more than anything. I dabble in things, but never enough to commit to or become an expert at anything. I am the connoisseur of nothing.
So, one of my writing goals for the non-calendar year 2019-2020 is to commit to something. I have revamped my Wattpad account, and will commit to garnering readership and success. Unlike the past, when I have dabbled and given up.
I will commit to passions. #writersgoal.
Over the last year, I have been thinking about the words, purpose and productivity. I have been trying to turn dreams into flesh--to be realized.
I realized that one of my problems is that I am a dilettante. I like ideas more than anything. I dabble in things, but never enough to commit to or become an expert at anything. I am the connoisseur of nothing.
So, one of my writing goals for the non-calendar year 2019-2020 is to commit to something. I have revamped my Wattpad account, and will commit to garnering readership and success. Unlike the past, when I have dabbled and given up.
I will commit to passions. #writersgoal.
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"It's a God-awful small affair
To the girl with the mousy hair
But her mummy is yelling no
And her daddy has told her to go
But her friend is nowhere to be seen
Now she walks through her sunken dream
To the seat with the clearest view
And she's hooked to the silver screen
But the film is a saddening bore
For she's lived it ten times or more
She could spit in the eyes of fools
As they ask her to focus on
Sailors fighting in the dance hall
Oh man, look at those cavemen go
It's the freakiest show
Take a look at the lawman
Beating up the wrong guy
Oh man, wonder if he'll ever know
He's in the best selling show
Is there life on Mars?" -David Bowie
To the girl with the mousy hair
But her mummy is yelling no
And her daddy has told her to go
But her friend is nowhere to be seen
Now she walks through her sunken dream
To the seat with the clearest view
And she's hooked to the silver screen
But the film is a saddening bore
For she's lived it ten times or more
She could spit in the eyes of fools
As they ask her to focus on
Sailors fighting in the dance hall
Oh man, look at those cavemen go
It's the freakiest show
Take a look at the lawman
Beating up the wrong guy
Oh man, wonder if he'll ever know
He's in the best selling show
Is there life on Mars?" -David Bowie
- Published on
I am still learning how not to expend myself.
The last few days have been stressful --domestic problems. Family. Drama. Home renovations, on top of all my editing, critiquing and anxiety issues.
I am trying to sleep, listening to my body, wrestling with my desire to over-indulge in caffeine. But when the body says rest, there's nothing else to do.
These days I desire only to sleep, dream and sleep no more. Best summarized in these Shakespeare words, “To die, to sleep—No more—and by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to—'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished! To die, to sleep. ... To sleep, perchance to dream”.-Hamlet
The last few days have been stressful --domestic problems. Family. Drama. Home renovations, on top of all my editing, critiquing and anxiety issues.
I am trying to sleep, listening to my body, wrestling with my desire to over-indulge in caffeine. But when the body says rest, there's nothing else to do.
These days I desire only to sleep, dream and sleep no more. Best summarized in these Shakespeare words, “To die, to sleep—No more—and by a sleep to say we end the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to—'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished! To die, to sleep. ... To sleep, perchance to dream”.-Hamlet
- Published on
Toni Morrison once lamented that her biggest regret as an author was not using her real name so her later father could recognize her success and feel proud.
My biggest regret is not letting my mom in more on my writing. My nature is so insulated that I often live inside my own head, locked down by my own assumptions--what my mom would and wouldn't understand.
In high school, I ran for student body president and lost--one student stopped me in the hall to flat out tell me to my face that she would not vote for me and laughed that I didn't win.
That day I came home feeling small, my mom asked about the student council elections. I remember feeling elated and surprised that she cared. I might have mentioned it in passing, but likely did not expand on my ambitions. I am peculiar, in the sense that my mindset is not always logical, but often very secretive and anxious. I don't reveal my ambitions to others, out of fear that if I fail to achieve my end goal, I'll disappoint them and embarrass myself. But my mom knew, and she comforted me. And I felt better for it.
Looking back, that should've been my wake up call not to keep her and others out of my mind--that she would support me no matter what--that she'd have my back, if no one else. I often lamented that I had no one, and to so some extent, relished in self-styling myself as a loner and recluse. I wish now that I had leaned on her more, let her in more when I had her. Now that it's too late, I watch other women holding their mothers' hands, taking cozy selfies with mom, and I feel shame that I didn't do more of this when she was alive. Now it's too late and I am all apologies and regrets. Even the Toronto Raptors, on the brink of victory in 2019. Her favorite team. I can't recall if I ever invited or suggested we attended a game together.
There was also that part of me that wanted to wait until I was successful to reveal everything to her and show her massive love.
What's this to do with a pen name? Back to ambitions. My fear of embarrassing myself, failing, and being judged. I wanted to use a nom-de-plume to protect my day life from my moonlighting (writing). I was afraid others would find out and laugh or dismiss me -- all of this was/is in my head, of course, a battle I am still fighting.
It's slowly that I am revealing my writing to family and friends. Nonetheless, for years I battled over what to call myself for my creative endeavors. Like Morrison, I'd prefer if my family saw my name and recognized me. But, I have two names. While my first is somewhat militant/rigid (many people disagree), my nickname (what family calls me) is rather nice. I have gotten used to both names over the years--grew to appreciate them.
I have discovered a solution. Though I consider myself a SFF writer, foremost, I still dabble in romance. For the latter, I'd like to be called Kebra (nickname). Even now, putting it out there feels weird. Still, if you go under "TALES" to "Romance", you will find that my self-published romance novels are now under this name. Meanwhile, I keep K.M. (first name and NN, though reversed) for all my SFF work.
So, what do you call me in real life? Either one. I answer to both!
I hope I have found peace at last with the name game.
My biggest regret is not letting my mom in more on my writing. My nature is so insulated that I often live inside my own head, locked down by my own assumptions--what my mom would and wouldn't understand.
In high school, I ran for student body president and lost--one student stopped me in the hall to flat out tell me to my face that she would not vote for me and laughed that I didn't win.
That day I came home feeling small, my mom asked about the student council elections. I remember feeling elated and surprised that she cared. I might have mentioned it in passing, but likely did not expand on my ambitions. I am peculiar, in the sense that my mindset is not always logical, but often very secretive and anxious. I don't reveal my ambitions to others, out of fear that if I fail to achieve my end goal, I'll disappoint them and embarrass myself. But my mom knew, and she comforted me. And I felt better for it.
Looking back, that should've been my wake up call not to keep her and others out of my mind--that she would support me no matter what--that she'd have my back, if no one else. I often lamented that I had no one, and to so some extent, relished in self-styling myself as a loner and recluse. I wish now that I had leaned on her more, let her in more when I had her. Now that it's too late, I watch other women holding their mothers' hands, taking cozy selfies with mom, and I feel shame that I didn't do more of this when she was alive. Now it's too late and I am all apologies and regrets. Even the Toronto Raptors, on the brink of victory in 2019. Her favorite team. I can't recall if I ever invited or suggested we attended a game together.
There was also that part of me that wanted to wait until I was successful to reveal everything to her and show her massive love.
What's this to do with a pen name? Back to ambitions. My fear of embarrassing myself, failing, and being judged. I wanted to use a nom-de-plume to protect my day life from my moonlighting (writing). I was afraid others would find out and laugh or dismiss me -- all of this was/is in my head, of course, a battle I am still fighting.
It's slowly that I am revealing my writing to family and friends. Nonetheless, for years I battled over what to call myself for my creative endeavors. Like Morrison, I'd prefer if my family saw my name and recognized me. But, I have two names. While my first is somewhat militant/rigid (many people disagree), my nickname (what family calls me) is rather nice. I have gotten used to both names over the years--grew to appreciate them.
I have discovered a solution. Though I consider myself a SFF writer, foremost, I still dabble in romance. For the latter, I'd like to be called Kebra (nickname). Even now, putting it out there feels weird. Still, if you go under "TALES" to "Romance", you will find that my self-published romance novels are now under this name. Meanwhile, I keep K.M. (first name and NN, though reversed) for all my SFF work.
So, what do you call me in real life? Either one. I answer to both!
I hope I have found peace at last with the name game.
- Published on
I think too much ... about everything
... will I die alone?
... is the end of the world near?
... when does middle age start?
... am I an impostor?
... will I ever get a traditional publishing deal?
.... am I a real or good writer?
... do I have a good personality?
... am I intelligent?
... do people like me?
... why don't I do something good with my life?
Sometimes my doubts creep up. I want to brush dirt off my shoulders but it's hard.
Staying positive? I cling to little things.
The last couple days I'd been on high thinking I got this ... and I didn't have this (received some great feedback about a short story and was convinced it would be accepted). Received the rejection this morning. I stop investing in things. No longer hold my breath and keep my fingers crossed. I was once accused of not being "passionate." My response (which of course I kept in my head): I am so used to be disappointed I didn't want to run my anxiety up only to be deflated). Of course, I no longer know how to be happy when I receive good news.
Sometimes, I wonder about me ... and where all this is going ...
The rejection says "I kept the reader at bay when it comes to the character's reaction". The story of my life. I am terrible at expressing feelings ... just terrible. I empathize and think, think, ponder, cogitate, worry ... but I just don't express OUTWARDLY.
My characters are criticized for lacking agency, motivation, expressing themselves or simply being plain flat. I love big concepts but don't think I express them clearly.
Been reading about "sociological" writing versus psychological. Supposedly, Game of Thrones lost the plot in season 8 when it abandoned the former for the latter. Ideally, a writer needs both to be good at STORYTELLING.
I try to do both, but ultimately I prefer plot and structure over either but don't do it well.
Sometimes ...
I wonder if I could ever write an intelligent piece of fiction ... NK Jemisin's The Broken Earth trilogy, for example.
Do I have the psychological grasp of the sociological structures that impress upon people to churn out such in-depth storytelling?
I often accuse myself of "tired/lazy" writing ... when I write despite being too tired to care/focus.
Writing criticisms I frequently receive: complicated plots, staccato sentences, wordiness, "elevated" writing style .... which I blame on my general love affair with Jane Austen, Charles Dickens and Shakespeare ... I was a pretentious child, who rather liked saying "I shall" versus, " I will."
Sometimes I wonder why I attend writing groups...
Recently listened to a man rant about his older co-worker whom he believes is just showing up to work because he likes the companionship of his co-workers and having something to do, socially.
. I considered quitting writing groups after my mom died last November. And sometimes, especially after a rejection, I think I should give up writing ....
But I have nothing else.
I am not a cross-stitch, crochet-knitting, sell stuff on e-Bay and Etsy type. I can't learn pottery, and I have yet to show up to my soap-making and kickboxing classes (I am still making promises about better weather and stable finances. My older brother says to just do it).
And what will I do with myself?
Watched sick-flick film with Maisie Williams (Arya Stark): she has another "bucket" list in it.
I don't even think I am the "live like you are dying" type. I'd just mope and sink into my shell, convinced the universe really hates me.
Speaking of the universe ...
Some times I wonder ...
Been listening to a lot of physics podcasts lately ... my dream profession had been Astrophysicist. I got intimidated by high school Enriched Physics and dropped out ... fearing I would fail, anyway.
I regret it ... and not pursuing math beyond the 12th grade.
File on my list of life regrets
... Physics
Master's or PhD
Jeopardy
Better relationship with my mom
Life feels like it's running away .... I want a time-loop do-over until I get it right.
Life's okay ... some times.
But sometimes ...
I wonder.
... will I die alone?
... is the end of the world near?
... when does middle age start?
... am I an impostor?
... will I ever get a traditional publishing deal?
.... am I a real or good writer?
... do I have a good personality?
... am I intelligent?
... do people like me?
... why don't I do something good with my life?
Sometimes my doubts creep up. I want to brush dirt off my shoulders but it's hard.
Staying positive? I cling to little things.
The last couple days I'd been on high thinking I got this ... and I didn't have this (received some great feedback about a short story and was convinced it would be accepted). Received the rejection this morning. I stop investing in things. No longer hold my breath and keep my fingers crossed. I was once accused of not being "passionate." My response (which of course I kept in my head): I am so used to be disappointed I didn't want to run my anxiety up only to be deflated). Of course, I no longer know how to be happy when I receive good news.
Sometimes, I wonder about me ... and where all this is going ...
The rejection says "I kept the reader at bay when it comes to the character's reaction". The story of my life. I am terrible at expressing feelings ... just terrible. I empathize and think, think, ponder, cogitate, worry ... but I just don't express OUTWARDLY.
My characters are criticized for lacking agency, motivation, expressing themselves or simply being plain flat. I love big concepts but don't think I express them clearly.
Been reading about "sociological" writing versus psychological. Supposedly, Game of Thrones lost the plot in season 8 when it abandoned the former for the latter. Ideally, a writer needs both to be good at STORYTELLING.
I try to do both, but ultimately I prefer plot and structure over either but don't do it well.
Sometimes ...
I wonder if I could ever write an intelligent piece of fiction ... NK Jemisin's The Broken Earth trilogy, for example.
Do I have the psychological grasp of the sociological structures that impress upon people to churn out such in-depth storytelling?
I often accuse myself of "tired/lazy" writing ... when I write despite being too tired to care/focus.
Writing criticisms I frequently receive: complicated plots, staccato sentences, wordiness, "elevated" writing style .... which I blame on my general love affair with Jane Austen, Charles Dickens and Shakespeare ... I was a pretentious child, who rather liked saying "I shall" versus, " I will."
Sometimes I wonder why I attend writing groups...
Recently listened to a man rant about his older co-worker whom he believes is just showing up to work because he likes the companionship of his co-workers and having something to do, socially.
. I considered quitting writing groups after my mom died last November. And sometimes, especially after a rejection, I think I should give up writing ....
But I have nothing else.
I am not a cross-stitch, crochet-knitting, sell stuff on e-Bay and Etsy type. I can't learn pottery, and I have yet to show up to my soap-making and kickboxing classes (I am still making promises about better weather and stable finances. My older brother says to just do it).
And what will I do with myself?
Watched sick-flick film with Maisie Williams (Arya Stark): she has another "bucket" list in it.
I don't even think I am the "live like you are dying" type. I'd just mope and sink into my shell, convinced the universe really hates me.
Speaking of the universe ...
Some times I wonder ...
Been listening to a lot of physics podcasts lately ... my dream profession had been Astrophysicist. I got intimidated by high school Enriched Physics and dropped out ... fearing I would fail, anyway.
I regret it ... and not pursuing math beyond the 12th grade.
File on my list of life regrets
... Physics
Master's or PhD
Jeopardy
Better relationship with my mom
Life feels like it's running away .... I want a time-loop do-over until I get it right.
Life's okay ... some times.
But sometimes ...
I wonder.