by Craig Daniels on March 7, 2010
Those of us who do even the smallest amount of writing will find ourselves sooner or later in a quandary that may seem quite dark. This particualr quandry is not the one you might be thinking, no I’m talking about the act of writing itself and not the over used clutch of writers block.
Lately a few people have asked (repeatedly) why aren’t you writing or why haven’t I seen anything new from you in months, generally I let them know that indeed I am writing but not stuff I want to share at this moment. What I’m telling people is true but it blushes over the reality that I’m not writing regularly. I’m not sitting down most everyday and spinning webs of words and fantasy, no I’m using that important time to do other things and avoiding direct eye contact with the face of writing.
I assure everyone I have plenty to write about, thoughts are crashing and rattling around within my mind unceasingly. like Niagara Falls plots and ideas churn themselves to a boil within my skull and rarely do I come up from this hot mess for a breath of air. Oh sure I can read a book or watch TV and these pesky collections of words and pictures will recede for a moment or two, but if I don’t keep myself steeled with avoidance the words will slap me aside the head laughing and taunting my puny attempts to deny them.
The words and dreams are never offended when I turn away inching myself toward a more mundane project or maybe some high-minded thing like meditation, no the words know they ultimately are the master that I must give into if I ever want the peace that comes with answering the sirens call. Crashing upon that rocks is not the disaster many would have us believe, it is turning away from this passion and relegating your dreams to a dusty attic in your mind that is the real sin.
Put on some music, open the window letting warm softness of first spring fill your writing area and swirl around filling you with delight. Maybe take off your shirt and let this air bring a tingle upon your skin as you sit down to write, the tingle you feel when your creative juice’s traverse their way up and down your spinal column igniting you with magic, painting scene upon scenes so you might delight in your passion.
My foots tapping to the music, the air wraps itself around my naked upper torso lyrics asking me “who’s going to save me,” smiling I pick up my pen and touch it to paper writing one word after another…..
Writer’s can’t be saved they can only write…..
by Craig Daniels on January 1, 2010
Toward the end of the year I was pondering what Flash Fiction Fidelity (faithfulness) would look like if put into words or chalked out upon a soiled building wall deep within some forgotten alley. Like the chalk maybe rules for writing Flash are meant to dissolve with the first rain, dripping into an ever widening pool on the ground only to be swept away by gravities suction deep within an anonymous city sewer.
Immediate Emotional Turbulence (IET), words placed on paper that grab and push the reader beyond their normal everyday experiences. And like turbulence Flash has an obligation to compel the reader to surrender their carefully constructed view of reality and feel something new, something extraordinary.
If writing Flash is an excuse to shrink a longer story without challenging both the writer and reader then what is it other then some homogenized spongy slice of white bread growing stale on the counter of sameness. Do we merely need to write about a bowl of fruit or does Flash call us to describe a rotten bowl of fruit littered with maggots evolving into something new while life around withers in loneliness. If there is an obligation for all writers no matter what their skill to challenge themselves and to deliver something real to their readers then maybe writing Flash compounds that responsibility and demands experimentation.
Doling out a quarter cup of plain yogurt from a quart container only shortens the time it takes to eat the plain colorless mushiness adding nothing to awaken taste buds and make the eater lick their mouths roof in delirious delight. But if you throw in dried cranberries canoodling with fresh blueberries sharing space with a sexy pecan or two you may light the fuse within a stilted imagination, forever changing their world and your world as well.
Fidelity Immediate (faithfulness to immediacy) is one New Years resolution I am committed to, stepping out with more experimenting so that my words strike a chord the reader will feel deep within driving a savoring catalyst causing experience and leading them to read more from an ever widening mishmash of daring writers and artists.
by Craig Daniels on December 17, 2009
After our split we morphed into mere apparitions dismissed by the other with a turn of the head. No social foot prints were left for the other to discover, friends were enlisted as spies concocting elaborate cloak and dagger routines assuring we never went to the same party, never appeared at the same wedding the same book reading, until Halloween night that is.
I have no way of knowing if it occurred to Ellen not to show, it certainly had not occurred to me that my ex wife would be mingling with my guests like she’d never left me. But here she is dressed in a barmaid’s costume leather straps around her midriff lifting her breasts skyward earrings caressing her neck peaking out from beneath her cascading brunette mane. Once the center of our gatherings now she’s the center of my Halloween party.
Mingling her way through the crowd Ellen deftly moves toward me. I mingle in retreat from her advance, and for the briefest moment stop to catch my breath when fingers touch my neck then stroke my cheek. I turn and immediately tumble helplessly into her eyes.
Holding back hot tears welling behind my eyes, I’m unable to speak. Her hazel eyes lock me in silent suspension, and in one motion acknowledging our dilemma she licks her finger then places its wetness upon my lips snakes her body against mine whispers in my ear “don’t talk”. My heart races the more her body leans against mine my hands encircle her waist looping fingers in leather straps yanking her hips into mine pressing into her needing more. Barely moving we tug at each other aching to be closer oblivious to the guests, the muffle of a trumpet player the only lifeline remaining.
Drawing a long deliberate breath as our lips finally touch I come alive savoring her taste in every pore of my body, shivers dance their way up and down my spine my head vibrates as if touched by electricity tingling with desire back-lit with a deep reckless need for this woman.
Give and take, I touch you, you touch me. We dance around the room the only music a faint awareness of clinking glasses, laughing, talking and our own rhythm between us. My fingers explore her backbone diving into each crevice probing flesh muscle tendons for their connection to her. Ellen plays the back of my neck her fingers creating wave after wave of erotic shivers traveling through my entire body becoming euphoric pulses sealing her ownership of my will.
Garbing my elbow hard almost desperately Ellen maneuvers me into the loft’s bird cage her red blushed finger pushes hard upon the up button. Our hands scramble to touch the others face, kneading flesh deeply we linger lovingly as our fingers reach the crossroads seemingly for the first time. Aching to own the other aching to possess deeply, to shut off noise reminding us of the past. The elevator door opens reveling the empty bed we shared before we became apparitions. We move into the room forgetting our phantom masks, forgetting each others pain while we give each what the other desires.
Tomorrow we’ll float apart like in a movie, now nobody feels any pain, just for now there are no roiling moments of regret inhabiting our lonely self’s, just for now all we need is love.
