The Muse Has Returned

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For a while now I have been leaving my novel alone, not intentionally of course. I’ve been avoiding writing all together. I don’t know why I do it. I love to write. I feel better when I write. I ignore my compulsion to write. Why do I depriving myself of it? I’ve figured something out about my writing process though in the last few days. I can’t focus on just the one writing project. I blame university for that. I got so used to juggling several projects at once, short stories, poems, scripts and novels that I can’t help but do the same thing now I have finished my degree (I got a 2.1 by the way, go me!!). So now I’ve started a new poetry collection from scratch, a new short story collection and I’m carrying on with my novel. I don’t understand the impulse I have to do this but it’s worked, my muse has returned.

Today I have written two poems, I have three new story ideas for my short story collection and I have started writing chapter nine of my novel I Choose Life and it’s only 1pm! Hopefully this will be the end of my writers dry spell and I can finally get something done. I love the feeling of finishing a piece of writing but I have yet to complete an entire first draft of a novel. That will change by the end of the year. If I work hard, I can get my first draft done by the end of December. Most writers claim that the editing stage is the hardest but I think I might find that easier than getting the story written. The problem is, I question myself. I think about all of the things that I am going to change once I get to the second draft stage and I really need to focus on just writing the story from beginning to end.

I need to believe in myself like I do when I write short stories or poetry. Anyone who claims that writing a book is easy, obviously isn’t putting their heart and soul into it. Anyone can write words but it takes a truly disciplined person to be a writer. Although I sometimes lack motivation and give in to the negativity that tells me that my writing isn’t good enough I know that I have the strength to eventually start writing again. There is no way that I am giving up. I will finish the first draft of my novel. I might decide in the second stage of editing that I hate my story and I no longer want to pursue it, if that happens then I will still be pleased that I reached the milestone of writing a 50,000 word draft of a novel.

I’m going to leave it there because I have to get back to my novel. Then I have to write another article for Women Make Waves. Then I might start another short story this afternoon. My mind never stops. I might need another two coffees to help me but today is definitely going to be a great writing day!

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Impending

standing onflciff

Feet curl over the edge of the cliff,

close to flying
ready to soar,
heart of a drum.

Anticipation brews in my sinking stomach.

Time is a flutter:
the future is impending.

Success is sickly sweet
but love is my greatest accomplishment
so far.
The rest will come.
The fog will clear and I will soon see
the bottom, ready.

Jump.

Fingers and toes tingle with adrenaline
Stomach flipping, fear released.
Eyes sewn shut by apprehension – open.

Alive with freedom and choices.

I fly into the sun,
free to venture wherever
the wind may take me.

Foreign Words

Thank you in different languages

My eyes are derelict.
Infant and fresh.

Absorbing foreign words, foreign faces.

My mother tongue,
tangled,
twisted,
amongst vowels
of confusion.

Their faces shine with
welcoming eyes.
A barrier present,
cold and strange.

Muttering, handshakes,
kisses – swapped and selected.
Twist of culture, language and value.
Holland.

60 minutes by plane.
60 differences from home.

Far away
from little
home comforts.

Of familiarity, warmth and English idioms.

My mind is washed
with the dizziness
of change.

Landing home, a relief.

(First Draft Of Foreign Words For My Poetry Portfolio)

Street Corners

canal at nighrt

Caution lurks
behind every street corner.

In the early morn.
Dusty blue and sapphire ignite,
forming patterns
in the sky.

Panting heart quickens.

Racing even, mimicking dangers that
– Do. Not. Exist.

Heightened fear in the darkness.
Over the bridge,
water resembles – thick, black liquid.

Slithering away.
Opaque
Ambiguous.

Reflecting the light of the moon
soon-to-be sun.

Delicate Flower

delicateflower
Delicate, white flower.
Untouched by fear.

Lost in paradise.
The sky is clear.

Floating on the
surface of blue.

Delicate flower
absorbs the view.

– – – – – – – – – – – – – – –

Rain is declining
from misty grey.

Darkness steals
the light of day.

Delicate flower
trapped in storm.

The tide is turning
changing form.

White fades,
no longer pure.

Delicate flower
has to endure.

Fear, loss
tears and pain.

Delicate flower
soaked by rain.

————————

Limp, lifeless
almost dead.

Delicate flower
lifts its head.

Peeping through
the clouded grey.

Is a small beam
of light to guide the way.

Forgive

hands

Turning the corner alone, you left behind.
A daughter whose words were wise and kind.

Ripping apart all that is known.
Now all that is left is skin and bone.

The heart will heal, but respect is lost.
Change can have an unforgivable cost.

Desires of the future will never be the same.
The flickering light dims on the family flame.

The tie was love, but now just blood.
I would turn back the clock if I could.

On these separate islands that we now live.
We learn to accept and learn to forgive.

No amount of glue will fix the damage done.
One decision made. No one has won.

Living with guilt – worry – fear.
One day this earth won’t have you here.

Imperfect in your selfish way.
I choose in my life for you to stay.

Ending all this pain and strife.
For you were the one to give me life.

Heavy words lift off my chest.
I still have my mother and for that I am blessed.

White Butterfly

whitebutterfly

Elegant symbol
catches the light.

Ready to soar.
Wings expanding.

Flooded with freedom.
Any place is home.

Partners with blue
Friends with green.

One second to
admire her beauty.

One minute later
you remember her.

The white queen
of nature.

Restricted creature,
that blossomed one day.

The white queen
of the sky.

Playful, she seeks
she hides.

Playful, she
disappears.

Leaving a lasting
trail of beauty.

Waiting

waiting

Waiting for the
train to arrive.

Page
waiting
to be turned.

A freshly
printed novel.

Waiting to be
desired by
wise eyes.

A canvas of white,
longing for colour.

Patches of fresh
white snow
unmarked
by nature.

Waiting for the
rain to fall.

A gathering of
clouds aiming
their sights
on the last
patch of blue.

Anticipation.

Waiting for the
lost to get found.

A flower in
bloom stops
to look at
the sky.

Waiting for the
future to arrive.

Southern Sun

flipflops

Hitting the cold
pavement with
my flip-flops.

Southern sun.
Beating down on my
pale exterior.

Soft whispers in the wind,
tranquillity, warmth.
Waves reaching
toes of joyful children.

Hospitality exchanged.
Strangers have
welcoming smiles.

Trees hold hands,
cooling shadows.

Birds awake with the sea.

Traveller eyes.
I explore.

Corner to corner.
Brick by brick.

Buildings – character – infusion – elegance – new.

Perplexed to feel a sense of
intimacy, freedom
in this foreign state.

Girl In Yellow

girlnewyork

Livestock rushing
thirty degrees.
Overpopulated streets,
American phrases.

I can feel the warmth
on my curious face.

In the moment,
in the moment.

Hit in the shoulder,
I fall to the concrete.

Mannerisms or just plain rudeness?

It’s almost time for
the light to start sleeping.

Night crawls through the clouds.
Electricity overload, blinding my eyes.

Anything can happen here.

Apart from getting a taxi cab,
still mastering lingo.

New, in New York.
Sticking out like a girl in yellow.

Feet. Firmly. Planted.

Lost in the blur of madness,
I ask a stranger for my save.