itchy fingers

no pages written
no pictures drawn
looking at other people’s art
& being
down
on
me
wondering
when i will get it right
when i will
win the race
trying to find my way
and feeling like
i’m going in circles
today is a new day
but
in all fairness
so was
yesterday.

just me. fucking around with lines & colors & concept after looking enviously at the art of other artists on instagram.
i looked through five journals today, trying to figure out which of my self-portraits i like the best to do a final draft of. that is a lot of me to look at. and although–yay–i like a great number of my self-portraits, i suppose i am going to have to narrow it down. maybe i will try to get some audience participation 
who wants to pick self-portraits for me?
i also worked to edit my short story, “together, tangled” while sharing my laptop with three minions who think they should all come first. c’mon kid, is daniel tiger more important than my becoming a successful writer? 
i guess that depends.
eventually, i got tired of the editing & pulled out my journal to see what would happen if i put pen to paper.
but even in my goofing off, i am working towards being a better artist, a better writer. 
i feel very grateful that the things i love to do are the things that i love to do. 

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treasure hunting

so it turns out that if you spend thirty-six years writing without locating a publisher who will publish you & then just saying “fuck it” and squirreling all your writings away, you create a bit of a situation. 
i just went through some actual folders (not virtual ones) to find these gems from the early 90s when i was still using a typewriter because, fuck it, i am….(wait, what’s the opposite of cutting-edge?)
retro?
archaic? 
luddititious?
a dinosaur?
(if i am a dinosaur i want to be a velociraptor.)
wait–you know what–i am going to circle back & say i am cutting edge. i was years ahead of the hipster typewriter trend. i am a goddamned trendsetter. 

typewriters are cool.

so, in addition to my working on creating a book from select pages of my art journal self-portrait series, i am also working on putting together a collection of short stories. 
short stories that i wrote, and then left to age.
i think they are well-aged at this point, and ready for harvest.
or bottling? 
how would that metaphor work?

as you can see from this incoherent post, i am using all of my brain power for editing short stories & art journals while juggling four screaming minions. 

meanwhile…i am almost almost so close to being done with the postcard commission & the portrait commission.
so close!

divine intervention

maybe i should not have
but i drowned 
all the fairies
in a glass of beer
with a drip of 
soap
drunken little bastards
they never returned
the pen
they stole
 but now i find myself
crossing my fingers
& waiting 
for the little voices
to whisper
again
telling me
what to write
guiding
my pen
in stories
they pull
from somewhere
deep
dark
inside me
as i watch
& wonder
“where the fuck
did they find 
that?”

it was a dark & stormy night…

as tornadoes and thunderstorms tear up an early december evening in illinois, i contemplate my newfound faith in myself.

it turns out that i am not content to take myself seriously solely an artist. the writer inside of me is also demanding attention.

whenever i start reading a lot of fiction (which i have been doing lately,) my inner writer gets stirred up. anymore, i can’t help but to take a story apart as i read it to see what works & what does not. this is actually a trait that has only recently developed in me. it used to be i got so lost in a story i didn’t know which way was up. which–it turns out–is a bit of a handicap as a writer.
being able to now analyze and dissect stories has me thinking i should be reading more of my own writings.
like this pile of works from the late 80s & early 90s. two books, some short stories, and flash fiction pieces written before i knew there was such a thing as flash fiction. 
my sister bound the one up like that. it is 300 some pages of double spaceed content–so not as huge as it appears.
note that i was using yet another version of my name for that one.

so!
the minions are away. i have two art commissions to work on. other than that, i will be poring through short stories, forgotten novels, and journals & journals & more journals with the crazy idea that i might have not one story to tell but three? four? more?

i know, you’re thinking “baby steps!” but i think i am just going to jump on into the deep end–you know, knowing how much i love a challenge. 
(i am my favorite challenge)
plus as a gloriously blooming late bloomer, i got some ground to cover to get to where i need to get to.

i need more notebooks

i have decided
on my weapon of choice
it is my pen
my literal fucking pen
like my blood
runs black
with ink
pen
of course it is my pen
what else would it be
why does it take me 
a lifetime
to figure out something
i knew
before i started searching
for an
answer?

okay. so. for me to write…i actually have to write…not type. for me to create, i have to move my hands. i have to doodle. i have to feel the paper under my skin. 
longhand is the language i speak.
otherwise, it just doesn’t work. i have a beginning. a page or two. and then i wander off, trusting my laptop to keep it safe should i ever wander back.
but!
put it on paper. lay that notebook on top of my laptop. or carry it with me everywhere i go….
now that
that is writing.
so yes. i started writing…only to realize, i need more notebooks.

ps. i set up a ko-fi account last night when i was avoiding confronting my desire to start working on a collection from my art journal series….
so! if you want, you can now buy me a coffee notebook

unraveled

i don’t have any love left in me
like watching a cyclone
of bath water
circling the drain
is how it feels inside
me
when i look to see
if i have any love
left.

fuck. i just got another short story rejection. fuck. why does everything have to feel raw & calloused all at the same time?

i need to figure out, as always, how to make money. i am thinking…erotic comics? too bad i am so easily embarrassed by anything sexual. i’m going to go practice drawing penises now…circumcised or no?

fuck.
it would definitely help if a certain someone actually paid child support so i could buy my minions socks & underwear…. but, you know, some people are too special to work & have responsibilities. why grow up when you have me to take up your slack?

my flavor of the day: extra bitter.

ribbons & curls

my insides
are all torn
to bits
a bloody battlefield
that used to be
my heart
or is that too
cliche
the mess of me
falling
apart
in ribbons
& curls
of
despair.

because my voice cannot be heard by the one i have tried & tried to talk to, i have started a work of fiction writing–no pictures. it is still forming in my head, but i have written the first paragraph. loosely based on the abusive relationship i am recovering from. i want to share it with people who might understand. also, i need to get it out of my head…and like i said, the person who needs to hear it the most, just won’t listen to it.

also, friendly reminder, there is a link up over yonder (with my pretty face on it) to other fiction pieces i have written & posted on medium.

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