I am way over due for a poem but it is a situation where I was forced into a break by poetry writer's block. It stands boldly between my mind and the pen saying "No, you may not write a verse, or two, or three." So I don't, instead words swarm around in my head in the form of longer works, stories to be specific.
It's something like what happened when I wrote Martine, the words flowed like water in a stream. Either I sit on the bank and watch it pass me by or I follow it to see where it goes. I chose to follow it. It started with an erotic suspense with the lead character falling in love with a cleric. I'm still writing that although it has reached a bottle neck as to the direction it will go.
Then I had the idea for the continuation of Bianca, which is the follow up to Martine. I had started the story, but I got stuck and then one day I got unstuck, I still have to find the original draft and continue writing. The idea that came to mind was so delicious that I actually got excited and goose pimply.
Earlier this week, I was driving from Parham (in the east of Antigua) to Villa (in the north west). As I drove I could see the hills to the south and badda bing, badda boom, another story unraveled itself. This one is about a survivor of a zombie apocalypse set in Antigua. She wakes up in Parham with no memory of who she is and she is guided for a while by a older man who gives her the name of his dead daughter.
It doesn't end there folks, oh no. This morning I started writing a short story called The Nymph of the Forest. Another erotica with a magical feel. I am still not sure where this idea came from, all I know is my mind worked out the plot by the time I sat down and wrote the first 4-5 pages.
So here is the deal, it is only recently (within the last couple of years) that I consider myself a poet, and even though I wrote Martine, Little Red Hoodie and as you can see from above, I have a few more stories in me, I don't see myself as a writer. Oh yeah, and I have an erotic fiction on Literotica. I guess because I didn't study, or take the courses or workshops to become a writer. I haven't put in my 10,000 hours. I just write.
Plus it doesn't help that I have the mindset that you have to be doing something tangible, where people see your effort, you toiling on a process and seeing a result. When I'm seen writing by hand or working on the computer, I get the impression that I'm perceived as doing nothing of merit. Perhaps that is the area where I have to work on not caring what people think.
Whenever I think of how I want to spend the rest of my days, I see myself with a house with a wrap around verandah. At times, I would go out on a hot day or a cool night and I would sit in a comfy chair and write. Let the words flow and be who I'm supposed to be, the crafter of tales. And yet, I don't feel that is possible. I could never become James Patterson or Stephen King or Anne Rice, but if someone could read one of my stories and enjoy it, I could live with that.
Five, ten years ago, if I was told that I was going to be working on building a body of work centered around the written word, I would say "No way!" But now there is a very strong possibility, now I feel like I'm coming into my own, but the last piece in the puzzle is believing that I can do it. That is what the following pic is for.
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