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So let's be honest here. Words are hard. Writing is hard. And some days are a lot harder than others. What can we do on those days? The ones where everything we write sounds stupid to us, or end up being the exact opposite of what we meant. When our characters go on strike, or fly to Hawaii on an unplanned vacation and forget to send us our invite. Well, some of my favorite things are to either talk about writing, write about writing, or just ignore the fact that my writing seems stupid and just plow away on my keyboard, determined to mine something out of my brain-mush, even if it's simply ridiculous and rambley. Because at least I'm writing. I'm not giving up. And yes, I'd call some of that Horrible. I might even call this 'Horrible'. Ask me about that tomorrow, when I'm not sleep deprived and a little bit deranged. But, because I wrote today and made it a point to update this blog, I'm going to say that I won. Huzzah, for little victories! And guess what? I suck a little less than I did yesterday, because I did this thing and didn't let my doubts overtake my love for this weird writing stuff. Don't stop writing. Even if it's horrible. At least you haven't given up on your story and on yourself. That's better than most people can say. Hey guys, here's a little side note for you. What prompted this poem, is an interview that I did with Paul Sating on his podcast called (you guessed it!) Horrible Writing.
It's really fun, and if you wanna hear it, here's the link: http://horriblewriting.lisbyn.com/website/category/49-using-writing-to-communicate-when-you-cant-with-poet-cheyenne-bramwell Have a wonderful day! I love you guys <3
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Sometimes, I feel all stoppered up,
like a bottle with a too tight cork or a faucet that'll no longer flow. I know there are so many words inside of me just waiting to spill onto the page, but I can't seem to let any of them out. I'll pace around for hours on end, held up by a single word or phrase that just won't sound right, mumbling versions to myself in an effort to find what's missing from my sentence. But what finally helps, what finally does it, is writing about my writer's block. For some reason, typing or scribbling about how the words just won't work seems to be just the encouragement they need to come out of hiding. And then what was once a deathly blank document stops being a damning example of a literary failure, and becomes a opportunity.
Pairs of yellow orbs prick the dark curtain of night,
as you glance outside your window. At first, your mind tries to dismiss them as street lamps, shiny insects, or the neighbors’ cats, and you pull your eyes away, content to continue doing whatever you were before. But this can only last so long. Eventually, your eyes drift back to the blackness. You have to make sure they’re behaving as they should. As you glance through the glass again, instead of the four lights there were before, the night is now peppered with them. Pairs of lights, that you can no longer deny are eyes, peer at you from every bush below every car from atop every roof. Everywhere that they can see you from, while they themselves remain hidden, they are perched. And now you can feel them. hundreds of gazes fixed upon your face. It’s enough to make you freeze in place, palms sweating, chills running across your back, and the hair on your skin standing on end. You are trapped by them, unable to move, Or cry out for help, for another witness. You feel as though any movement at all, will send them into a frenzy, that will tear you asunder. But there is only so long your eyes can remain opened, fixated on the eyes outside. A tear-streaked burning slowly creeps in, As they beg and scream for you to let them close. You do your best to fight the urge, deny them their relief. But eventually your lids drop, only for a moment, before they open wide again, waiting for the eyes to be closer, or to reveal the rest of their horrible selves. Only… the night is once again dark. there is nothing outside of your window, except for the road, and the cars and houses of your neighborhood. With a single blink you’ve banished them. At least.. you pray that’s the case. It’s the version you like better. Because it’s either that, or they’ve just come closer, Maybe even snuck inside your home, or room, ready to sink their teeth and claws into your tender flesh the moment you turn from the window. Dear Internet:
Being invisible is really underrated. After years of trying, I’ve finally done it! Who knew that someone with way too much time on their hands, and a higher than average knowledge of chemistry and physics, would be able to so easily perfect something that scientists couldn’t? Now I can people watch on the bus, or at coffee shops, or on a street corner, without people being weirded out by my stare. no more sidelong glances at me when I half-trip over a curb or crack in the sidewalk. Now my acts of everyday klutziness will be mine alone to laugh at! This is a win for socially-awkward and anxious nerds everywhere! Now, to enjoy it! *********** So, it’s been a week now. And I’m still invisible. I’ll admit, I didn’t expect it to last this long. I guess my understanding of exactly what I was dealing with wasn’t as comprehensive as I had thought. Also, I made a stupid mistake. I had been so excited to be invisible and to try out my compound, That I forgot to perfect a reversal process for it first. My mom won’t stop calling me. She thinks I’m sick. That was the excuse I gave her to avoid family dinner or Wednesday. She wants to come over and make me soup, Which I would totally be up for if I was actually sick. But I can’t just tell her to come over and stay away from my room while she does it. If I say that I’m contagious with something bad enough to deter her even seeing me, then she’ll want to drag me to the hospital. That can’t happen. I don’t know exactly how to describe it in terms that regular internet surfers like yourselves would understand... I guess the watered-down version is, that scientifically my mass isn’t acting the way it used to. Equipment won’t record me anymore, and I’m giving off weird radiation. I have to use chopsticks to type on my keyboard, And even they seem to phase out of my hands sometimes. Like I’m not all the way here anymore. If anyone has any ideas let me know. I’ve decided that I don’t want to disappear. -I'm Still Here I don't understand
why it's so bad to be single. I have tons of friendships and love floating around without all the romantic entanglements, and the drama that inevitably comes from them. Why do I need to have someone perpetually glued to my hip or hand? Everyone treats it as a requirement for a happy life, like I as a person am not whole, until I share someone's name and bed. Why is it a problem, that I can spend my time how I please without having to feed someone else, or work around their schedule? Single-dom is a perfectly acceptable state of being. It shouldn't be seen as sad or lonely, because I can order a pizza, and then eat every single piece without having to share. That, in my opinion, is pretty damn close to pure happiness. Have you ever felt the world stand still?
Somehow, the rhythm of the cars driving by, your heartbeat, the birdsong above your head, drops of rain from the storm the night before, everything pulses in time for a moment, becomes clearer, shimmers in harmony. It's as if you can feel the earth breathing in those everyday things. Like you can hear its voice whisper in your ear. A voice like the wind through soft spring grass, and the soft murmur of distant thunder, with the gentleness of a grain of sand shifting in the tide, and the warmth of the first rays of the rising sun. "Isn't it beautiful?", it asks. Before you can respond, something jolts you from your trance. The blaring horn of a disgruntled driver, or maybe a hungry child screaming. Everything seems normal again, without the clarity. But you still remember the peace you felt, and that voice. I search for it daily, hoping that it will grace me with its comforting sound once more. When I can't write,
I feel deficient. Defunct. Dead to the world. If I can't muster up the brainpower to write a simple poem, then what am I good for? If I call myself a writer, then what am I on the days that I can't even do that right? When my words dry up, does my identity and worth wither away with it? If that fountain of energy and inspiration no longer flows, am I just a cracked, empty vessel, destined for the scrap heap or a Goodwill donation? Do I have just as much worth sitting here, not writing, as I would be shattered upon the ground? I'd like to think I have more value than that. But sometimes, it's hard to feel that way. I feel like I've always been walking on this tightrope,
tiptoeing across a wire drawn taut through thick air, constantly shifting, tipping this way and that. I'm so afraid of falling, that I barely even move. For weeks, sometimes, I'll freeze, only allowing my chest to rise and fall by inches, terrified to try and fail. I only bring my feet up just enough to not catch the rope wrong and go tumbling into the space below me. I don't know what's down there, or long it would take my bones to shatter against it. Or if there's anything at all. Because it could be just nothingness after all. A void just waiting to swallow me whole, and trap me in darkness. The tightrope sways gently beneath me, my arms outstretched, above the unknown. I've always been afraid to fail. Afraid to fall. maybe it's time for me, to run. |
Cheyenne Bramwell
I love to write, and poetry is one of my favorite ways to figure out what my brain is doing. Archives
August 2018
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