I should have been conceived during Woodstock; it’s in my blood: that burning desire to turn an absolute on its head and see what’s underneath. I’m as random as I can be and as responsible as I should be. Attempting to fuse the two makes for interesting days.
Chila WoychikTags: writing responsibility rats woodstock
I’m typing away, wondering why I had that Pepsi Throwback at such a late hour. Caffeine is a compulsion. Art is an obsession. Writing is both.
It weaves in and out, this obsession, forming a basket, a basket I can hide in while pulling its lid over top; it shuts out the noise and normalcy of living. It shuts out the people and caffeinated relationships I love so well. Can you live with an artsy hermit? A sketchy-betchy, meditative, BabyBoomingPseudoHippie? Then short-term visits are in order.
Tags: writing hippies baby-boomers rats artsy obsessions compulsions
This world rubs me raw, scours me smooth like an SOS pad put to a grease-caked skillet. And pain: it stabs and scrapes and pulls me back to earth, my final B
Chila WoychikTags: pain writing death death-and-dying grave rats
I feign knowledge of writing: that I know something about it, that I should have learned something after all these years, that I might know something tomorrow.
I read too much and write too little, or write too much and live too little. I have no classical education, no literary degree. I’m not specialized, Hugoed or geniusized; should I be writing at all?
In this whole vast world, I’m a female peon sitting here at night wondering what it is I want to say. I aim for fluidity. But no, nix that line, that thought, this life. That’s the crux of it, isn’t it? This life: it’s out of reach. I’m not sure what I’m saying anymore.
Tags: writing writing-life rats writing-process stream-of-consciousness
I die with the dying light, yet shine brighter as the darkness approaches. Soon I’ll be whittled to bone and stripped clean through, nothing left but a skeleton on which to hang a hat. But have no fear, I look good in hats.
Chila WoychikTags: writing death death-and-dying grave rats
I speak, I speak, and truth at that. Writers are a curious breed: brooding, fickle, alternately loving and hating their work—and each other. You’re my friend? Don’t pick up that pen!
Chila WoychikTags: friendship friends writing writing-life rats
Writing analogies are as abundant as ants at a picnic. We love nothing better than a good analogy, a “life-is-like-this” on the page. I breathe and out pops another analogy. As of this moment, I am sole owner of 1,643 analogies.
Chila WoychikTags: writing metaphors analogies rats stream-of-consciousness writing-process-creative-process
I have a bad habit of dropping verbal pellets to get a reaction, like Ursula LeGuin’s “A novelist’s business is lying” (that particular one got a lot of attention on Facebook), or, “Why is it that Christians hate the word ‘sex’?
Chila WoychikTags: sex christians rats facebook ursula-leguin
I was a late bloomer. I was still naïve about what 16 year olds today have known for years. I remember sitting up and taking notice—of the world, my body, others—in a way never before experienced. I noticed boys, or rather they noticed me, at 16.
Chila WoychikTags: writing coming-of-age late-bloomer
I’m a rat. I used to believe in the Golden Rule but now question it. It’s too easy to be snarky at those who are snarky toward me. I like how it feels—the yellow cheese giving way between pointed teeth. My tail begins to twitch.
Chila WoychikTags: cheese golden-rule snark rats rat snarky
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