Without the hard we stay too soft, and heaven is reduced to myths like life. Theology aside, it’s plain to see that God forbids we get too comfortable.
Chila WoychikMots clés writing theology myths comfort comfortable
I am Frustration. I am Memory-Lost. Sometimes I read a line a dozen times before it sticks. My creative force has slipped. I type slower, speak slower, think at a snail’s pace. I’m Life shapeshifted by Post Traumatic Stress, bastardized by Fate.
Chila WoychikMots clés writing fate post-traumatic-stress-disorder post-traumatic-stress creative-losses
I see an actress smoking a cigarette in an old Fred McMurray movie. She’s clever and beautiful and manipulative. I feel envy. I suddenly wish I smoked cigarettes and was as clever and beautiful and manipulative as she. I want to be that way at the restaurants I visit, as I’m walking to my car, with certain friends who might understand.
The actress has played her part well; she’s made me want to emulate her base desires if only for a while. Does that make me impressionable, a fool, or someone who will recognize the deepest secrets of her heart?
I fight hard to stay young—to keep the lines from further etching my face and hands and breasts, presumably to trick the world into believing I am young.
I’m an actress playing a part. I’m afraid to tell the truth. I fear losing those younger or becoming those older. In the presence of youth, a sort of unseen age-osmosis occurs within me. The years drop away and I don’t want to leave. It’s utterly selfish but I don’t care. After all, I’m no older than they—I’ve just been so longer. I was nineteen only yesterday and they don’t retire nineteen-year-old actresses.
Mots clés writing beauty acting aging rats cognitive-dissonance
The tides wash up the Pearl of Great Price; I see it clearly. There it is: the secret so secret that even Indiana Jones has yet to discover it. But it’s mine.
It’s a style pointer, a favorite agent, a best avenue for publication. It’s a sure-fire fire-starter, a league of extraordinary information.
Shall we gather at the river and share? No. I found it. It’s mine!
Mots clés writing rats writing-secrets literary-agent pearl-of-great-price
I suck the words word-dry
to me, assimilated
orderly at breakeye speed
still hard and harder
softer then
line-lined book-dry
‘til not a drop
of water-blood
from oak and elm
and authored men
is left to whisper
“Read…
Mots clés reading writing creativity writing-life writing-process on-being-a-rat poetry-about-writing
When reading a book, one hopes it doesn’t turn into a painful process. Predictable is bad enough. Laborious is acceptable if the labor produces fruit. But with painfully bad writing, all one can do is grab a hatchet, slice off its head, and bury it.
Chila WoychikMots clés writing creativity writing-life bad-writing on-being-a-rat
If a book can save—redeem us from the mediocrity of the mundane—surely, there must be a God.
Chila WoychikMots clés reading books writing writing-life reading-for-life on-being-a-rat wonder-of-books
The setting sun threatened to consume me—it could have, you know. It would have been a beautiful death with an honorable eulogy: slain by a magnificent slice of piercing orange energy. I simply turned and walked away; I would live another day.
Chila WoychikMots clés writing nature sun writing-process on-being-a-rat death-by-sun rural-living
I’ve never had a rat, never chased one. I chase my own tail and that’s enough. I must now make plans for the day I catch it.
Chila WoychikMots clés writing metaphor rats metaphorical
At least I could relate to Rose’s sense of adventure and Harriet Jones’ wacky determination and ingrained sense of responsibility. I can stomach the Tardis when my heroines are in place.
Chila WoychikMots clés writing rats doctor-who rose-tyler tardis harriet-jones
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