Writing To Be Read

     To all of those who faithfully log on here to read my latest post, I apologize. Over the last two weeks, I have not made even one new post to keep you entertained or informed. When I explain my situation, I hope that you will laugh a little and be forgiving At the moment, my biggest dilemma is that my laptop is down, and I mean completely useless. Actually, the laptop itself is fine, it is the cord that is the problem. What do you do when the plug that goes into your laptop just breaks totally in half? You type as fast as you can, trying to finish what you were working on before your battery runs out. That’s what you do, because once you run your battery down, there is no longer any way to charge the dang thing and everything that you have on it, is basically lost until you can replace the darn cord. Now anyone that knows me, knows that I don’t own a PC. I keep saying I’m going to invest in one, but it hasn’t happened yet and for now, I carry my life in my laptop. That is where all of my writing is stored, right down to every last period, including the blog post that I was working on when catastrophe struck.
       Zap! Poof! My laptop screen went totally blank. I sat there staring at it and my face probably looked as blank as the screen, as I tried to process what had just happened. I unplugged the cord from the back of the laptop and examined it. This was obviously my problem. The little round plug was so bent that I could see the wires beneath the rubber that encased it. I tried to straiten it out, but when I did, sparks flew. I was pretty sure that wasn’t good. I unplugged the cord from the wall and examined the laptop connection further. It appeared that it had been bent for so long that it needed to stay that way, for when straitened it apparently touched wires together that shouldn’t touch and shorted everything out. So all I needed to do was figure out how to make the connection stay bent at an angle where the current would run through it properly.
        Superglue! It’s my personal philosophy that superglue can fix just about anything. I promptly ran over to the table and grabbed the tube. I held the connection at what I thought was the proper angle and squeezed a drop of superglue out of the tube. The only problem was that it seeped right down into the split in the rubber, covering the bare wires instead of holding the rubber in place. I realized that this was probably not good, even more than the original sparks. Now when I straitened the connection out, there were no sparks, but I figured that was because there was no longer any electricity running through the thing at all. So I went to the kitchen drawer and got a steak knife and spent the next twenty minutes trying to separate the little wires inside with its tip, so that the juice could once again flow through them. It was minute work and I thought that I might be making progress until the wires broke completely off. I tried reconnecting the two separate pieces, but try as I might, I could not get the wires to connect in a way that the current would run through them once more, probably because superglue just isn‘t a very good conductor.
        I had rebooted my laptop in the mean time, and was relieved to discover that the auto recover had functioned the way it was supposed to and I had not lost the blog post I had been working on. Now, as I glanced over at it sitting on the coffee table, I realized that it had not been fully recharged when I lost connectivity on the power cord and my laptop now only had about 30% of the battery left. Once the battery had run down, I would have no way to recharge it. There was no way that I would be able to finish the post and get it posted on Today.com before the battery had run out, so now I was faced with a new dilemma. How to salvage my writing so I can make at least one post for this week.
       I thought of several options that might work, but I found flaws that would prevent the success of the each plan. Putting it onto a flash drive would undoubtedly be the most obvious solution. Unfortunately, like my PC, a flash drive is one of those things that I still haven’t gotten around to getting. The best that I could do, would be to e-mail it to myself and then open and save it on another computer and the laptop my husband uses for his schoolwork and photography would have to be the most obvious choice. The problem there was that he uses a different word processing program that is incompatible with the one on my laptop, so there would be no way to open it, even if I could retrieve it. I was looking at 18% battery power left at this point, so I had to act fast. I sent an e-mail attachment of the file and fired up the other laptop to no avail. His Microsoft Works program simply would not open my Word document. The programs are made by the same company, but that is no way an indication that they can be friends and work together. It seems that my blog post will remain hidden away in its cyberspace folder until I have $80.00 extra to buy a new cord.
       Fortunately, I have access to another laptop, so it won’t put me completely out of business, but I’m still faced with the same problem of data retrieval, because anything I write with this machine, will be inaccessible to my laptop when I get the new cord. Okay, true, but I’m not going to deal with that one until I have to. Also, I have no access to my previous writing, so I will have to come up with new poetry to close each post, but forcing myself to get those creative juices flowing might not be such a bad thing. Obviously, this was not the topic of the post I was working on, but I think that this post is probably more entertaining than the advantages of technical writing to supplement your freelance income. I’ll get to that one another day. It’s definitely not going anywhere.
         So I guess it’s time for the moral to the story. How about back up everything that you write? Well, that is smart advice, but it really doesn’t work because I do have everything backed up on external hard drive. I just don’t have any way to retrieve it without my laptop. Okay, so maybe it is that you should always install the same software that you have on your spouse’s computer, or vice versa? Yeah, that one might work, but I think that the real moral here is that the ability to laugh at yourself makes for a more interesting blog post. If I couldn’t laugh at my own stupidity, you’d be reading a revised version of ‘Using Technical Writing to Supplement Your Freelance Income’. Superglue! Ughhh!

Superglue

There’s a wonderful invention.
Perhaps you’ve heard of it, too.
It can fix most anything.
They call it superglue.

Whatever it is that’s needing fixed,
It can work for you.
A toy train, a doll, a picture frame
Can all be fixed with superglue.

It works so very quickly.
It only takes a drip or two.
Hold together briefly
And it’s fixed with superglue.

It can fix an ashtray.
It can repair a planter, too.
A picture hanger or a pencil box
Will all mend with superglue.

I did learn there is one thing
That you really shouldn’t do
If you have a broken electric cord
Don’t use superglue!

Copyright ©2009 Kaye Lynne Booth

            Muse: taken from the Greek word, meaning a spirit or power watching over artists, poets, and musicians.   Today, it is generally used to refer simply to the power of inspiration.  In this respect, every creative mind has a muse, each taking a different form or even a distinctly individual personality.  I know mine does.

            Perhaps because of the mythological origins of the word, which actually referred to nine Greek Goddesses that acted as protectors for artists, or maybe it’s just because I am a woman and I believe that the personality of the muse takes on aspects of the mistress or master, but I always think of my muse as being female.  At the rate that Stephen King produces books, I would think that his muse must message him daily and cook, clean and take care of all menial chores, so that he can concentrate on creating best sellers.  Not mine, however.  Although I think that my muse really does try to be a good muse, playfully teasing in attempts to improve my mood when I’m down, pointing out things that she thinks might inspire me, trying desperately to cajole me into concentrating on the work at hand instead of a million other distractions, it always seems that when I need her the most, she is no where to be found.

            It is at those times when I need to write, because I have a deadline to meet, or just because I’m stuck and need to move the story forward before frustration causes me to throw up my hands in despair, that I really need my muse.  She disappeared for awhile after the death of my son, after nothing she could think to do would cheer me, but then she came up with a way to get me writing, like any good muse would, and she came back with the throttle open, doling out inspiration by the bucketful, by planting the idea that it was good to express my feelings of grief on paper.  Grief, I had plenty of and man, did I write.

            The past couple of weeks we have been busily moving into our new home, and I haven’t taken time to sit and write like I should.  As I busied myself unpacking and cleaning everything that we have had in storage for almost five years, I didn’t really pay attention as my muse tried to amuse and draw my attention to the keyboard.  Last week, when I finally got around to trying to write my blog entry, I found her sulking in the corner, with injured pride, unwilling to assist in inspiring, like a pouting child.  Today, as I prepared to sit down before the keyboard, I couldn’t help but notice the heaviness left by her total absence.  I looked high and low.  I looked here and there, but I couldn’t find her anywhere.  Finally, I gave up on trying to write and took a drive up to Lake DeWeese with my husband. 

            When we arrived at the lake, what did I find, but my muse sitting on a rock at the base of the dam. The sound of the water pounding over the top and down behind her only fueled my anger at her perceived abandonment of me.  I slashed my way through the bushes, unmindful of the sticker bushes intermingled with the willows that grabbed for the flesh of my legs.  Just before I reached her, slopping through the marshy muck, she looked up to reveal eyes full of hurt and a tear streaked cheek.  Like a slap in the face, the revelation hit me.  My muse was not acting like a rebellious child, but simply finding solitude to lick her wounds.  Wounds that I had inflicted by ignoring her, as she had danced around, trying to get my attention.  She hadn’t run away, and she wasn’t hiding.  I had chased her away.  I immediately apologized and asked her to come home.  She smiled, and pointed to a hawk, sailing on the wind currents above our heads, then pointed to a pair of geese that were sunning on the bank downstream.  All was forgiven.  My muse danced off over the water to stand in the middle of the river at the base of the dam, where no human being would be able to stay upright in the water at this height.  She spread her arms open toward the sky, the water pounding down upon her from the overflow as if to say, “I’m right here and I’m free.  All you need do, is to listen to me.”         

My Muse 

My muse is always trying to inspire in every way.

She dances and sticks out her tongue, enticing me to play.

She knows just what inspires me

And she tries to make me see

A world that’s filled with beauty, everywhere I go.

Inspiration is all around, my muse does surely know.

On days when I am feeling down or am busy as can be

I don’t always take the time to see what she wants me to see.

By the time I’m ready to be inspired,

Of this game, she has grown tired.

She may be sulking in the corner, or in the other room

Seeking inspiration, she might be staring at the moon.

Listening to my muse is the wisest choice, I’ve learned.

She knows how to stir the inspiration, that within me burns.

The miracles of nature; a flower or a bird

Are brought to my attention, but she never says a word.

She shows me how the morning dew, on the grass does glisten

She fills my head with great ideas, if I will only listen.

Copyright ©2009  Kaye Lynne Booth 

            I have written for as long as I can remember.  Even as a young girl, I kept Diaries and Journals, that is until I realized how vulnerable that made me.  Writing down my inner most thoughts on paper meant that I was taking a chance of someone else reading them.  Now, this was a problem because what I wrote in those books was not meant for anyone’s eyes but my own.  The personal thoughts and feelings that I put down there were not thoughts that I wanted to share, either because I feared what others would think of me or because I was trying to sort out my feelings concerning them and I wasn’t sure yet how I felt about them myself.   It is amazing how much our fears can be debilitating to us.

            I think that fear is probably the biggest obstacle that most writers ever have to face.  No matter what we think stands in our way, it usually comes down to a fear of something.  There are many talented writers out there that could be published already if they would just take a chance and submit their work, but they don’t, because they fear that it is not good enough and will be rejected.  Fear of rejection can be debilitating to a writer, because rejection is a big part of the game.  Many writers joke about the stack of rejection slips that piled up before they were accepted for publication, but for writers that fear rejection, that stack might be able to stop them cold.  You see these writers only get as far as the beginning of that last sentence and then they don’t even hear the rest because they are distracted by their own fear.  This is unfortunate, since the most important phrase doesn’t come until later.  The key phrase lies in, “before they were accepted for publication”.  They were accepted and that is the most important part.  You see, they never would have been accepted, had they allowed a fear of rejection to prevent them from submitting their work.

            Rejection isn’t the only fear that writers face.  They might be afraid of revealing too much about their true self, as was the case with me when I was younger.  Who am I kidding?  I still have that fear.  I do not keep a Diary or a Journal anymore, but I do write things that I don’t read to anyone else, until it turns up years later and those thoughts or feelings don’t seem quite so bad anymore.  Then I revise it and let it go out to anyone that cares to read it, or when I read it, I think, “Did I really write this junk?”, and it goes into the trash instead.

            They might be afraid of offending or hurting the feelings of people that they know.  We have been taught to write about what we know, so it’s only natural to find the people that are close to us in our writing.  Just by basing a character on a real person, we’re taking a chance that the person it is based on will read it and recognize themselves in the character.  The possibility always exists that someone we care for will confront us, with their unintentional wound gaping, “Is that what you really think of me?”.  Even when we write about totally fictional characters, with no basis in anyone that we know, there is always a chance that those that know us will find traits they see in themselves and wonder if we were writing about them.  It is a hazard of the literary trade.

            Even in poetry, there is a possibility for someone we know to identify themselves in our writing.  After my son’s death, I wrote many poems about my feelings and the circumstances surrounding his death, including things about a person that I felt let him down in the worst way imaginable.  I chose not to publish them electronically on any of my networks, but to post only on my private site that only those invited could view, because I am still not really sure of my feelings toward this person.  I didn’t think that she would go there and read my stuff, since my son was no longer there to influence her.  I was wrong.  She read what I had written and took it exactly like it sounded, which was how I had felt at the time that I wrote it.  I think I hurt her and perhaps even offended her.  Since my feelings toward her are ambivalent, I’m not sure that it really matters to me, except that I was trying to maintain at least a civil relationship with her because I felt that is what my son would want me to do.

            The only way that I can see around this particular problem is to not write things that might offend someone that we know, or at least don’t put them out where the person in question might see them.  However, most of us want to be published, so that may not be a feasible option.  The only advice that I can offer is to try editing the piece and either remove or change anything that might be offensive.  After having done this, we may find that the piece doesn’t have the original bite anymore.  If the work stands alone without the material, then we don’t have a problem, but if it doesn’t then a decision must be made as to whether the piece is worth saving.  If it’s an exceptionally good piece, then we might want to put it back as it was originally, and not worry about what anyone thinks, or we might decide that it wasn’t that good in the first place, and trash the whole idea.  It all depends on how big a part that character plays and how vital the characteristics in question play in the story. 

            In the case of my poetry, the story I was trying to tell and the feelings that I needed to express were thee same feelings that were offensive and hurtful to this girl.  To try and edit them or remove them would be to destroy the work.  Now that she has read it, it’s too late to worry about her feelings and I just have to deal with the situation anyway, so I feel free to publish it.  I feel better about having my feelings out in the open and it has forced me to evaluate what those feelings truly are, so I’m probably better off in the long run.  Of course, this is a very personal choice that will be different in each given situation, and each writer must decide for themselves how to handle it.  I’ll close with one of the poems in question and you can judge if you think that I was out of line in posting it.

            I think that the first step in dealing with any of the fears is to identify them.  We have to admit what we are afraid of before we can decide what to do about them.   Then we can decide what to write and what not to write, and not writing a particular piece may be the only solution, unless we want to face our fears and later, deal with the consequences.  In the end, we may find that the consequences aren’t as bad as we imagined they would be, so I recommend that you face your fears and deal with it in most cases.  Be persistent in submitting and eventually you’ll get a reply that is not a rejection. Allow yourself to open up and reveal a little of the real you, and discuss anything that you feel might be offensive or hurtful with the person that might be offended or hurt before they have a chance to read it on their own.  How ever you chose to face your fears, the end result should be that you write, no matter what.  After all, we are writers, aren’t we?  That’s what we do.

He Died of a Broken Heart

Can you really die of a broken heart?

I guess now I know it’s true.

My son is no longer a part of this life

And it’s all because of you.

He gave you everything he had

His heart was yours without a doubt.

He handed you his fragile soul.

You chewed it up and spit it out.

You cheated and betrayed him

You skewered him clear through.

It’s not the first time that you hurt him,

But t’was the fatal wound from you.

They say he took his own life

It looks like that’s the case.

But without a doubt the last thing

In his mind was your face.

He truly loved you so much

That he couldn’t bear to live

Without you or the love

That you refused to give.

Copyright ©2009  Kaye Lynne Booth