Posts Tagged ‘writing’

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The Taste of Poetry

Posted: August 7, 2014 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , ,

sugar-addict_0Poetry is heart song put to paper.
It isn’t judged by the container it comes in,
or the label slapped onto the side of that container,
but by the contents awaiting inside.

What is sweet to others
may taste salty
or bitter
to you.

It is a present to unwrap,
crack open, and
consume to your heart’s desire.

 

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It isn’t often I run out of things to say. However, this time I thought I’d step aside and let someone else share the space on my blog. There’s plenty to go around–I just have to move a few pieces of furniture around first and make way for my guest writer. Maybe fix us a pitcher of margaritas to share, too–I believe in being a gracious hostess.


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Doug Romig lives in Knoxville, TN where he enjoys writing, hiking in the Smoky Mountains and spending time with his sons. He has written two novels – Angelcide and New Fallen – and two short stories in The Spiritscape Chronicles and one novel in the Abby Chilton series called Shrink. He also has a novella with his anti-hero – Ian Edos – called Cryptos: ICE. His blog and information about his book and upcoming projects can be found at http://dougromig.com.

I Write, Therefore I Am

It takes a strong person to look deep within themselves and ask the tough questions like: Is this all there is? What is the meaning of life? Why do I write? If a man speaks in the forest and there’s no woman to hear him, is he still wrong? Just so you know, most men will answer “yes” to that last question as long as there is a woman nearby who he wants to see naked sometime soon. I have a feeling that Heidi Klum always hears “yes” whenever men are around her. The first two questions have simple answers: No, there is more than this, but I am not deep enough to figure it out. The meaning of life is 42 according to Douglas Adams.

Now for the tough one. Why do I write? The simple answer is: it’s cheaper than therapy. The complicated answer will take a little longer. For years I have dabbled in writing short things that I shared with a select few people. Some of them were deep. Some were just meant to make them laugh. The best ones did both.

As I was struggling with my identity following my divorce, I went to see a counselor. He made the off the wall observation that I was closed off from others and would only allow them to see what I wanted. My response: “Yes. So what’s your point?” He asked if I had ever considered sharing my thoughts, feelings, hopes and fears with others. My response: “You want me to share my feelings? Okay. I FEEL one of us is crazy here. I think it’s you.”

After a few more sessions and a few more payments, I began to consider that he might be right. Maybe I could find a way to share what was going through my mind with others in a safe setting. That was when I discovered blogging. Sharing my thoughts with strangers I will never meet sounded good.

Some of my earlier blogs were really dark and a little negative. In my defense, writing about my struggles with divorce was better than plotting vengeance on my ex-wife that involved fire ants, a funnel and vat of hickory-smoked cottage cheese. As time passed, the blogs became more upbeat, as did my life.

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Then it happened. One day I was sitting at the computer, looking at a story I was playing with about an angel taking a vacation on earth. It was going to be his walkabout as he looked at all the horror and terrible things that happen every day. I actually said, “That is way too damned depressing.”

Then I thought, what if I have him hang out with a funky human? Oddly enough, that character was amazingly simple to conjure from my twisted side. I let my imagination go and came as close to a man can come to giving birth. He said and did the things that were a funhouse mirror of my identity. This is how Zeke and Tone from The Spiritscape Chronicles were born.

I spent several months creating a world inside my vivid imagination for them to explore—then let it turn into a series of mysteries only they could solve. When the book – Angelcide – was done, it sat on my computer for several months while I tried to decide what to do with it.

While Angelcide was fermenting in my mind, I thought I’d like to write something more earthly. Five minutes later, Abby Chilton, FBI profiler extraordinaire, was on the screen and growing into something new. It was while I was writing about this psychologist that I realized why I was doing this. It is what I am. I like to write.

There are countless stories that flow around in my mind, waiting to come out. A writer is someone who does not have a choice. A writer must write. Even if the stuff that they write that day is total crap, it still has to be written because it may be the fertilizer needed to grow something beautiful.

Besides, when I don’t write, I get a headache and that makes me cranky. When I get cranky my creativity turns to dark thoughts of world domination using exploding manatees and tubas playing heavy metal. I guess it’s better that I write.

headache


 

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Well, this is fascinating. My muse has recently been diagnosed with a new disorder. It seems she has a “slight” case of MPD – Multiple Personality Disorder. This could explain her wildly fluctuating behavior and speech patterns. I’ve suspected something for a little while, but going back through the transcripts of previous conversations, I realize now I was talking to several different “people” –sometimes all at once.

I was finally able to connect the dots when, out of the blue, “Trudy” actually took the Marlboro ciggy out of her mouth and popped in a wad of Double Bubble bubble gum — a signal that something was up.  Of course, Trudy was still being as belligerent and orny as ever — between bubbles, she was muttering such semi-incoherent phrases as “Peach cobbler, bitch!” and “Kiss my ass, state trooper boy”.

No reason for such rude behavior, honestly. I’ve tried to talk with Trudy and tell her how inappropriate her comments can be at times, but last time I did it, she threatened to “put my black belt to the test”. Since she carries a switchblade and a 9 mm in the cab of her semi, I declined her invitation to an ass-kicking and spent most of the next half hour “talking her down” from whatever menopausal moment she was having.

But the bubble gum — so out of character for her. That’s when it hit me — that wasn’t Trudy. Gone was the 5’2″, 150 lb lesbian truck driver with the smoker’s cough, missing upper teeth, leathered skin and thinning gray hair. Sure, she was still dressed in her typical trucker uniform – red flannel shirt over a “wifebeater” T, dirty jeans and loggerhead boots, but that wasn’t the Trudy I knew and admired for her open honesty and willingness to put me in my proper place. Oh no, this person in front of me was much, much younger. I had to get a good look at her.

I say “her” because honestly, men don’t chew and snap their gum that way. Maybe the person who stole Trudy’s spotlight is gay — I don’t know and really don’t care.  That’s between them. I’m just here for the entertainment factor anyways. But still, something told me this new character was a lot younger, and definitely less “street smart” as Trudy.

I sense a naivete that can only be matched by the stupidity of youth. So, I am going to go out on a limb and say I was talking to a 17 year old cheerleader. Some of the clues? Well, the constant gum chewing — like watching a cow standing in the field, vapidly staring at the barn, chewing its cud. And the hair twirling — annoying as hell. The constant twirling of the index finger around the pony tail. Leave your hair alone, dammit!

But the final clue? Every other word out of this one’s mouth was either “like” or “whatever”. I hate having to spend a moment of my time listening to my beloved language get slaughtered. I try to keep our conversations short. On the other hand, it is fun to mess with youth. I can tell her practically anything, and she’ll believe it. Or at least crinkle her cute little button nose, lean her head to the side and in her high pitched, annoyingly nasaly voice, giggle “Oh my god, that’s so, like, funny!”

She does like to hang on every word of mine. She also likes to hang on every high school football player too. I see a teenage pregnancy in her future if she doesn’t pull her shit together soon and stop acting like such a slut. I’ve checked her Facebook,and she’s gathering a long list of “friends”, most of whom probably aren’t aware she’s still underage. Someone’s going to get in real trouble if they don’t watch out. Honestly, my “mother-daughter muse” talks we’ve had seem to go over her head. This whole “I’m immortal” thing is being wasted on her youth, I have decided.

There is one other personality I’ve had the pleasure to meet who is by far my running favorite. Oh for the days in my twenties when I was still willing to meet the world head on and tackle life’s mysteries! She’s a real go-getter this one. She’s everything I never was, which is why I love her so much. She’s twenty-something (somewhere between 22-25) and just does what she wants, to hell with the circumstances. She spent some time over in Italy with the entire national soccer team. She won’t tell me “exactly” what happened – but I sense a few unconventional sex practices took place. She and her sister muse — Erato– probably found a supply of Mazola, whipped cream, feathers and satin laced handcuffs and had themselves a party. I bet she never asked for names.

She’s a bit of a gold digger, and continues to find a long list of men to supply her with all the latest technological gadgets to keep her on her eventual path to self-destruction. Of course it doesn’t hurt to have a model’s face on a perfect body devoid of wrinkles and the after-effects of childbirth and age-related gravity. She’s happy to tell everyone that “her boobs still point to Orion” (She’s Greek, so of course she had to get that shout out in there). Even though I love her, she does need to get her ego in check. There will always be someone coming up behind her who is prettier, thinner and more desirable. She just doesn’t know it yet. Ahh, youth.

That’s it for roll call. I continue to have conversations with my muse (now “muses”) and some days, I’ll find myself having to change my own behavior based on who decides to show up. Honestly, I like the mystery of it all. It’s so, like, awesome. Unless, of course, the Sandman shows up. He’s kind of a douche bag towards me. I bet he and Justin Bieber are friends.

Calliope’s Pen

Posted: August 3, 2014 in Uncategorized
Tags: , , ,

Waxed tablet

grasped tightly between delicate fingers.

Scroll empty.

Stylus poised to accept its destined commands.

Inspiration flows.

Creativity takes hold then quickly evolves.

Song forms.

Music imbues the brain with thunderous sound.

Words cascade.

Poetry captures the heart in unwitting emotion.

Calliope dissolves.

Fading photographs bloom behind closed eyelids.

Leaving me.

Unburdening myself of her gift to me

Now scribed to empty pages.

She feeds my soul.

This poem is my response to Charles R. Smith, Jr’s published poem entitled “The Oh Factor” — a poem from his CD “Portrait of a Poet” about the effects poets can have on their readers.

WHOA

Just lettin’ you know,
Your fluid flow
Made my poets say “WHOA
And move and groove
To the sweet, smooth, slick
Sensual sound of wondrous words
First time heard
Flippin, slippin’ and drippin’
Off your CD’s knees
Blowin’ thru the easy breeze
Aimin’ to please
young minds like these
Landin’ and commandin’ in their ears
Chillin’ their fears
‘Bout hearin’
One. More. Pointless. Poem.
Taught by teacher
Preachin’ ’bout
Love for all poets
And funky, fresh, flowin’ poems
That roam
From the home
inside the
fine young mind’s
predefined eye
where they realize
recognize
and utilize
scraps of verbs and
unknown words
can make themselves shout out:
“OH!
What do you know–
I guess
MY best
can make
others say ‘WHOA.’”