FAILURE IS NOT AN OPTION

We all have them, faces that thrive upon seeing us fail. People who have polluted their lives and their own options with their own self contempt, that there is no option for them,in their minds, simply to grit their teeth and his at what were becoming. I’ll say it once and I’ll say it twice, it is not your job to fix all the broken souls in the world. People who mentally crucify themselves with their own poor choices and judgement, then unleash hell unto you. You are nobodys punching bag. Your journey is different , your soul needs healing. In life as writers and facilitators of our own script,as we tap into a greater more infinite self,there will be trials. There will be obstacles. Those obstacles leave you with your own sense of trauma, each time, you need to call collect to the spirit, and the guardian for a top up just to survive the frey. Yet we are warriors still, triumphant in our stance,magnificent in our journey, never let anyone still your armour.That armour is your self esteem, the ability to infuse mind with ideas that leap out at us, and provide the source for our pens. Use your mind, it is part of your shield and the pulse of your armour. As a creative it is your gem.

METHOD TO YOUR MADNESS

It never stops does it. I was thinking about the anxiety we experience when it comes to our work, the fear of not being good enough, worthy enough, or sharp enough to execute. Everybody goes through it.It is a ear of two selves. The hardest thing to do is believe in something you cannot see yet, whilst the rest of the world, thrash at you with their commentary, and looks of disappointment. You must have tunnel vision at all times, this is not their vision, it’s yours. This is not their passion it’s yours, it’s your promise to yourself. Have a schedule and execute daily, believe in your potential, even if your talking to yourself on the street challenging your mind, you must be able to talk yourself into success. You must be able to facilitate new habits that will get you to where you need to get to. There is a difference between wishing upon a star, a dream and having a method.

LEAP TO FAITH

It’s with faith we do things, we take risks that there is no guarantee will pay off. No guarantee you will land on solid ground once you leap into the air blind, yet thrust yourself you must. Trust yourself you must. It is madness when we leap blind not to trust the self. I was thinking today about all the time i had to take a risk on myself, seeing the dream that others could not see, touching it, feeling it, enveloping myself in it. There were days when I felt like backing down, when the put downs of others kept me alienated from my highest self, wishing that I could be, or think like everybody else. It lasted but aminute, and I returned to seeing what I saw with my vision untainted. Channeling the wisdom and the faith that had planted itself deep within, like a stubborn seed, angry to be removed. My dreams gave me a voice, they fueled my hunger, they held my hand as I leapt ungracefully a stumbling gazelle in the mist of my own imagination. I tell you now, as I said to myself in journals, letters, on dictaphones, at least try and fail, then learn and grow. At least develop, at least challenge yourself and at least believe in your potential.

THE COMPLEX OF INNER TRUTHS

We tremble at the mercy of a pen, pinched words lost sentences in translation. A brain that is mercilessly stoic at times, we find ourselves engulfed in ideas and questions that keep us circulating hungrily for answers. Where do I see this work going? What is its progression? Who would it appeal to? I have half written up to a thousand books in my head, scribbled them out daintily signed and sealed the manuscripts posting them to some eager editor who awaited with baited breath. In reality I am still challenged by the quirks of constructing a novel, be it fiction or non,manuscripts are masterpieces of the mind, they are gateways into the soul , confiscating curtains which seal and barricade the mind from the truth. What you write may be fiction, but there is a part of it that awakens a sleeping Goliath, truth. Why is truth a Goliath, because in the mind as a writer it is so easily bent and folded, then after being worked and reworked , stands David, a shining reckless parable of complex components, yet a deeper truth. The truth is never hollow. It is founded upon stories that the eye whispers to it, and the ears gossip.

LOVE AS ESCAPISM

Terry and Tommy, funny names for characters in love, but that’s where my journey as a writer began…in dreams. When I couldn’t get to sleep I used to tell myself bed time stories with these two characters that always fell in love after a series of very complicated events. One of them would hate each other from the start, and then over time they would begin to fall for the strengths and the beauty of one another. I was a hopeless romantic as a child, you couldn’t keep me away from the Jude deverauxs, Judith Mcnaught  and my addiction Millsand Boons novels. The characters always met in the middle, the characters always fell in love, and their love consumed the busy pages of my notebooks scattered all around my room. Love has its trials and for me it’s trials are the complications of the characters. When I was older I took to inventing my own nuances of love. A 5 ft something fair skinned guy that used to live two streets away from me in the sixth form. I used to scribble love letters to him at the early dawn and directly post them to his letter box, poor guy, beautiful smile. I remember the way his eyes twinkled and the butterflies I felt each time I captured that feeling on the page, then in time, I realised, it was my feeling. It didn’t belong to him because he didn’t feel such a way, I remember the way he walked commandeering the wind, his jacket slicing through air like a blade. He was a beautiful man, but I think I like Shakespeare have always been in love with the idea of being in love. Maybe if you love someone else for a minute you can escape yourself, after all , your attention is elsewhere. Yet in reality we should develop rather than try to escape.

idealisms of Love

Yesterday I thought about something so frustrating it baffled me. The ideal of love versus it’s realities. Someone I know used to tell me that love itself is chemicals in the brain, signals the body sends, and yet even in my most jaded and awake moments I’d like to believe it’s more than that. For me as an author a writer, someone very passionate, id like to believe it is more compelling than this. It is it’s own animal, with its own story,and less of the scientific and the biology please. Love is expression, of the highest order of the truest self. We unleash a secret part of ourselves, gated and protected, letting the world creep in. We are both with and without form, a noun and nameless, a print, and an invisible stencil upon someone’s heart. When you go through loneliness the ache is so bad, like a starving child in a third world country, you need that human interaction , that depth of conversation, those moments to admire someone separate from you, those moments to let the heat suffocate your sanity. Here’s to love and all its madness.

inviting in a dream

I thought to myself this morning it must be a very frustrating thing to be a dream, to have such a future awaiting you, traveller, yet your means of transport lacks the fuel to give you the rebirth you require. It is a season for dreams to usher us in and whisper the deliciousness of their adventures. For them to be able to pitch themselves and auction their beauty for sale. For your mind, I will give you your dreams , for your vision I will give you your dreams, for your habits and your discipline, I will give you your dreams. Yet do not fear to be a unique signature on a stamped envelope, the universe demands. Do not fear to hold your colours boldly to the mass stand at the top of the lighthouse and wave for a tired dream to stumble it’s way to your golden shores.

Fifty Shades Of Digitisation

I read somewhere that first drafts are like scooping sand into a bucket, so later on you can build sand castles. Thank-you Instagram. That helped so much. Many of you know I have been working on my series of novels for #deliciousDecember which I am extremely excited about. It’s my opportunity to challenge that creative part of myself which sees the blank page and is absolutely horrified. There’s nothing more frustrating than a barren page, or for me a pen which bears no fruit. This morning I endured another dose of #fiftyshadesofgrey, wow that film is sinfully hot. Would have liked to watch it with some butterscotch popcorn and some Bailey’s😇,but enjoyed it none the less. I love the sexual tension and the chemistry between the two characters. What I love more though is the marketing behind fifty shades, how it was publicised and the fact that it was vanity publishing. I believe in this new age of evolving digital technology and independent authors there is much to learn.

Million Dollar countdown idea 2

The online Portfolio. Whether your a graphics nerd, or a creative with a passion for enterprise articles, what you need is to step out of the me zone and think of the we zone. There are millions of creatives out there looking for great sites to load premium content, why not start one in a unique niche. For example i specialise in writing business and digital marketing articles, or brand specific journalism. What would be great if when i started i found a site that offered me the opportunity to showcase my articles, or have companies purchase my articles, and buy pieces of my work or pay me for my labour. Online you find a lot of companies offering you this service yet your always supposed to do it for free. Or you spend monumental time doing a series of articles for .20 p. A premium site specialised specifically for commisioning portfolios would bring in a shed load of revenue, and opportunity for freelance writers. Link it to adsense and an advertising network, introduce some affiliates and your laughing.

Postmark stranded

I promised you
Flowers by the moonlight
Something alive
Breathing
Something loved
Needing Oxygen
The way i needed you
Needing water
You are cocooned
Within this soil
Lovers trudge by in dirty
working man boots
and timberlands
Just to tell stories
Journal the days of the living
To those whose
Ears have slept
I miss the laughter
that bubbled from you
before the wine would come
Filling the room
Like a ghost
claiming glares like a gossip
Your laugh was a postcard
Of where we were
Our stamp
First class
Royal air
I am deciphering
my grief
Scared to embrace it
That it will morph and become me
Such a greedy
wholesome thing
Like a baby suckling
At your breast
Claiming buds of milk
I am only 3 months
into this cycle
By the moonlight
The ghosts of other peoples
tears
and snatches of their conversation
piercing my eardrums
It is like being at sea
With a tempest
Like an angry Horizon
It is like being on
an Island
with no boat
My eyes are wild orbs
From lack of sleep
I grow restless in my
own company
pacing the brackets
Of the limitations i set
I miss most the scent of you
Like a burning incense
Making my whole body shiver
The talks into a purple night
as my complexion would pale
For you were somewhat
extraordinary
Where are you now
My extraordinary love
For i am stranded here

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