Monday Musings: Heart and Soul

Have you ever noticed this when you are reading? You can always seem to tell when the work came from the heart versus when it came from the head? I notice it too. That is not to say one is more valuable than the other, it just to say the difference is noticeable. I am not just a reader of fiction. I have to admit over the last few years I have read more nonfiction than not. Perhaps it is a sign of aging, or some need for the brain to be in a learning cycle rather than entertainment. In any instance, fiction or nonfiction, the difference is still noticeable.

When I was in high school, I turned to books for escapism. I suspect many high school age young people of today read for the same reason. The books I enjoyed the most were the ones that oozed of the passion of the author. It was all in the way the story was worded. The content and how the events were conveyed. E. L. Doctorow is quoted as saying, “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader – not the fact that it is raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.” This can only happen if the author has put the passion of the rain in the scene. How does it smell, how does it come about, from where does the rain fall and why? What does it feel like when it hits the reader?

As I am writing The Chrysalis Series, I am attempting to keep this in mind. It is my hope to bring the reader into the story with the characters. It is my hope the reader will experience the events in the story alongside of the characters. However, not every reader will enjoy the way the story is constructed. I can accept that, and I don’t mind. Those who dislike the story are of just as much value as those who like it. Constructing a story is hard work that must come from the heart and soul. Ask any painter and they will tell you the same of their vocation.

Many times I have said that Charles Dickens and Emily Dickinson are two of my classic favorites. The reason is their writing, be it fiction or poetry, is inspired. It comes from a living, breathing part of their soul that just could not be contained. Another of my favorites is Danielle Steele. Wow, haven’t heard that name in a while, but you know what? Danielle Steele stands out because of the passion she poured into her stories. My favorite Danielle Steele book is Zoya. The story of Anastasia is a timeless classic in all its forms. I enjoy reading Debbie Macomber because of the simplicity of the stories. Sometimes the greatest passions come in the simplest forms. I have yet to read another author who can bring everyday living to life as she does in the written word.

I am constructing my Amazon Wish List and at the top of that list is author, Teodor Flonta. Of all the up and coming authors I have read, simply put, this guy can write. I am paled by his fluency in story building. A Luminous Future is at the very top of the list. I have not read the entire story yet, but I want to. Somehow, Teodor has evoked emotion in this heart of mine. I found myself hanging on every word of the sample, feeling compassion and horror all at the same time. The whole scene just screamed of passionate storytelling. It was as though it is a story that must be told. Not everyone can write like this. Not everyone can evoke this type of sensation from the first pages. Kudos to Mr. Flonta for his triumph in telling his story.

Not long ago, I was set to press the delete button and walk away from The Butterfly Fields, never to think on it again. I was frustrated that the words I chose were not conveying the feelings I wanted to evoke. I hated my story. I wanted to rip up the pages, and then found I would have to print all of them first just to rip them up. Then I wanted to delete the whole file and be done with it. Then, I closed the manuscript, shutdown the laptop and walked away. I am certain that all writers go through this, no matter what they are writing. I think I remember this same situation while writing my high school theme paper on Marie Antoinette.

Charles Dickens did not start out as a world renowned author. Emily Dickinson never saw her works in print, they were published posthumously. And, I  have read the countless numbers of stories of today’s authors who were rejected and or ridiculed for their work before becoming famous. I like Debbie Macomber’s story with Harlequin the best. In a nutshell she was told she should go home, trash her manuscript and never write again. Six million books later she’s a fantastic author.
 
I am still in the seedling state of writing. I suspect I won’t be a full grown author for some time. However, I am doing the best I can with the talent I have, and I won’t give it up for anything; and neither should you.

Monday Musings: Dwell in Possibility

It was a pleasant eve between my old friend, Emily, and me. The breeze fluttered through the open window at my back as the life of Emily revealed itself before me. Emily and I were quite the pair; she and I.

A sky filled with a billion twinkling lights against the backdrop of the vast darkness of the unknown. A question for each racing through our minds, "What are you? Where are you? How did you get there and where are you going?" Questions requiring answers not forthcoming.

"Dwell in possibility." ~
Emily Dickinson

Awkward and strange to those from the outside; meeting only a few and understanding none. A childlike lack of confidence when in the social air. A preference for the solitude of our own skins. Afraid if we should bleed, the light that courses through our veins would be lost into the world; scattered to the four winds. Yet, ever longing for the eternal escape as we suffocate within the confines our bindings.

Faced with the harshness of the reality of the world around us; factual and scientific in nature. A never-ending descent into the smallest tangible portion of reality until there is no more; and everything. A journey of searching for the undeniable fact.

Ever on the edge of hope and desire; a desire to find that one true love that seems elusive in the world that binds us within the wall-less prisons of our minds. Chained to the firmanent with fleeting glimpses of all that is - and is not. All that will be; manifesting only in the prose of our unspoken words; living between the synapsis of the life confirming organ that determines - destination.

Feverishly spilling the stress of the days within the confines onto parchment from pen. Desperately seeking blessed release from the pains of humanity which haunt us: Death and destruction viewable from the seat at the window; merciless deeds of injustice done in the name of progress; deceit disguised as benevolence strategically maneuvered for the sake of greed; and the bloodlust of humanity marches forward in a quest to conquer the temporary.

Every moment spent attached to the flesh of life inflicting torturous pains upon the soul until it cries out in desperate pleas for mercy from the silence that deafens the ears. Pains that manifest in the flowing streams of saltwater that trickle onto the marble floor of gluttony.

The sun rises over the horizon as though a savior from the darkness that leads the soul through valleys of death. Rays of light striking into the haze between dark and light. The sky is paintbrushed into a new day; a new hope; a new life.

In keeping with the Monday theme of classic authors, this post has been recycled from May of 2011. I have been busy working on The Chrysalis Series. Have a wonderful week everyone!
(c) Donna R. Wood 2011 - All right reserved.

Fractured Friday: Unfaithful

Story of my life, searching for the right, but it keeps avoiding me. Sorrow in my soul, cause it seems that wrong really loves my company. He's more than a man, and this is more than love; the reason that the sky is blue. The clouds are rolling in because I'm gone again. And to him I just can't be true. And I know that he knows...I'm unfaithful...And it kills him inside ~ Rhianna, Unfaithful

After many years behind the fortress walls, I grow cold deep down inside. I've lost all reason for love. I've lost the meaning of the word, only to have it replaced by artificial gratification to pacify a needful soul. A gaping emptiness exists where love was once housed in my heart of hearts; if ever I really knew what love was. I can no longer remember.

Even after it has been offered, I cannot seem to accept it. I do not know what it is that comes after.





I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to be the reason why, everytime I walk out the door, I see him die a little more inside. I don't want to hurt him anymore. I don't want to take away his life. I don't wanna be...a murderer.

Creeping around the fortress, night after night, with visions of the possibilities haunting my every moment. The tugging at my heart won't let go...it won't release me to endure the fate that surely lies ahead. I know what comes after the artificial gratifications of the world in which I live. I know and understand the contract well. Although the thought frightens me to the very core of my soul, at least I know when they come for me, I will reap what I have sown, and somehow have always known; I am destined for hell.

And yet, there he stands, unwilling to move, unwilling to let me go. Why can't he see I do not understand this love he offers? I do not know what it is, from whence it came, nor where it will take me. The fear of being loved is almost greater than the fear of losing my soul. I understand the ends to one and not the beginnings of the other. Surely, all the dark and insidious guilts that create the cavernous holes in my being, slowly eating me away, cannot be erased; cannot be healed. What are the possibilities? What does it mean?



And yet, I don't want to hurt him anymore. I don't want to take away his life. I don't want to be...a murderer.

Lyrics: Unfaithful ~ Rhianna




I've added 'Fractured Friday' to the Butterfly Phoenix Blog for the purpose of collecting my thoughts. I am working on a new project that my muse has decided to force upon me, so bear with me and my fractured thoughts. This summary is a chapter from earlier in the manuscript.

Fractured Friday: Someone Like You

"Nothing compares, no worries or cares. Regrets and mistakes, they're memories made. Who would have known how bittersweet this would taste. Nevermind, I'll find someone like you. I wish nothing but the best for you. Don't forget me, I begged, I remember you said, sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead." ~ Someone Like You ~ Adele





We are all unique, yet, none are special in our burdens or cares in the world. We walk alone, no matter the circumstances. We live every day with our regrets and our mistakes, ever seeking a simple gesture of humanity. Seeking something that will lessen the weight of our world resting on our shoulders. The search is a long and exhausting endeavor.

From our frosted view of the world, where hearts have grown cold, we wonder is there a sun? Will we ever feel its warmth on our face? Is there a place in the world where people see past the scarlet letters sewn upon our breasts; a place where forgiveness lives? Is redemption something real, or only a hopeful fantasy carved out in centuries of literary prose?

Within the walls of the fortress, there is at least a sense of security. The fortress built stone by stone, through labors lasting years and years; a security where hurts cannot reach our hearts and souls.

The walls begin to crumble, in the hopes that someone will make it 'ok' to step outside, to trust the world is not covered with ice. Time and time again, we make the mistake of letting someone in, only to find all they see is the scarlet letters of past mistakes, on which regret feeds. Stones are replaced as quickly as they crumbled. Self-preservation overtakes the need for anything the outside world has to offer. The fortress secure once more.

I hate to turn up out of the blue univited, but I couldn't stay away, I couldn't fight it. I had hoped you'd see my face and that you'd be reminded, for me it isn't over. Nevermind, I'll find someone like you. I wish nothing but the best for you. Don't forget me, I begged, I remember you said, sometimes it lasts in love and sometimes it hurts instead.



Someone Like You - Adele - 2011, XL Recordings