No rest for the weary, no holiday for the wicked, no hope for the fallen....

Tonight marks the completion of another round of contest-entering. Two stories were submitted, one to the Once Written website, for their Midnight Hour "Halloween" short story competition....the other was a Flash Fiction piece submitted to the WOW! (women on writing) Website.

After the initial rush that I had hit the "submit" button and could in no way retrieve what I had sent out, the realization that other contest deadlines were impending invaded.

As I pulled 3 more stories out of my pile for the next 3 contests--- all of which have an October 1st deadline--- I suddenly realized something about my writing.......

I have an increasingly morbid fixation on death....

Every story I've ever written, ever thought of, has been centered around death---- the tragic death, the lonely death, the vengeful death, the grievous death, the hopeful death--- if there can be a "hopeful" death....

I'm not sure where my writing disposition comes from, but, it is clear what drives it. I seem to have this need to bring to light all the tragedies of life. I'm not writing about death just to write about death. I am writing about death as a means of bringing a solemnity to what I'm writing. I never intended to use death as a device. But, I guess I'm just too much of a cynic to believe that life could ever just be gumdrops and candy canes. I've seen too much to know that isn't possible.

So, I can't fake it. I can't pretend there aren't tragic things out there happening to good people. I can't pretend that death isn't real, it happens every day. All I can do is bring to my stories some thread of dignity and hope.

Death will always be there, so I guess it isn't really a fixation. Death is there because it is there....

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Bitter Honey

Weaving dreams of beguiling gold, a future's price for happiness. What secrets do you, determined, hold? asks the summer wind's soft caress. A guarded name, a hidden hope. Spinning wheels clutching time, grasping straw that falls away, What dreams may come, we soon may find, won't recall at end of day. A cherished life, a memory lost.

A-Z Reflections, year 4....

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A to Z reflections....

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From the Inkwell, From the Vein.....

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