Skip to main content

I yam what I yam and that's all that I yam.....

Why do I write?
Why do I lock myself inside my mind?
Why do I hide from the world around me?
Why do I take myself out of life?

It's no easy thing to ponder, the solitary writer's path that's been chosen. Sometimes, it feels as if we have no control over what decisions we're making-- like the journey has already been laid out for us and there is nothing we do that will alter it....

But, for writers, most writers, some writers--- okay, at least for me as a writer.... I can do nothing other than what I am already doing. Even when I wasn't trying to be a writer, I was writing. Even when I wasn't trying to compose a story, the tale was already writing itself in my sub-conscious. The solitary, writing life might be no easy thing to ponder, but it beats the reality-- that being a writer is a helluva scary thing.... or, it can be, if you really think about it.

Books have the power to change lives. Which means, by extension, writers have the power to change the world.

 I don't intend this to be some grand, self-promoting, horn-blowing, "I'm a writer-worship me" kind of statement. I don't lump myself with the future-changing, earth-shaping masters who've carved a path through the mountains. No, I'm more of the socially-acceptable schizophrenic writer who has a thousand voices all screaming for a chance to take center stage.

But, the idea of the world changing as a result of someone's words, that's magical stuff.... magically, powerful stuff....

One thing I will allow myself to "share" with these wonderful molders of humanity, is the plight/curse of every writer--- one can not simply NOT write!

Even when you've chosen to 'grow up' and pursue other career choices, when you've gone to college and chosen never to 'write' another 'story', somehow, the path that was chosen for you will never allow you to stray too far. Suddenly, you have hundreds of poems, fifty short stories and a dozen novel-length manuscripts and no earthly idea where all the crap came from.


Popular posts from this blog

Y is for Yeth Hound.....

Yeth Hound--- one of the incarnations of the "Black Dog" myth, this one located specifically, in Devon, England.

"Black Dogs" appear in myths across the world, most are associated with death and bad omens... i.e. Hell Hounds.

The Yeth Hound is said to be the spirit of an unbaptised child that takes the form of a headless black dog. The Hound wanders the woods at night making pitiful wailing sounds (though, I'm unclear as to how it makes wailing sounds without having a head).

The Black Dogs were possibly one inspiration from Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's ghost dog in The Hound of the Baskervilles-- "an enormous coal-black hound, but not such a hound as mortal eyes have ever seen."

Heed Not, the Lonesome Cry
Heed not, the lonesome cry, the baleful wail echoing through the woods. Seek not, the black hound's sigh, look not where the headless creature stood.
One sound, your limbs will shake, your heart filled with the deepest dread. One glimpse, your sou…

B is for Banshee.....

Irish bean sidhe and Scottish Gaelic bean sith, literally, woman of fairyland.

The mythology and legend surrounding the Banshee is a bit mixed. The most readily accepted story is of a hag-like creature wailing the impending death of someone nearby-- most ancient Gaelic families, especially the more well-to-do families, had their own Banshees that attached themselves to the lineage of the family name. I suppose it was a sign of station for a family to be able to claim their own Banshee--- I mean, who needs an exciting/ tongue-wagging-inciting skeleton in your cupboard when you've got a Banshee wailing in your rafters?
The origins of the more familiar Banshee may have stemmed from the ancient Keeners-- women who were employed to sing a lament at a funeral. The best Keeners were in high demand to "wail" and "weep" for the great personage who had fallen.

The Great families would boast a bean sidhe or bean sith-- a fairy-woman Keener--and having foresight, the Keene…

Scottish Festival and a bit of poetry...

The 38th annual Arkansas Scottish Festival was held at Lyon College in Batesville, Arkansas on April 7th - April 9th. This was the first time I'd ever attended. I'm sad to say I didn't even know the festival existed until last year. On Saturday, April 8th, a group of friends and I made the several-hour trek, determined to enjoy everything we could.
The weather was glorious, all bright, bonnie sunlight and mild temperatures. Seemed mother nature approved of the festivities. The campus was appropriately kitted out, and nearly everyone in attendance was properly *ahem* kilted out. 
Bagpipes playing, we ate meat pies--- well, mine was a 5-cheese mac & cheese pie--- watched clans parade their colors, got sunburned (darn our fair, Celtic skin), and wanted the day to last forever.
There were a host of competitions, everything from Scottish/Irish dance-offs, sheep dog trials, Tartan races, a Celtic poetry competition, piping and drum trials, even a bonniest knees competition (…