Mmmm, that's one fine figure of a......

story????

I've noticed, recently, that my writing style has a distinctly "hourglass" shape. Whenever I'm working on something--- especially, a piece that's longer than a flash/ short story--- I find that my writing tends to move in 3 stages:

1/ Broad, relatively vague descriptions that lead to
2/Narrow, almost indecipherable introspection from the narrating character, which then leads to
3/ Broad, story specific descriptions that finally resemble a fully-matured story

Somehow, the alternating views of the telescope to the microscope and then back to the telescope again, form some sort of logical "story-building" method for me. I still haven't figured out if it works....but, at least knowing that this is the current process my writing takes, I can now remind myself NOT to give up on a story just because it doesn't make sense and isn't clearly defined---- as I am still obviously in the top half of my hourglass.....

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A to Z reflections....

Another A to Z challenge comes to an end--- another collection of posts and poetry have been written, another deep breath of relief is released. For my fellow bloggers that survived as well, it's another 'challenge-completed' notch carved into the writing desk. I've come to enjoy my yearly foray into the world of all things alphabetical. This was my third year, though it was only the second year I had a workable theme (which made the challenge substantially easier than the first year I attempted this challenge.) And, though my first year was difficult because my focus was so scattered, I found this year was more difficult because I lost the enthusiasm that came with the first year excitement----excitement which helped me plug along until the end of the challenge. Year 3 was a success in the sense that I completed the challenge, though, this was the year that almost wasn't---- Somewhere about a third of the way through the challenge, I seriously considered

A million lives, beneath a single sky.....

Though our feet leave different prints,our tongues sound different words, there's a mirrored rhythm in the beating of our hearts. Though born in different worlds, our eyes sharpened 'neath different moons, there's an unspoken truth in the warmth of our touch. We may walk in different strides and dream different dreams, we may speak in different voices, maybe swim in different streams. It's plain to see, when dark night falls, as all the stars shine through, that underneath it all, there's no difference 'tween me and you.

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.

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

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