Alone Again Or

Yesterday, I filled in a survey for a large organisation who, if I’m honest, was never set up to deal with the likes of me. The girl with anxiety issues, constant bouts of Impostor Syndrome, fear of failure and inability to understand what other people are talking about, on her worst days, puts the cause back months. Today however that girl’s still in bed, not wanting to push forward or achieve greatness. In her place this doppelganger is at the PC, putting in the hours, covering for inadequacy.

The world’s a tough place to negotiate at the best of times, especially in these fraught days of political and social uncertainty. The survey asked me a simple question: what do I miss in my life, now that there’s so much dedication to the writing cause? The answer is simple: friends. People who understand what this is like: the constant rejections, the uncertainty, doubting yourself and the output you produce. When I look at the successful people in my timeline, perilously few show the weaknesses I deal with.

Maybe that’s part of the problem.

Twitter presents the world with a platform to be whatever they wish, yet so many believe that’s the kind of person who never shows vulnerability or shortcomings. Undoubtedly the people I now gain the most from in terms of interactivity and support are those who show this more vulnerable side, not afraid to be honest with their failings. It is also becoming increasingly apparent that anyone who arrogantly believes their opinion is the only right answer will never be worth listening to or indeed debating with.

When I’m writing poetry, or fiction, or whatever else might be needed of me in terms of words, success is what is aimed for. However, less and less that success equates to being able to put well known organisations next to my work. Validation in a capitalist society inevitably is being able to earn a wage from your efforts. It doesn’t help that ‘best-selling’ ‘successful’ writers are all over my social media: many act like they’re some kind of literary evangelist, offering answers and succour in exchange for your fealty.

Except reality is a long way from that truth.

A lot of individuals consider any public admission of failure as unacceptable. It is understandable, especially as such concepts are often grouped with social constructs or lifestyle choices that directly fly in the face of continued success. The pressure to achieve, present the ‘right’ impression or outlook, places incredible amounts of stress on the most hardened of individuals… and yet, showing this is inevitably negative. That’s not true. To err is human. It is the most basic part of ourselves, and should be embraced.

Today, sitting here, I know there’s a rejection waiting to drop in my Inbox. I could probably write the generic message that will accompany it. It will include phrases such as:

‘hugely high standard of entries’
‘incredibly difficult decision’
‘so difficult to choose a winner’
‘because of the high volume of entries, no individual criticism of individual work can be provided…’

and there’s the killer. Nobody’s willingly prepared to offer free criticism, or comment. If you want to learn how to do this, you’ll more than likely have to pay someone for the privilege. Take a course, hire an editor, and even then nobody may care one jot about what makes you passionate because, in the current market, nobody wants poetry that rhymes. Your narrative is unsaleable, according to people who claim to share your passion, but only if it will make them money.

This is a tough world, and it is not getting any easier.

Not gonna lie here, I have JK muted on Twitter. Her ideas and mine are quite a long way apart, but if personal proof were needed that the unknown can become successful overnight, this is it. It would be a foolish person who did not respect the achievement of others: it is also a foolish person who will believe that only one route to success exists, and that is to exactly emulate the actions of others, without being true to yourself first. You are what you are, good and bad: I believe that you need to embrace both to be truly comfortable with your work.

One day, my work will get noticed. There’s a fair chance that won’t happen until long after I’m dead, part of why the notion of ‘success’ needs to change in the here and now. As it is just as likely I’ll not be around to enjoy that definition, maybe this is the moment to find the joy elsewhere, and stop worrying about the idea that you’re only good when people you don’t know read your work and enjoy it. I’m already at that stage, or else you wouldn’t be here now. So, in that regard, this is progress.

What matters most, right now, is honesty and not publicity.

Poetry Archive :: Nobody but You [Redux]

Love is still horrible, unsurprisingly.

The original version of this poem can be found here.


Nobody But You

Now, departed: mind
desolate: understanding,
our love is over.

All passion desires
out of reach: estranged moments,
cold, empty feelings.

Every day, torture
realisation; final
line drawn, completed.

Point of no return,
old path blocked: accept failure
future, crumbling.

Nobody but you
at this instant: matters more,
loss too much to bear.

Poetry Archive :: My One and Only Love [Parisian Remix]

We’ll be going back to writing new verse next week, having learnt a significant amount not only about myself, but how this entire process works best. A lot has been taken from not just my original working practices, but also how words are changing over time. Needless to say, there’s plenty of stuff left to go back and alter, if and when the mood strikes (or I’m in the position where reality does not allow me the ability to be so free with my time.)

I’ll see you bright and early on Monday for the new gubbins, for now take a look at this poem’s evolution from the original published last February.


My One and Only Love

Will never fail to understand
always willing, just take their hand:
my one and only soothes dark soul
returning peace, beating heart whole.

Her arrondissements surround
life weary girl, effect profound;
agreement between life and death
remain strong even when bereft.

The Seine will calm inherent fear,
bathes understanding strong and clear:
snug cafe warmth to Tour Eiffel,
sing Notre Dame’s distinctive bells.

Strong sounds now heal all broken parts
both mind and body, hope restarts;
life’s reconstruction through belief
toxic elimination, brief.

This city never cheats nor lies;
brings joy, both greeting then goodbyes,
my one and only, staunch best friend:
Paris, beginning without end.

Drink the Elixir

Right, back to the grind starting Monday, with ALL NEW OUTPUT because there’s no excuse after (effectively) a month off. Sure, there’s a ton of things that could be done too but for now, time to sharpen the existing skill set. Go with what you know, right?

Altered

You already know therefore that April’s short story is one of the set that I started this month for another project… so, a little teaser might be in order, to give an idea of what’s coming. A terrorist with cold feet and a policewoman in the midst of a crisis of conscience walk into a place of worship… 

Starting April 1st for 30 days: 9am (@MoveablePress) and 4pm (@InternetofWords)


word

Sometimes, simple is best. There’s millions of songs out there, but all I’m interested in are the ones with a single word title. The 30 best, in my opinion, will begin appearing in the @MoveablePress Twitter feed at 9.30pm every night from April 1st. Hooray for having scheduling back and working again!


drink the elixir

ALSO #Narrating2019 is BACK after a brief hiatus: having struggled for a few months when it came to content, a rethink took place and now, all told, things are a lot less stressful. Every night from 9.30pm on the @InternetofWords Twitter feed, it’s time to talk drinking: what you want, how you take it, and more importantly what that stuff does to your body…


GREEN

Poetry’s been produced a bit differently as well this month: both haiku and micro-poems, for the entire four week period, are presented under the same banner. I had thought about maybe 30 verses of both as an overall, arching theme but that would need a little more organisational groundwork than currently exists, but is likely to happen later in the year. For now, eight words have been picked as titles, all relevant to the changing season.

Micropoetry @ 9am and Haiku @ 5pm both on the @InternetofWords Twitter account, before poems are archived to the blog on Saturday and Sunday.


There will be other stuff too, but for now, this is enough. See you bright and early on Monday morning 😀

Poetry Archive :: The Slightest Touch (Redux)

The original for this one is here, and if I’m honest, you might be hard pressed to discern the difference. There’s not really a ton of change, and this one was a bit saucy before we started. However, if pressed, this feels like an improvement.

Next week is the last of the old stuff. NEW THINGS BEGIN AGAIN IN APRIL \o/


The Slightest Touch

Sensitised, moving
side to back; sense arrival,
waking arousal.

Coarse flesh, rough hands brush
back, touch hip: pulling closer
face blurs as lips touch.

Lost in joint passion;
blessed manipulation
bodies twist, combine.

Looking down to you,
hands grasp: shifting weight above,
organ pulse inside.

Your slightest touch lights
chain reaction: seed, life’s spark
little death our end.

Poetry Archive :: The Sensual World (Redux)

It has been mentioned elsewhere that this week has very much involved an improvement to process, but that was primarily wrapped around short story writing. This piece has not significantly altered from it’s original, when all is said and done. Crucially the verse benefits from an increased awareness of my inner poetic ‘voice.’ That has been subsequently lent to short-form fiction this week too: finding the means by which descriptive passages can gain that same lyricism is a skill that was previously lacking.

Also, crucially, capital letters are no longer a Thing.


The Sensual World

Smooth, grasping hand pulls forward need,
equal pressure soft lips then feed:
upon sweet fruits these bodies yield
whilst layered warmth ‘neath cotton shield.

As coupling cements joint dance
desire sires passion, both advance,
beyond blood’s simple pulsing beat
each small release; orgasms fleet.

Quiet coalescing, strengthened whole
compelling mind, intertwined souls:
together locked, deepening tryst
no pain or doubt ever exist.

Successive sparks of passion flare,
between two hearts burden declares
smooth strengthening, our final form:
life redefines accepted norm.

Our sensual world, never far
within whatever space we are
requiring simplest care to fuel;
eternal fountain, love’s renewal.

Poetry Archive :: Regret

This is, in my opinion, as good as the original.

You can find that here.


Regret

Holding belief close
to beating heart: how now to
begin this story?

Commencing belief,
honesty placed: strong passion
swallowed soul, grasped mind.

Our middle movement,
soaring, reflective: leading
onward, to coda.

Beginning, ending;
passion departed: transformed
bitter memory.

Regret devolves, love’s
beautiful broken sliver;
life’s once perfect whole.