Cracks

For Velvet Verbosity's 100 Words Challenge. This round's word of inspiration is VOICE.

He earned his living with that voice, hosting radio shows featuring oldies or lonely heart dedications. Deep and enveloping, immediately familiar. Equal parts thunder and romance. And always strong.

He paid our bills with it. Put food in our bellies, put our green asses through college. Put the fear of God in us.

I never knew it to show weakness, even when Grandma died.

Until we spoke today. Over the hollow line, it was time his only daughter knew the severity. I could hear the cracks, like sugar glass. Unsure if it was in his voice, or from within me.

Protector

For Velvet Verbosity's 100 Words Project. This week's inspiration is CUFFS.

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The first few cuffs across the chops she let slide without question. If her strict upbringing taught her anything, it was that the man was head of the house. Reminding her of her place was probably called for.

As his corrective hand grew firmer over time, it became a little more difficult. At least now he only struck her where it wouldn't have to show.

But when she found streaks of blood in her daughter's little panties, that was too much.

As the officer placed the cuffs on her own blood-soaked wrists, she smiled - certain any judge would understand.

Becoming Beautiful (100 Words)

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This is my first contribution to Velvet Verbosity's 100 Words Project - a fun little exercise I've decided to invite myself to join. Each week a word or phrase is presened to participants, to build from however we are inspired - in exactly 100 words.

This week's inspiration is SLEEK.

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On any ordinary day, she sees herself as a lumpy, mousy, fairly unremarkable girl. But during these devoted hours, the constraints on her meager self confidence fall away. She allows the music to soak into her , dissolving her insecurities. New world, middle eastern, modern rock, it doesn't matter. They all seduce her instincts. Sensuality billows within her. Working boneless arms, fluid spine and sleek swiveling hips glinting with coin scarves, she transforms. Still the same body, but not the same girl. She is a goddess. Day by day, more of the goddess remains afterwards. She's becoming beautiful to herself - finally.

Finding My Way Back

When you respond to the call of creativity, you will find peace from the purge. If you do not heed, the calls of sirens become the shrieks of banshees and given enough time unrequited will drive you mad. I need to learn not only to listen, but respond. It is my condition, it is in the fiber of my being. ~ Clew, August 28, 2005


I wrote these words almost six years ago. It didn't take me long to stray from my creative soul's steps to salvation, though.

I've really been farting around with this blog for a while. Going months without posts and then wasting everyone's time (most significatly, my own) with jabber containing little to no creativity. I've missed writing. Not just blogging, but writing, as a practice. I've allowed myself to become too preoccupied with other things, and my creativity has gone into a coma.

The shock of newness will often shake you awake. Some life-altering events have happened in and around me and my family recently - and in courses I won't try to explain, my longing to create ... I don't know, something ... has returned. And I had a revelation the other day. When I was at the height of my creative production on this blog, I was most rewarded with serenity in my heart and mind. I received more satisfaction from writing a good blog post than from drawing and painting - what I have always considered my prominent creative outlets. Am I missing my calling?

So, long story short (too late), I'm going to return to creative writing pursuits here at Clew's Blues. It may suck sometimes. I feel rusty. But rustiness doesn't come from lack of capability as much as it comes from lack of practice. I'm going to devote more time (more consistently, also) to creativity here. Directly my dear readers, who are still hanging in there with me despite my lame attendance record, will see that I'm going to experiment with some prompts and challenges from some writing groups I've found. Behind the scenes, I am looking into eventually submitting some pieces for publication. Will I get rich? Doubtful. Will I even be selected? Probably not, not right away anyway. But ... who knows?

Why not me?

Wait ... What?

So, I finished The Paris Wife, and I found it to be absolutely exquisite. It broke my heart(figuratively) in 20 different ways and left me sad that there was not more to read. That's the mark of a good book.

The whole thing got me thinking about checking out some Hemingway. Somehow I'd avoided reading any of his works throughout school - and while some of his contemporaries left me ... let's say, underwhelmed, at the time ... perhaps I'd developed enough over the years to have a great appreciation for this literary genius.

I took Incrediboy to the library last night and while we were there I grabbed a collection of Hemingway's short stories (which, I have gathered from my nosings, is the forte where he really shone). These were written duting the time frame of TPW, so that made it even more fun.

I read about 50 pages last night - the equivalent of 5 short stories.

I wasn't impressed.

Other than a few dazzling lines sprinkled sparsely throughout, I found his style to be choppy, awkward, and even juvenile. THIS is the greatest American writer of the 20th century? Really?

I guess he's just not my style.

I'm going to keep reading for a while, thinking that maybe Hemingway is an acquired taste for me. I also have the desperate feeling that I'm simply missing something. Personally, I think I'm a pretty good judge of worthy writing. I like it beautiful but simple. Poetically descriptive yet not too fluorishy. Could I really be so at odds with what's considered literary gold?

I'm telling you though - my creative writing professors would have given us a C-minus at best for turning in that stuff. I'm really quite perplexed.