My words

In looking back over my last few weeks of posts, the majority of them seem, well, kinda dark. Especially over the past several months, I have been focusing more on my fiction writing. I’ve been active in some writing groups and using those weekly prompts to act as my muse. I don’t think it’s necessarily that the prompts are particularly maudlin, it’s apparently my interpretation.

I read the prompt, and think about my first impression… then voilà… madness and mayhem. Most recently I’ve touched on sexual harassment in the workplace, domestic violence, toxic friendships, and in a non-fiction piece – cat enemas.

(for all who have asked – and thank you for your concern – I’m fine, my marriage is fine, life is fine, and my cat is feeling better.)

Not exactly what you could call light reading. The only posts that are not depressing – at least not intentionally – are my photos.

When I started posting in My Notebook, it was because my former blog had gotten so damn depressing. Everything had become so ‘woe is me’ that I hated even opening the page. I guess the biggest difference here, is that all this bleak writing is fiction. A saving grave, I suppose, is that even with these serious themes, I try to interject a glimmer of hope, or survival, or at least some hint of levity.

Trying to force my writing to be anything less than organic, seems wrong. Doesn’t that sound so pretentious… “I have to let the words come as they may.” (that must be spoken with a slightly breathy tone and a really bad British accent, with the back of your hand held dramatically to your forehead.)

Still, I don’t want to ATTEMPT to write in a contrived manner. I think it would be obvious what I was doing, and it would read stilted and hollow. Most importantly, I would feel I was just going through the motions. I don’t want to do that. Even if I’m writing total fiction – and a lot of my writing has some trace of truth to it – I want it to seem real. That the event or situation could actually happen.

I admire so many writers whose prose are transforming. They are lyrical and magical. That’s not me either. Anytime I’ve tried to be deep, and abstract, it comes across as something sad and sophomoric. My brain doesn’t work that way, and trying to write in someone else’s style is almost physically painful.

My writing may never find any other outlet than this space, but I still want it to be genuine to me.

Submitted as part of Shell’s “Pour Your Heart Out” writing prompt at Things I Can’t Say. Please stop by to read the other posts, and give a little comment love.

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