As we denounce the rebellious, the nonconformists, so we reward mediocrity so long as it mirrors herd standards...
Though we owe our national birth to revolution, we are singularly suspicious of other revolutions. Yet revolution goes on all about us. Someone is always in revolt against the accepted order. If I have read my history aright, it is the heretics, the nonconformists, the iconoclasts who have enriched our lives, added both to our knowledge, our progress and our happiness.
In the beginning it was just a game.
A silly little game of solitude that I played all on my own.
Until one day, it jumped up and took over my thoughts, in the wink of an eye.
I know, for it was my own eye, that winked it in.
You see, I love words, or rather I did, back when they were whole beings that orbited the planet of my thoughts.
They would fall off my tongue and fill the silence all about me with their pleasing tones and meanings.
Then why came along and I found myself struggling just to hold its tail.
I started saying the word why, over and over.
Again and again.
Just like any word when you say it too many times, it stops being that word.
Its letters melt into each other until the sound of it no longer sits correctly on your tongue.
So foreign does the sound of it become to you, that you even begin to question whether or not you are even saying it properly.
Then along with the melting of letters and the dislocation of a words sound, comes the disintegration of its meaning.
It no longer sounds the same, looks the same or even portrays the same ideal that it once held, back when you said it only once and knew, just knew, the nature of the word and all of its derivatives.
Well why is like that.
I started asking why?
Then I found I couldn’t stop.
Too late I realized my own mistake as all of the answers I once smugly thought I knew tumbled out of the sky and rained down on me in a stream of incomprehensible noise.
I know it sounds absurd to say that you have been drowned by a lack of meaning, but there it is, that is what has happened to me.
The more I asked, the less I understood.
The less I understood the more I asked.
It has become a disease in me.
This constant need to know WHY has stolen from me all of my once strongly held truths.
You see all that I am, or have ever been, was being pulled agonizingly apart in a string of whys?
So far apart that I found I no longer knew myself to be the person I’d thought myself to be.
You see this endless asking has led me to a barren place.
A place in which the oasis of understanding lies shimmering, in the distance, leading me ever on, further away from myself and deeper into the desert of the unknown.
I feel often as though I am in the wrong country.
That the language I have is incorrect and yet I do not know how to fix it.
There are no travel guides here and even if there were I wouldn’t be able to read them, for they’d be in that other language.
The one that I have lost.
Perhaps it is not my family that’s a country at war with itself .
Perhaps I am at war with myself?
Perhaps I am. Perhaps indeed I am.
With few parting words from my mother I was placed in the back of a car and driven for what felt like years away from the home that had held me captive for all that time.
My eyes grew tired from straining to take in all that there was to see.
My body ached and my head wanted to lay itself down and rest.
But there was no rest, not with the questions of why still racing through my mind.
Why was I going somewhere new and who would be there to greet me?
So I sat in the back.
Trying to blink in the colours of the deepening sky and the sparse trees that doubled in number and then grew into a forest of greenery the longer we travelled.
All those colours clashed and collided inside of my head.
I tried in vain, to count the number of guideposts that it took to get there, in case I should not like it and wished to return back to my other home.
But there were too many and they flew by my eyes like hail.
Fencing me in,
In a pen of their choosing.
I must have been asleep by the time we arrived. I remember nothing of entering my new home but rather I simply woke up in a new room with a translucent stranger hovering over me.
The figure smiled. ‘My name is Vonnie and I’m going to help you settle in and show you around. How would you like that?’
I must have smiled for she nodded her head at me.
Vonnie helped me up and showed me where the bathrooms were. I clutched my small bag of belongings to me as I scurried off to wash myself clean of the sins of reading .
For was that not what had gotten me into this mess in the first place?
My love of books?
To my mind at the time the answer was quite obviously yes.
I was there, in that very place, for that very reason.
I was being punished, once again, for loving beyond apparent reason, that which others did not, comprehend.
Some days being in my family felt like living in a country constantly at war with itself .
The bomb shells of my father’s yelling.
The shrilling peel of my mother’s crying and the thudding of a million doors slamming that always made me jump.
And the way my father’s voice boomed too loudly at me as he stood in my doorway and told me that ‘after Christmas things would change’.
Like spare change?
As in money, I thought.
He must have meant that we’d be getting more money I reasoned.
We didn’t get more money.
Instead what I remember most about Christmas that year was my growing sense of displacement.
It was not anything new to me for I had always felt that way about Christmas.
But this year I expected more, for with more money, I expected books. At last. Finally.
Every year, in that house at Christmas, with my pseudo mother and pseudo father, I’d always wanted books and I’d always got clothes or a school bag, but never any books.
Yet this Christmas, despite my expectations, still, there were no books
So I stayed alone in my room.
Just me and the walls.
The walls and me.
It was an ordinary day.
Like so many other days in that house.
On boxing day my pseudo parents came into my room and told me that they’d finally decided what was best for me.
I was to be sent to a home in the country.
It sounded nice.
‘What country?’ I asked them.
They stared at me.
I was used to being stared at. That didn’t bother me.
What bothered me was not getting the answer to my question.
How am I to know what country I am in if I am not told?
Their responses made me feel as though I were an ancient text that had been translated wrongly.
Just a few symbols out-of-place here and there and the meaning of everything changed all around me.
Do you see yet how easily I have been taken out of context and slotted neatly back in where other people would prefer me to be?
Or perhaps it is the other way around?
Perhaps it is not I who has been lost in translation but rather the world around me that has been placed out of the reach of its own meaning.
Living and dreaming,
Beneath our seams,
Words help us,
To make sense,
Of the differences,
The inner and the outer,
Reconciling the clash,
The seen and the seemed,
This is why,
Words seem to dance,
And to thrive,
On the tongues,
Of all poets,
Who willingly feed us,
Food for more,
Than just thought.
Gently building upon our appetites,
While encouraging us to swallow,
And to savour,
All of our experiences,
Not just within the safety,
Of our own piecemeal,
But openly and knowingly,
Caught within a whole.
Those who dine on knowledge,
That words are more,
Than just expressions,
They are the language,
Of the soul.
- What Makes us Poets? (seventhvoice.wordpress.com)
- Too many words – April 16 (missypoemwords.wordpress.com)
- Write (carouselcalvo.wordpress.com)
- The World of Words (aliveinheart.wordpress.com)
- Poets, bards, lyricists … #napowrimo19 (wizardnews.wordpress.com)
- Angels of words (marielasaravia.wordpress.com)
- Vivacious Blogger (livelifevivaciously.wordpress.com)
Growing up as a child, I don’t remember my parents particularly taking much interest in me.
They never seemed to notice any of my good qualities or encourage me to excel in any areas of interest.
In fact , more often than not, they hurled criticism at me for being a “lazy book worn” rather than recognizing my early love of reading and writing as skills in which (apparently unbeknownst to them) I excelled.
I, like many others of my ilk, have more than a few not so pleasant memories of growing up and I guess that most everyone would have at least the odd one or two that develop on into adult bug bears.
Yet for me, it seems somehow as if all of my not so pleasant memories are more than mere momentary apparitions.
More than just the odd entities of past thoughts that rise up and envelope me whenever someone says ‘oh do you remember that time when we were kids?”
Instead they live and breathe inside of me.
My way of absorbing the world it seems, has etched them, into my very skin.
Turning them from the old long forgotten fiends that others so easily bury, into the constant companions that urge me to consider,….
What if things had been different?????
What if, instead of discouraging me, my parents had taught me that words have value and that poetry can be powerful ?
That writing is a skill worthy of being worked on, understood and nurtured, not ridiculed, forgotten and tossed to easily in the trash ?
For years and years I assumed that the way I’d taken in my parents general lack of awareness of me, my hopes, my joys and my concerns, had all been part and parcel of my being the middle child.
I also assumed that the way I’d memorized and catalogued my extensive list of childhood grievances’ was something that every child did.
And that other children somehow magically managed to forget about such lists when the throes of adulthood struck them.
I’ve always wondered why it is that I’ve never been able to master this trick of forgetting all but the most extreme agonies of childhood the way that others do.
For I know that other people can do this because it is what I’ve watched my sister do as she squashed down and then destroyed her dream of becoming a singer.
She had, in her teenage years, one of the most amazingly brilliant singing voices I’ve ever heard come out of another human being.
No I’m not talking about the sort of voice that occasionally earns you the title of “Rock Star” on Sing Star, but the kind of voice that makes people stop whatever it is they are doing and look up for its source.
Yes, she was that good.
Indeed some of my happiest childhood memories are of sitting outside our bedroom door (being younger I was always locked out of the room whenever she was in residence) and listening to her belt out the latest Abba or Smokey songs.
She had a gift but my parents weren’t interested in acknowledging, encouraging or even remotely helping her, to develop it.
No singing lessons, no accolades or applause for her performances within school choirs, nothing at all.
For my sister to have even been asked was high praise and serious recognition of her talent indeed.
But my parents told her that it would be a waste of time for her to even try as it would lead no-where.
Plus, they told her, they weren’t going to waste their time driving her to and from rehearsals when they were sure that she’d never find the nerve to actually stand up on stage and sing in front of other people.
Music was a dead-end street.
Doubt firmly cemented into place.
All dreams of being a singer effectively squashed.
Sad to say, but when it came to the tactic of ignoring their children’s gifts, my parents it seemed, were equal opportunity employers.
Never the less, that didn’t stop me from feeling as a child, that my sister had always gotten the lion’s share of their attention.
As an adult, I know now, that it’s not true.
None of us had gotten the lion’s share of attention.
For there was no lion and no attention to share.
My sister now shrugs her ‘could have been’ moment in the singing spot light off with a sardonic laugh.
I can’t help wondering what we could have been…..
For more than one passing second……
Our parents had given us just a modicum of acknowledgment, support, encouragement or even just the vaguest sense of hope that maybe one day, it could be possible for us to achieve our dreams.
- What I Love About Other People’s Parenting (bikecolleenbrown.wordpress.com)
- Comment to a Post Written by a Friend (autismslove.wordpress.com)
- Classic middle child syndrome. (sandrabennettauthor.com)
- More kids diagnosed with autism as they get older (vitals.nbcnews.com)
- The Doubly Exceptional Child Grows Up (musingsofanaspie.com)
- 385: Navigating the Female Aspergerian Mind (aspergersgirls.wordpress.com)
The question is of course; Is this a good idea?
What are the benefits and pitfalls of publishing an original work so openly?
I’ve read a few good blogs bestowing both the joys and the sorrows of engaging in on-line open publishing but as yet none have come right out and said, one way or the other, whether or not it’s worth doing.
On the up side, I suppose, there’s always the off-chance that someone will read it and enjoy it. That’s more than I can say for my other 3 novels, which remain to this day, securely secluded in the bottom of my draw.
On the down side, there’s the rather strong possibility that someone will read it, decide that it’s absolute rubbish and tell me so.
Then of course, there’s the whole issue of copyright.
As we all know, nothing is considered either sacred nor secure, once published on the Internet.
Then again, issues of copyright would really only come into play if one really feels their work has a snowball’s chance in Hell of being published any other way.
In my case I’m so far from being convinced that my words are worth stealing it’s not that much of an issue for me.
So what are the issues?
I guess it’s more the idea that someone could adapt (notice I avoided the word steal) my topic / plot line and turn it into something really good. Without me.
Or is that just another one of those silly little fears that everyone has but very few are unfortunate enough to experience?
Have any of you ever published a novel on-line?
If so what would you recommend?
Art – Creating an original piece of work.
Craft – Adapting that which has already been created in a uniquely personal form.
I am, as some of you are aware, a very literal person. So when someone suggests an understanding of the world that does not ring true to me, I tend to hold it up to the light of examination in order to try and figure out why it is I view things in a different way.
In this case the topic under examination is whether or not writing and acting should be considered arts or crafts.
To me, writers are artists.
They create pictures with words.
Transforming a blank page from a piece of paper into a previously undiscovered world.
Populated with newly created characters.
But what of actors?
They too use words to create characters,
But are those word pictures their own?
Are they artists, in the sense that they create something new with their adaptations of the words of others?
Or are they crafts people adapting the words they’ve been given in order to produce a uniquely personal interpretation of a writer’s art?
Or are they both one in the same thing?
Art or Craft?
What do you think?
- Values & the writer (richardgilbert.me)
- Crafting Fiction That Rings True (birthofanovel.wordpress.com)
- Craft vs. Art (bookinessblog.wordpress.com)
- Writing Is Craft: A Poem (theevolvingdad.wordpress.com)
- Three Phases of Becoming a Master Author (warriorwriters.wordpress.com)
- what is an artist? (opheliasfiction.wordpress.com)
- Ten Reasons to Write Fiction: Part 2 (crimsonleague.com)
To me this is a puzzling question. In the days before blogging, when words were written securely on paper and the issue of copy right was as easy to deal with as posting your own work to yourself through the mail, we all knew exactly where we stood.
But is it the same today?
Well in theory yes. One should always retain the right to their own intellectual work. No doubt about that, but in practice on the internet, I don’t see how the ideal of copy right can actually apply.
What if others engage in the age-old literary practice of taking a line from one of my poems and construct their own work from it? Are they stealing my words? Or are they stealing my ideas? Or both?
This question has vexed the literary community for years, hence the creation of intellectual Copy Right in the first place. Yet as far as I’m aware there can be no copy right on ideas, only words that have actually been written.
So Copy Right on the internet can only extend to the written word, but is it even doing that?
I know the first time I saw one of my own poems cut and pasted onto another’s blog post , I was genuinely taken aback.
To be honest it did not make me feel particularly good. Especially considering that the person who had copied it had not left a comment nor notified me in any other way that they had done so.
This left me questioning just how protected are the creative works that any of us post on the internet?
It also lead me to another broader question which is, can there really be such a thing as intellectual ownership, if we are prepared to give our words away for free in our blog posts?
When I really thought about it, I came to the conclusion, that as long as my work is always credited back to me, then I’m okay with others copying it.
My rational for this decision in the end was incredibly simple.
If I weren’t posting my poems on the internet, the chances that anyone else would ever see them would be incredibly slim.
When I really take the time to consider why it is that I continue to write and share my words on the internet, it becomes clear to me that I do so because I wish to give voice to my own experiences. The issue of Copy Right in this sense doesn’t really come into it. Although like everyone else I would prefer that credit be given where ever that credit is due.
So I’ve decided, that despite the dubiousness of Copy Right on the internet, I would sooner share my words than remain silent on the issues that affect my life.
The other question that struck me is, just who am I on the internet anyway?
A faceless name? A pseudonym? A pseudonym, that should anyone choose to look it up, would not lead inexorably back to me, the person behind the words.
Given this, how on earth would the internet pseudonym that is me, ever be able to prove ownership of my work anyway? And if I cannot prove my words are my own then how can I expect to protect them through Copy Right ?
To me the answers to these questions are still unclear.
Although I have seen a few bloggers trying to address this issue by stating that the works on their blog site are covered by Copy Scape.
Yet when I checked Copy Scape I found that you could simply cut and paste the logo without actually employing the Copy Scape system. I think the term ‘as safe as houses’ may apply here. I also found that the use of Copy Scape involved a fee (if anyone reading this is using Copy Scape could you please let me know how effective it is and whether or not you would recommend it?).
So all these questions regarding Copy Right and the overall lack of clarity surrounding their answers, have led me to consider just what the correct protocol should be when incorporating another bloggers work into your own blog?
Is it okay to copy and paste entire works, such as poems, onto your own blog?
Does providing a name or a link back to the original author make it okay to reproduce another’s work without prior permission?
Is hitting the reblog button simply the most ethically correct way to go when it comes to sharing the works of others?
What method of sharing do you prefer when it comes to others distributing your work?
- 4 Mistakes That New Bloggers Make When Starting a Blog (corporationcentre.ca)
- Two Blogging Sites for Copywriting (kaleidescopecreativity.wordpress.com)
- Exactly what You Should Understand About Blogging (roll7share.wordpress.com)
- Old tricks are new again: Dangerous copy & paste (h-online.com)
Don’t you just love the way a good book can embrace you. Take you in and carry you far, far, away, from the worries of the every day, or reflect some essential truth, hidden in the mist of daily being?
Words can hug you,
Holding you joyously captive,
Before gently releasing you,
Back into the ebb and flow of life,
Adding always some fresh ingredient,
To the heady worldly mix,
Of thoughts and feelings,
That eternally surround you.
Words can become life rafts,
Keeping you afloat,
In the ocean of emotions,
That can sometimes threaten,
To drag you under.
Words can hold and hug you,
Keeping you warm and safe,
Becoming a source of nutrients,
Especially when the world outside,
Removes all semblance,
Of its grace.
I love finding authors whose words somehow, always, make you feel as if you are coming home. No matter what the genre. Here are a few authors that always hold me in their words Jane Austen, Mary Shelley, Virginia Wolf, Jeanette Winterson, Jenny Diski, Jodi Picoult, Maeve Binchey, Stephen Donaldson, Tess Gerritsen, Karen Rose and Karin Slaughter ….. the list quite simply could go on and on…..
Which authors words reach out and hug you?
- The Mephisto Club (Jane Rizzoli, Book 6) e-book downloads (idyvkoo.typepad.com)
- Jeanette Winterson takes on University role (telegraph.co.uk)
- Global Hug Haiku (lscotthoughts.com)
- A word on words (windling.typepad.com)
- Hugs (mysinglegreenlight.wordpress.com)
- a hug in time…………… (monikabh25.wordpress.com)
- An Incredible Hug From A Stranger (trhys365.wordpress.com)
- Love as a force of nature: Jeanette Winterson (achangeinthewind.com)