As of today, my latest round of edits to This Darkness is Mine is complete. COMPLETE (YAY ME!)
The next step is underway, and that'll take me through to the end of August. In September, there will be another round of conscientious edits (and wrangling I'm sure).
From there, there really won't be anything left to do but seek a literary agent.
I've tried writing novels based on dreams, and I had zero (repeat ZERO) knowledge of plot, craft, style, arc, character development. I mean, I'd read books that I either enjoyed or didn't, but I didn't have the slightest idea that storytelling is an art with a structure.
This is the furthest I've ever come to completing a manuscript, and it's almost impossible to put the feeling into words, which of course makes me wonder if I'm a writer after all. Words are supposed to be my thing.
Again, I can't say enough good things about the writing community on Twitter, which reminds me. I hit another milestone - 10,000 followers last Saturday. I think that was June 8th, so I'm gonna write that down. Hello LITERARY AGENTS and PUBLISHERS, I have a social media platform with 10,000 followers!
Before anyone thinks I was born with persistence, I probably was, but parents don't particularly care for persistence in little kids because little kids only want what's no good for them. After I acquiesced my persistence, I gave up often. Now I can say sticking to something, even at my own pace, is in my power. Personal power is worth holding on to, and if you've ceded any along your journey, reclaiming it is possible.
With that, I'll leave you with two recommendations for developing good habits:
7 Habits of Highly Effective People (who doesn't want to be effective?)
Think and Grow Rich (it's really that straightforward)
Thanks for stopping by. That's all for now.
Make someone else's day magical!
Mackenzie
Monday, June 24, 2019
Sunday, June 23, 2019
On Writing - Excerpt from Chapter 3 This Darkness is Mine
Excerpt from Chapter 3
Michelle spent most of the following day in bed, nestled under her charcoal grey down comforter. As the sun made its descent towards the horizon, she fixed her gaze out the window. She always enjoyed looking out at sunset, even though the window faced east. In the distance, between her window and Yankee Stadium, stood a 12-story, brown brick apartment building. The building’s windows reflected the glow of the retiring sun like a spectacular piece of art, beauty so far beyond words, it was almost painful to behold.
The day after that, she stuck with her plan and returned to Florida. The family gathered at the Kingdom Hall for the service. Approximately 200 people showed up, mostly strangers to her. Knowing she’d be little support to her mother once she went back to New York, she was relieved to see so many friends show up for her mother. People spoke to each other in huddles, but the atmosphere remained silent and colorless. Internally, Michelle screamed, and imagined herself running for the exit with her father’s ashes. The white walls with bas relief and beige, industrial carpeting all seemed sun-bleached to her.
Allen and a middle-aged man in a brown suit approached her. Allen wore a dark grey suit with a tie in fall colors. “Michelle, do you remember Lon Soeur?”
Lon’s green eyes had deep crinkles around the corners, making them look merry, despite his somber expression. His dirty blond hair receding and thinning, he stood eye to eye with Allen.
Michelle shook Lon’s extended hand. “Yes, of course. Lon, it’s good to see you after all these years. Thank you for being here.”
“Of course. Yes, it’s good to see you, too, although I wish it were under happier circumstances.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you,” said Michelle, nodding.
“When Allen and your mom sat with me to craft the words of the talk I’m about to give, and they told me about your father, I could tell Allen had a lot of his same strong qualities. I could see, of course, his entrepreneurial spirit and his business sense.”
Lon kept talking, but Michelle’s mind circled around what he’d just said. At that moment, she realized that when Allen had said someone told him he was a lot like his father, the words had come from Lon, someone who didn’t know their father at all, or he would have known her father had financially propped up Allen’s business. Hopelessly anti-Capitalistic and cynical of wealthy people, her brother couldn’t take direction from bosses or from clients. His intricately detailed plans left him spinning in endless circles, barely eking out a living. Business sense?
“So,” Michelle said, “you’re giving the eulogy, based on sitting down with my mom and Allen? Leon and I weren’t included in that.” Her look of astonishment at Lon turned into a glare at her brother. She couldn’t feel her body.
“We had to move quickly,” said Allen, in a condescending tone.
“You mean behind our backs,” Michelle said, almost shouting. “Not cool. It’s bad enough that nobody who knew him even gets to say anything, but the eulogy has no input from Leon or me, like we don’t exist.” Her limbs tensed up involuntarily. She didn’t know what to do with her hands.
Lon and Allen both looked uncomfortable, mumbled, and turned to walk away.
Her stomach turned somersaults and she wanted a baseball bat to crush heads. The only way to find out what details of her father’s person had been included or overlooked would be to sit through the talk from Lon, a person who hadn’t spent any time with the man.
Michelle spent most of the following day in bed, nestled under her charcoal grey down comforter. As the sun made its descent towards the horizon, she fixed her gaze out the window. She always enjoyed looking out at sunset, even though the window faced east. In the distance, between her window and Yankee Stadium, stood a 12-story, brown brick apartment building. The building’s windows reflected the glow of the retiring sun like a spectacular piece of art, beauty so far beyond words, it was almost painful to behold.
The day after that, she stuck with her plan and returned to Florida. The family gathered at the Kingdom Hall for the service. Approximately 200 people showed up, mostly strangers to her. Knowing she’d be little support to her mother once she went back to New York, she was relieved to see so many friends show up for her mother. People spoke to each other in huddles, but the atmosphere remained silent and colorless. Internally, Michelle screamed, and imagined herself running for the exit with her father’s ashes. The white walls with bas relief and beige, industrial carpeting all seemed sun-bleached to her.
Allen and a middle-aged man in a brown suit approached her. Allen wore a dark grey suit with a tie in fall colors. “Michelle, do you remember Lon Soeur?”
Lon’s green eyes had deep crinkles around the corners, making them look merry, despite his somber expression. His dirty blond hair receding and thinning, he stood eye to eye with Allen.
Michelle shook Lon’s extended hand. “Yes, of course. Lon, it’s good to see you after all these years. Thank you for being here.”
“Of course. Yes, it’s good to see you, too, although I wish it were under happier circumstances.”
“Yes, of course. Thank you,” said Michelle, nodding.
“When Allen and your mom sat with me to craft the words of the talk I’m about to give, and they told me about your father, I could tell Allen had a lot of his same strong qualities. I could see, of course, his entrepreneurial spirit and his business sense.”
Lon kept talking, but Michelle’s mind circled around what he’d just said. At that moment, she realized that when Allen had said someone told him he was a lot like his father, the words had come from Lon, someone who didn’t know their father at all, or he would have known her father had financially propped up Allen’s business. Hopelessly anti-Capitalistic and cynical of wealthy people, her brother couldn’t take direction from bosses or from clients. His intricately detailed plans left him spinning in endless circles, barely eking out a living. Business sense?
“So,” Michelle said, “you’re giving the eulogy, based on sitting down with my mom and Allen? Leon and I weren’t included in that.” Her look of astonishment at Lon turned into a glare at her brother. She couldn’t feel her body.
“We had to move quickly,” said Allen, in a condescending tone.
“You mean behind our backs,” Michelle said, almost shouting. “Not cool. It’s bad enough that nobody who knew him even gets to say anything, but the eulogy has no input from Leon or me, like we don’t exist.” Her limbs tensed up involuntarily. She didn’t know what to do with her hands.
Lon and Allen both looked uncomfortable, mumbled, and turned to walk away.
Her stomach turned somersaults and she wanted a baseball bat to crush heads. The only way to find out what details of her father’s person had been included or overlooked would be to sit through the talk from Lon, a person who hadn’t spent any time with the man.
End of excerpt
Mackenzie
On Writing - thoughts on the process
At first, the prospect of writing an entire novel overwhelmed me to the point I had no idea where to start. It took a calm voice to suggest I write whatever scenes I saw most clearly in my mind's eye. Start with five pages at a time, she said.
Okay, I said. It made it easier. It made it manageable.
With that first start, five pages became a breeze, because the more I wrote, the more momentum built up. The next scenes came into focus. The words came to me. I kept going.
I hit slumps along the way, to be sure. Writer's block is pervasive, so it just goes with the process. I've had to come up with all sorts of ways to kickstart myself back into the game, back into process, back into FLOW. There's that magical word with which all creatives are enamored. FLOW.
Nearly two years after beginning, after four dozen or more read-throughs, I'm about to edit the next to last chapter. Granted, there are a couple sections that still (STILL) need fleshing out, but for the most part, I've written a manuscript.
There were aspects of writing based on a true story that were freeing because historical reality provided guideposts. In other ways, it felt like I was hamstrung to the "truth" and "facts". When I let the fictionalizing enter the story, I could spread my wings a bit and have some fun. For me, writing about a real life string of events was a perfect place to start.
Every attempt I'd made in the past at writing a novel whole cloth from imagination floundered and left me feeling like I'd have to maintain an office job til death or retirement.
All that to say this:
If you have a dream but feel overwhelmed, get yourself a coach who will gently prod, poke, pull, push, inquire, excite, calm, soothe, and whatever else you need when you need it.
Don't go to the grave with your art trapped inside you.
Make someone else's day magical!
Mackenzie
Follow the blog
Post a comment
Okay, I said. It made it easier. It made it manageable.
With that first start, five pages became a breeze, because the more I wrote, the more momentum built up. The next scenes came into focus. The words came to me. I kept going.
I hit slumps along the way, to be sure. Writer's block is pervasive, so it just goes with the process. I've had to come up with all sorts of ways to kickstart myself back into the game, back into process, back into FLOW. There's that magical word with which all creatives are enamored. FLOW.
Nearly two years after beginning, after four dozen or more read-throughs, I'm about to edit the next to last chapter. Granted, there are a couple sections that still (STILL) need fleshing out, but for the most part, I've written a manuscript.
I'M ABOUT TO EDIT THE NEXT TO LAST CHAPTER!
There were aspects of writing based on a true story that were freeing because historical reality provided guideposts. In other ways, it felt like I was hamstrung to the "truth" and "facts". When I let the fictionalizing enter the story, I could spread my wings a bit and have some fun. For me, writing about a real life string of events was a perfect place to start.
Every attempt I'd made in the past at writing a novel whole cloth from imagination floundered and left me feeling like I'd have to maintain an office job til death or retirement.
All that to say this:
If you have a dream but feel overwhelmed, get yourself a coach who will gently prod, poke, pull, push, inquire, excite, calm, soothe, and whatever else you need when you need it.
Don't go to the grave with your art trapped inside you.
Make someone else's day magical!
Mackenzie
Follow the blog
Post a comment
Wednesday, June 12, 2019
RANDOM THOUGHT - What to do next?
I made this big announcement on Twitter that I was taking a couple weeks off social media to edit my manuscript. I started off great! Then the sticky notes started adding up to my worst fear:
what if I can't write for shit?
I've made notes on almost every single page it seems.
I got pretty far, up to chapter 25, but for some reason I just shut down and went back to Twitter during all my free time like I have a fount of endless money flowing my direction.
This is not the case!!!! I'm feeling kind of delusional about it.
Meanwhile, another project popped up and it stands to be lucrative a little more quickly than writing a novel, and I only have so much time to devote to it before a super, crazy, busy time period creeps up on me at work. Once work falls off a cliff again, I can devote my attention to either my manuscript or the writing project (yes it's secret). I'd like to get that project launched in September.
I'd posted a question a couple Saturdays ago on Twitter:
I had to stop and reflect on this. I pictured Tobey Maguire as Peter Parker in Spiderman trying to learn how to control his web and falling until he got the hang of his own abilities. I must wrestle with this until it's no longer debilitating.
The question was meant to be motivational after all, and here I am, stuck in my own dilemma, shaking and afraid that I can't get my dreams out of my head and into my life! And yet, my landlord announced his intentions to raise my rent. No, man. Milo and I gotta get someplace better and more conducive to our desired way of life.
That means I gotta transmute this quaking fear into the "REAL" me. The writer me. The writer who slings words like arrows and never misses her target. The writer who relies on her talents to feed and house and clothe herself, put gas in the car, and take care of business. That writer!
Maybe all I needed to do was blog about it. The next step seems clearer now.
Edit the manuscript. Work on the secret. I only have but so much time to make it all come together, and I will not rush. My reputation resides within the quality I sign my name to.
In the meantime, I'm logged off Twitter for the night, so I could either edit or read. Reading seems like a luxury, so I think that's what I'll do.
What am I reading? Carol Beth Anderson's The Birth of Magic novella.
You can follow:
My blog
My twitter: @mackenzielitt13
Make someone else's day magical!
Mackenzie
what if I can't write for shit?
I've made notes on almost every single page it seems.
I got pretty far, up to chapter 25, but for some reason I just shut down and went back to Twitter during all my free time like I have a fount of endless money flowing my direction.
This is not the case!!!! I'm feeling kind of delusional about it.
Meanwhile, another project popped up and it stands to be lucrative a little more quickly than writing a novel, and I only have so much time to devote to it before a super, crazy, busy time period creeps up on me at work. Once work falls off a cliff again, I can devote my attention to either my manuscript or the writing project (yes it's secret). I'd like to get that project launched in September.
I'd posted a question a couple Saturdays ago on Twitter:
"Fear. What if...
What if that fear shaking you to your core is nothing more than your own superpower that you haven't yet learned how to use?"
I had to stop and reflect on this. I pictured Tobey Maguire as Peter Parker in Spiderman trying to learn how to control his web and falling until he got the hang of his own abilities. I must wrestle with this until it's no longer debilitating.
The question was meant to be motivational after all, and here I am, stuck in my own dilemma, shaking and afraid that I can't get my dreams out of my head and into my life! And yet, my landlord announced his intentions to raise my rent. No, man. Milo and I gotta get someplace better and more conducive to our desired way of life.
That means I gotta transmute this quaking fear into the "REAL" me. The writer me. The writer who slings words like arrows and never misses her target. The writer who relies on her talents to feed and house and clothe herself, put gas in the car, and take care of business. That writer!
Maybe all I needed to do was blog about it. The next step seems clearer now.
Edit the manuscript. Work on the secret. I only have but so much time to make it all come together, and I will not rush. My reputation resides within the quality I sign my name to.
In the meantime, I'm logged off Twitter for the night, so I could either edit or read. Reading seems like a luxury, so I think that's what I'll do.
What am I reading? Carol Beth Anderson's The Birth of Magic novella.
You can follow:
My blog
My twitter: @mackenzielitt13
Make someone else's day magical!
Mackenzie
Thursday, June 6, 2019
vss365 - mid May-early June
vss365 (very short story 365)
GOSSAMER
You see #gossamer, flimsy, delicate That's what I let you see What you're about to experience Is feral, lethal, fierce How could you betray me and Violate my trust? I wouldn't turn my back on me If I were you
GOSSAMER
How do I free myself from the anchor of depression? It weighs me down, heart, mind and soul, holding down my dream's #gossamer wings that used to flutter at your touch. You try to console me, but can you snatch me from the grip of this Leviathan?
FRISSON
"I can hardly believe I'm in Paris! It's so exciting and romantic!" "Do you feel a thrill for romance?" asks her driver. His gaze in the rear view sends a shudder and invasion of damp heat between her legs. He smiles knowingly. "We call that #frisson here." "More please!"
VILE
"Pity they couldn't have an open-faced casket for your sister," said Auntie. "She had such a fair face." "Had, yes," Ann said. "Vile temper though." Auntie walked away. "Not as #vile as mine," Ann whispered to the coffin. "Can't sleep w/ my husband anymore, dear sister."
WILLOW
Vanity drove the Queen to consult an Olde Crone, who brewed a bitter concoction of #willow and bile. Enraged when nothing happened, the Queen cursed the willow and fell to her death. Olde Crone added the tree's tears to the bitter tea, restoring her beauty for 100 yrs.
REVERIE
"When I was a girl, my brothers sat around the table & told fun stories about their day." "And you?" "Oh," #reverie escaped her eyes like a genie. "I was dull. I preferred to listen to everyone else." For the 1st time I realized Mom had low self esteem, & I felt for her.
PATCH
Our family arrives at Steve's Strawberry Farm, and I can hardly wait to get our haul home so mom & grandma can make shortcake, jams, & ice cream. Grandma shows me where in the #patch the sweetest ones grow & we pick until our fingers & skin are as red as our treasures.
REVERIE
One bite of grandma's strawberry shortcake, and I'm whisked back to the farm, laughter, sticky fingers, laden baskets & ladybugs. Whipped cream clouds in no hurry to move along. Savor or eat more? More! Back from my #reverie, nothing but guilty smiles and crumbs.
ORION
She pulls me along a shadowy path overtaken by mangroves. I have to trust her now, the only hint of where we are a faint scent of salt & murmuring waves. We reach a clearing, moonlight upon her face. "#Orion's Belt is dripping," she whispers and closes in on my lips.
PATCH
I yank myself free, startled yet exhilarated. "Where did that kiss come from?" "There's something starry and magnetic about you. Don't deny it. Orion's Belt can be our #patch of sky." Her chest heaves; the play of silver light &shadow on her cleavage sways me like poetry.
SILENCE
The warmth of her body merged into his, as the sensuous sway of her hips summoned a sense of urgency in him. Time to make his move. The power cut out. The music stopped, as candlelight danced on. In #silence, they kissed, beginning a new song of their own.
BREATH
She tightens her seat belt & grips the arm rests, glancing out the odd window. Cramped, but within, she is already aloft & spreading. Fingering her rosary beads, she stumbles over the words, but every God hears. She holds her #breath, as alive inside as the blue sky.
VERDANT
"Violet?" "Yes, Mom?" "It's picnic time, baby. The fields are #verdant w/ your namesake. Whip up some of your famous potato salad, & I'll get the chicken ready." "Sounds great, Mom." "Why so glum, child?" "It won't be the same without Dad." I fell into her arms and sobbed
BREATH
Violet consoled herself at a flower shop. "What smells so good?" "Peony mostly, but," the clerk giggled &led her behind the counter. "We also have gardenias. Careful, love, they bruise easily." Violet #breathed in the sweetness, and caught a whiff of her father's cologne.
MYRIAD
"How do you feel about Jermaine?" asks her therapist. "Feel? A #myriad of things. He gives me butterflies, gets my heart pounding. He makes me feel safe and protected." "So why did you kill him?" "I didn't! Why won't anyone believe me?" "You still don't remember?"
PETRICHOR
We can't please this God, but then came rain. The #petrichor reminds me of 1939 when we waited & turned to the Natives for their magic. Clouds withheld their rain & instead carried our dust. Our crops withered, our children hungered, covered in black, turning to Earth.
VEHEMENTLY (Inner Critic Series)
"You're not good enough," my inner voice says #vehemently. "Your writing is shit." "You've said that before." I yawn, still typing. "I've had enough of you. You're not even creative with your put downs anymore." Dismissing that pesky inner critic is my only way forward.
CHIMERA (Inner Critic series)
An evil breath on the back of my neck makes my spine tingle and hairs stand on end, despite the fiery heat of it. Claws or talons, I can't even tell! Fur, not feathers. Why is this #chimera hunting me?! The red pen. Time to edit. Calm the fuck down, Mackenzie.
FLOTSAM (Inner Critic series)
"Very well," says my inner critic. "#Flotsam then. Your writing is flotsam. Is that creative enough an insult for you, you hack? Give up!" "Ha. That's what the chimera red pen is for. When I'm done, I'll have a splendid manuscript on my hands. And now, you may fuck off."
ANCIENT (Inner Critic Series)
"I am #ancient as humanity itself." "Oh yeah?" I say. "I have been ridiculing creatives forever." "Mm-hmm, does that make you feel better?" "It's what I do. I abort Art." "Listen to me, INNER CRITIC, you're evil & stifle beauty, innovation and progress. Get lost!"
CRAVEN (Inner Critic series)
I woke up to what I want - a reason to write, to leverage my experience, and a strong word of encouragement w/ action items and a plan. The best part? My Inner Critic, is (at least for now) a #craven sniveling brat, crying in the corner, hiding from me and my laptop.
ANCIENT (new mother series)
Looking in my daughter's eyes for the 1st time is to enter The Sacred Sorority, as if her eyes are a veil revealing #ancient truth. One truth beyond words. Beyond love, joy, & pure astonishment. My heart sobs gratitude, as she grasps my finger and smiles fleetingly.
WILLOW (new mother series)
As she suckles and draws nourishment, I imagine walking with her through the weeping #willows of my own childhood, their swaying ballerina branches will reach down to stroke her hair. They'll share my joy at seeing my daughter and lift their branches in exultation.
LOTUS (new mother series)
Sweet, young daughter, I must name you. You burst forth from the murky waters of my womb, where nature decreed you find the sustenance you need. In that darkened madness, you magically made order and forged beauty into meaning. Tender enchantress, I name you #Lotus.
GOSSAMER
You see #gossamer, flimsy, delicate That's what I let you see What you're about to experience Is feral, lethal, fierce How could you betray me and Violate my trust? I wouldn't turn my back on me If I were you
GOSSAMER
How do I free myself from the anchor of depression? It weighs me down, heart, mind and soul, holding down my dream's #gossamer wings that used to flutter at your touch. You try to console me, but can you snatch me from the grip of this Leviathan?
FRISSON
"I can hardly believe I'm in Paris! It's so exciting and romantic!" "Do you feel a thrill for romance?" asks her driver. His gaze in the rear view sends a shudder and invasion of damp heat between her legs. He smiles knowingly. "We call that #frisson here." "More please!"
VILE
"Pity they couldn't have an open-faced casket for your sister," said Auntie. "She had such a fair face." "Had, yes," Ann said. "Vile temper though." Auntie walked away. "Not as #vile as mine," Ann whispered to the coffin. "Can't sleep w/ my husband anymore, dear sister."
WILLOW
Vanity drove the Queen to consult an Olde Crone, who brewed a bitter concoction of #willow and bile. Enraged when nothing happened, the Queen cursed the willow and fell to her death. Olde Crone added the tree's tears to the bitter tea, restoring her beauty for 100 yrs.
REVERIE
"When I was a girl, my brothers sat around the table & told fun stories about their day." "And you?" "Oh," #reverie escaped her eyes like a genie. "I was dull. I preferred to listen to everyone else." For the 1st time I realized Mom had low self esteem, & I felt for her.
PATCH
Our family arrives at Steve's Strawberry Farm, and I can hardly wait to get our haul home so mom & grandma can make shortcake, jams, & ice cream. Grandma shows me where in the #patch the sweetest ones grow & we pick until our fingers & skin are as red as our treasures.
REVERIE
One bite of grandma's strawberry shortcake, and I'm whisked back to the farm, laughter, sticky fingers, laden baskets & ladybugs. Whipped cream clouds in no hurry to move along. Savor or eat more? More! Back from my #reverie, nothing but guilty smiles and crumbs.
ORION
She pulls me along a shadowy path overtaken by mangroves. I have to trust her now, the only hint of where we are a faint scent of salt & murmuring waves. We reach a clearing, moonlight upon her face. "#Orion's Belt is dripping," she whispers and closes in on my lips.
PATCH
I yank myself free, startled yet exhilarated. "Where did that kiss come from?" "There's something starry and magnetic about you. Don't deny it. Orion's Belt can be our #patch of sky." Her chest heaves; the play of silver light &shadow on her cleavage sways me like poetry.
SILENCE
The warmth of her body merged into his, as the sensuous sway of her hips summoned a sense of urgency in him. Time to make his move. The power cut out. The music stopped, as candlelight danced on. In #silence, they kissed, beginning a new song of their own.
BREATH
She tightens her seat belt & grips the arm rests, glancing out the odd window. Cramped, but within, she is already aloft & spreading. Fingering her rosary beads, she stumbles over the words, but every God hears. She holds her #breath, as alive inside as the blue sky.
VERDANT
"Violet?" "Yes, Mom?" "It's picnic time, baby. The fields are #verdant w/ your namesake. Whip up some of your famous potato salad, & I'll get the chicken ready." "Sounds great, Mom." "Why so glum, child?" "It won't be the same without Dad." I fell into her arms and sobbed
BREATH
Violet consoled herself at a flower shop. "What smells so good?" "Peony mostly, but," the clerk giggled &led her behind the counter. "We also have gardenias. Careful, love, they bruise easily." Violet #breathed in the sweetness, and caught a whiff of her father's cologne.
MYRIAD
"How do you feel about Jermaine?" asks her therapist. "Feel? A #myriad of things. He gives me butterflies, gets my heart pounding. He makes me feel safe and protected." "So why did you kill him?" "I didn't! Why won't anyone believe me?" "You still don't remember?"
PETRICHOR
We can't please this God, but then came rain. The #petrichor reminds me of 1939 when we waited & turned to the Natives for their magic. Clouds withheld their rain & instead carried our dust. Our crops withered, our children hungered, covered in black, turning to Earth.
VEHEMENTLY (Inner Critic Series)
"You're not good enough," my inner voice says #vehemently. "Your writing is shit." "You've said that before." I yawn, still typing. "I've had enough of you. You're not even creative with your put downs anymore." Dismissing that pesky inner critic is my only way forward.
CHIMERA (Inner Critic series)
An evil breath on the back of my neck makes my spine tingle and hairs stand on end, despite the fiery heat of it. Claws or talons, I can't even tell! Fur, not feathers. Why is this #chimera hunting me?! The red pen. Time to edit. Calm the fuck down, Mackenzie.
FLOTSAM (Inner Critic series)
"Very well," says my inner critic. "#Flotsam then. Your writing is flotsam. Is that creative enough an insult for you, you hack? Give up!" "Ha. That's what the chimera red pen is for. When I'm done, I'll have a splendid manuscript on my hands. And now, you may fuck off."
ANCIENT (Inner Critic Series)
"I am #ancient as humanity itself." "Oh yeah?" I say. "I have been ridiculing creatives forever." "Mm-hmm, does that make you feel better?" "It's what I do. I abort Art." "Listen to me, INNER CRITIC, you're evil & stifle beauty, innovation and progress. Get lost!"
CRAVEN (Inner Critic series)
I woke up to what I want - a reason to write, to leverage my experience, and a strong word of encouragement w/ action items and a plan. The best part? My Inner Critic, is (at least for now) a #craven sniveling brat, crying in the corner, hiding from me and my laptop.
ANCIENT (new mother series)
Looking in my daughter's eyes for the 1st time is to enter The Sacred Sorority, as if her eyes are a veil revealing #ancient truth. One truth beyond words. Beyond love, joy, & pure astonishment. My heart sobs gratitude, as she grasps my finger and smiles fleetingly.
WILLOW (new mother series)
As she suckles and draws nourishment, I imagine walking with her through the weeping #willows of my own childhood, their swaying ballerina branches will reach down to stroke her hair. They'll share my joy at seeing my daughter and lift their branches in exultation.
LOTUS (new mother series)
Sweet, young daughter, I must name you. You burst forth from the murky waters of my womb, where nature decreed you find the sustenance you need. In that darkened madness, you magically made order and forged beauty into meaning. Tender enchantress, I name you #Lotus.
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