A Thought for Every Word

Posts tagged ‘writer’s block’

How to Guest Blog When Your Muse Refuses to Cooperate

A short while ago, I became a published Author.  I was excited of course, but then the awful gut wrenching what ifs starting popping up with every new keystroke.  Everyone, everywhere can understand the concept of the what ifs. They are universal.  They know no boundary of color, race, creed, gender, or ice cream flavor preference.  They sneak in like flies, first one, then another, multiplying into a hoard of buzzing nonsense.  What if the book doesn’t sell?  What if I get the most abominable case of writer’s block? What if I never write another book, let alone another paragraph, another sentence, another great word?  Those pesky what ifs can cast a pall so dense you need a torch the size of Lady Liberty’s in order to even see the glare of the computer screen.  I struggled to shake the what ifs.

My publisher suggested a guest blog spot on a blog that hosts other authors of my current genre.  Guest Blog?  Me?  When I can’t even get a coherent sentence framed that even my neighbor’s seven year old could understand?  What about?  And more importantly why?  To grow your audience, to bring in new readers to your published work, to make new friends, influence people, become a star!  Well, okay maybe not an overnight sensation, especially if you read my first attempt at guest blogging, tomorrow April 12, 2012, on KoolQueerLit.com.  My feeble attempt to promote myself will be viewed by several, perhaps many, and I am already second guessing myself and the content.

The nice thing about guest blogging is that you can start and stop all you want, as the content does not go live the moment you submit it, unless you are invited to guest blog a ‘live’ interview.  For the most part, you can write your copy; stare at it for days, then edit, slash, burn, destroy and start all over again. Provided, that is, that your muse does not leave to get a cup of coffee and then decides to get said coffee in Costa Rica, leaving you alone in the Pacific Northwest. A muse is a funny creature; never around when you really and truly desire the help.   I cursed my muse.  I begged my muse.  I even offered bribes like an extra shot of Crown Royal, or a large gooey cinnamon roll.  Nothing worked.  I was stuck writing my guest blog copy alone, without a creative juice to be squeezed out of my desert dry brain.  I had all the adages from my childhood to fall back on.  You don’t start walking at birth, you learn how to.  You don’t start reading words, you start by learning letters.  Okay, I thought, I can do this…one step, and one letter at a time.

It was not as bad an experience as I first thought.  My guest blog copy is not earth shaking, nor is it ground breaking.  I do not offer a cure for hate and intolerance, there is no recipe linked.  Then again, that is not what I was asked to blog about in the first place.  I went to introduce myself as a new Author, with a first published book, in hopes of finding a new following for my style of writing, and the stories I want to tell. It was a first for me, and I will admit, I hope it is not the last.  Guest blogging is not open heart surgery even though your heart pounds with every word.  What it is, is the free association of words that move you, the blogger.  That is the advice I decided to take…free association of words that move me, the blogger.

You may offer your muse all manner of bribe and consideration, but in the end, it will be you, your words, that make the appearance as the guest blogger.  Perhaps, your muse will read what you managed to write without their help, and realize they can be replaced.  Just like your blog, your muse is subject to your whims of fancy.

View my guest blog here:

Note: koolqueerlit.com contains adult themed content and may not be suitable for anyone under the age of 17.

Single Syllables

Would that I had the words to express what is in my mind at most given times.  The thoughts alone cry out for representation, but the words can hide their voices from me.  I have placed such weight on the shoulders of words, asking them to carry me up and over this terrain of shattered paragraphs.  When the weight grows heavy and the thoughts cram close together, the words fail and I stumble along, able only to loose the single syllables upon the ground. Amazed that the thoughts remain clear, I am still at a loss for words.  One string of words, a sentence, is all I ask.  The single syllables rule my tired being.  Like damn, and lost.  To put them together to find the thought, they would run into each other…damn lost.  The thought retreats as the words do not come and I am left again with nothing to help articulate the jumble of thoughts in my mind.

Then sometimes, the words fall to the page without effort, and all is not lost. The world again rotates and spins. Hemingway walks into Maxim’s at 3 Rue Royale in Paris and orders a round of drinks for all, his hands full of francs. Life is good while the sun touches the smoke smudged windows of the little cafe.

So long as my muse does not again abandon me for the coast…

Orgasm of Clarity

The compilation of words to bring forth a thought constipated and repressed

Is like the perfect little orgasm of clarity.

Considered moments leading to culmination of expression

That singular release of disconnected pleasure.

Flashes of brilliant light to illuminate darkened sight

The mind clears to rush forth the words like seafoam over exposed feet.

I have tried for several days now to write. I have read like a madman, tried free association.  Even bought and ate chocolate…to no avail.  I can come up with a sentence or two, but I cannot connect the dots.  Where are the day to day hiding places of the muse?  Behind the sofa, under the bed, on the patio sitting in the sun?  I looked.  No luck. Perhaps my muse is sitting on my kitchen counter eating the rest of the chocolate covered almonds.

Until I find the words, I will roam the house like a concerned child; fretting, circling, waiting for the dryer to stop and the blanket returned to outstretched arms.

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