The Writer’s Dream…Conversations

Someone said, if you get the bug to write, you become enslaved to the Muse factory and you never retire. Your creativity never dries out and you itch all the time. The frustration of being somewhere and have a poem rattling somewhere in your brain can really be frustrating. You start looking like a drug addict searching your bag for the loose sheet and pen. Darn, you are the master of ceremony and are on the microphone but the poem starts cackling a crazy laugh and you almost feel like holding it down. Like the pressure you get when you want to pee.
If it is a story, and the main character strikes when you are not in front of your computer, then I feel sorry for you. I had a main character who stayed whispering, sullen for years. She would whisper and just when I want to give her attention like some teasing mistress will simply walk away.
It took me a while to know she was a grandmother. Did not much like my impatient queries and had a tendency to just stay silent. She stayed with me for years. Now we are on speaking terms and the first part of her story has been told and there was release of some sort.

So how do you write? What do you wish to say to me? A story can come from just watching a couple of people, or the snippets of a dream or even an argument.
Sometimes, you wonder the rationale for living. As you get older, your thoughts keep moving close to that I am told. There are times when you wake up in the morning and you heave a sigh of relief. I am alive ,I say to myself, then I consider, there has been no electricity for days,(that is normal in the part of the universe I happen to have incarnated in ),there is not much you can do about that. The government cannot keep promises. I don’t know really which one was kept. Unless of course if you happen to be working for the political party in power in whatever state you live in. I heard a prospective appointee promise that,it will be easy to prosecute her personal business because, she was going to have free money to spend.. Writing about politics or politicians makes me sad, and I would get off that subject. Let’s talk about normal things shall we?

I am not really excited about living here but I am not sure I want to live elsewhere. I am not likely to understand the culture. There must be a reason why the Creator made my incarnating here the only option I could possibly have. When I am feeling really depressed, I ask myself why did I not even choose to incarnate in any other black nation. Like the people of Kiribati for example. It is so far away from this place and America.

I have America on my mind these days. American friends, values, and anything American, why? I am writing a romance in which the main female character has a fixation like me about not being crazy. I Like Americans, and think they are making a fair attempt at understanding a few things. It is such a free country that I am worried about how they want to handle these freedoms.

It is okay if you start wondering about me. I decided that this year, I will try to hold conversations with you …my reader. Who knows you just might find it funny, interesting, crazy, or even …well I really don’t want to write that do I?
My uncle once suggested that real writers are lonely people and really want only their imaginary world.. I thought that was interesting. Made me look kind of mysterious and remote. Me and my characters, and that constant far -away look. Thought the opposite side might find that intriguing until one fellow tried to swindle me of not my money(never had enough for myself) but of my emotions. He needed attention and was interfering with my main male character, who was much more fun than him anyway. So I wrote him into the next story and planned all I really wanted to do with him as a story. I was healed. He became an anticlimax.

So what was I writing about before? Search me. Okay I remember now, Americans? I really was not trying to explain something and that brought about the Americans. Yes, it had to do with freedoms ..too much or too little. Wish there was something I can do about these freedom thing, I mean lay my hand on the necks of one of our politician, keep my hand there …you know quietly until the screaming stops and things start working like the police really doing their job. I actually once met a nice policeman. He died. He was my father.

Okay, I think I said something like that somewhere or someplace. So I woke up today kind of feeling like having a writing binge. Used to feel that would be some paradise. Just write, write, write until all my being is empty and then swallow creation and have nothing to write about because I had written creation out. Wow, that would be a morning to wake up to.

A day when all the words would have been written, when there would be only one word left…GOD.

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