Frustrated because that momentum you have with writing has now been sabotaged by the process of editing? Stop and take a break. Allow some time for your creative session to cook. Even days. Fresh eyes are kryptonite to the backspace key. You can correct me if I am wrong. – Ash
I went to a coffee shop tonight and wrote. I do that from time to time. It was very productive, always is because of the atmosphere. Sometimes writer’s block is not about where you are in your head. It could very well be about where you are physically. Change your space, I bet you’ll change your pace. – Ash
It is not how long I live, but how I live. I am accounting for all the time I can earn. Tax your body and expect returns. – Ash
The only thing I hate about writing is having to return to the real world. – Ash
Boats sway nestled to port
quietly breaking the ocean toward the shore
its laps catch my ear
then, I see
I watch as the moorings drip
counting seconds for no reason
high over in the charcoaling sky
chimney smoke rises, strangling the hills
there…
blips of buoy lights reach north and south
tomorrow to be a beautiful day
this, a story, a grandfather tale
to comfort me
as I am ushered home by the dear harbour
before it can sleep it sings
lending me its sounds for sweet dreams to come
allows me the harmony of its salty crests
until I turn my door in goodnight
I listen for the songs of the harbour
four shadows passing by midnight
the king, the jack, the ace, and the joker
pushing and shoving…jousting in jest
their laughter lulling the moon
as street lights froze everything in time
and the world just slept
shuffle and stroll in the wake of the chopping shore
they poked and praised, challenged some more
free until the sun began to peek
then they retreat with the dampening dew
enough stories for a thousand tomorrows
from a single night
a key to a forever yesterday
Sometimes being creative and battling writer’s block can become a vicious cycle. So, I went for one. – Ash
The body was easy to move from the place to the car to the boat. As it always is. Premeditation is kind of my thing. I have done this same routine maybe a hundred times. No, I believe it is a hundred and six times. Yeah, a hundred and six. You know, blondes are my favourite of all the women. Slightly more gullible. Usually more attractive. All of them walking by themselves late at night. Coming from their restaurant shifts, drunken bachelorette parties, or on their way to an ex-boyfriend. Then, I would present myself to these tired, these tipsy, and these texting specimens. Most nights, it is an unlit cigarette in poor lighting that works effortlessly. Cliché I know. Although, there were times I would fake a bleeding lip on this fragile face of mine. It was easy with these ladies the way I look. Always so helpful they are. But now I am bored. Unmotivated. No more of this killing racket. I am done. Finished. The girls just do not seem to fight back anymore anyway. Shall I leave a clue? Maybe allow one to getaway? Hmmm. Better yet! How about this one? Number 107. I mean, after all of that and you, my pretty blonde lady…are still breathing.
took a walk-in summer grass
picked a blade, made a sound
the air was country
wild strawberries sweet
like lazy cats we lay for hours
In the filthy hot, in the no time afternoons
sometimes on the highway to anywhere
I had never been, now I was
away from home, but home
In a holiday dusk
I remember watching mosquitos dance
we hid in quiet as the sun went to sleep
while children ran through the tall trees
like tiny beasts searching for their capture
there was so much laughter inside my heart
a new smile I learned to grow
pure place full of running and joy
town between the seconds
I’ll be back again someday
As a writer, I sometimes lose my direction. Everything becomes inside. When I start to feel that way, I go outside. I run straight into the arms of Mother Nature and she sets the scene for me. – Ash
Earth To Ash 