You inspire me.
Every word you write.
Every action you create.
Every piece of scenery you describe.
You make me want to be better.
All of you amazing writers.
You incredible play writes.
and screen writers of film.
You give us experiences.
You give us enjoyment.
You give us happiness and smiles.
You give me hope that one day I can create something as amazing as you did.
Phoning it in is kind of stupid, right?
If you’re going to write something, right it well. Of course that can’t all be done on the first try. Finished master pieces seem like they flow and you can’t help but romanticize the idea of words flowing like water from your fingertips. Perfection pouring out.
But it doesn’t work like that.
Great writers, and great writing, takes effort. It takes pain. It takes time and love and passion. It takes lust and desire. It takes everything in you spread across the page or the screen. It needs to be you. All of you and everything in you.
So when you write, and when I say you I mean me, write. Focus on what you’re doing and write. Take it out of you and write. Pull it from you and write. Make it personal. Make it real. Make it hurt. Make it feel like Sunday morning. Make it feel like the look she gives you when you say something perfect.
Don’t just get something down. Write. Write again. Rewrite it and then write some more.
Let’s make this about a girl.
What better motivation is there than the kind of girl that takes over your mind and won’t let it go? It wraps around her wrist and swings along with her walk, taking you for the ride as long as you can hold on. Everything she does is noteworthy and you don’t have to strain to find magnificence in the way she bats her eyes or hums a tune.
She doesn’t need you to force it, either. It’s natural. It’s not something she tries to do or you try to do, it just happens.
It happens when you see her face for the first time in the morning. It happens when you’re missing her at night. It happens when her legs are wrapped around your waist and your lips are finding new ways to press against her skin. There is nothing unnatural about the way you fit with the girl. You’re a circle spinning on top of a circle.
You can dance. You can sing. You can do things you never thought you could before, and even if you can’t do them well you lose the fear of looking like a fool.
Why?
Because she doesn’t care. All you need is her smile and when she points it at you all of the dumb things you’ve done are just there for laughter and dammit if he doesn’t have the best laugh around.
Let’s make her everything.
It’s dangerous and rarely ends well but while you’re in it, its worth it.
She’s worth it.
Do you ever have moments in your writing where you think, “damn. Maybe I’ve actually got a smidgen of talent,” and the possibility of what you’re doing is made a little brighter on the horizon?
That’s why I keep this blog. It’s a snapshot of my writing. As I originally wrote in my About section I used to write silly little things in the margins of newspapers or in magazines and on random napkins and leave them wherever they were. After a while I ended up missing the chance at keeping those random writings and having them to look back on. The stories in my head were gone and I’d never read them again. So here I am now.
I was reading back through some of my past writings of the last couple of weeks. I came across a few that I remember enjoying when they were done and I gave them another scan. I smiled.
“These aren’t that bad,” I said to myself, “actually they’re pretty good.”
Then I kept reading. I read two or three more and then I got to one that I didn’t really remember what it was about and I opened it to read. It was short, not even a thousand words but the further I read into it the more excited I got.
It wasn’t a great story or amazing surprise but I felt like it was really good writing. The flow was good. The descriptions made me feel. I put myself back into the character, the narrator, and I could feel it.
Of course I’ve instantly gone into anti-ego mode and told myself that it was easy to get back into the character because the character is me. Someone else might not find it as easy, but I still liked the writing. I enjoyed the description. I felt something and that’s what I always try and do with what I write. I’m not a great plot organizer or twist ending writing type, but I think I have the ability to write things that can make the reader feel what the characters are feeling.
I hope that’s enough because it’s always enough for me.
It happened again.
There I was living my life and it happened again.
You happened again.
A rush back into my memory by a trigger of some kind.
This happened again.
Where all I can think about is you and smile.
What happened again?
Something reminded me of you and only the good times came out to play in my mind and behind my eyes. Only the good things curled the smile onto my lips.
You happened again and I’m remembering happiness.
You happened again.
I’m glad you happened at all.
Tell me all the things I’ve lost because of doubt.
Tell me about the majesty and wondrous amount
of experiences I’ve lost and went without
simply because I went along the safe and easy route.
Tell me of my insecurities that caused worlds to slip by
Tell me of the flowers and colors not yet known to my eyes
and the hues of clouds above that float in different skies
simply because I’d rather not risk the safety in my life.
Tell me of tastes and sounds that I’ll never have, nor hear.
Tell me how the smells get sweeter the closer that you near
and the tastes, they taste, like tastes of fantasies my dear
simply because I could not overcome my fears.
Tell me of a life that I’ll never get to see played out
Tell me of the praise I’ll never get to savor as they shout
and each and every fan that I’ll never know about
simply because I wasted my life wallowing in doubt.
I’m sorry. I’m sorry for a lot of things but I’m sorry for being so weird. I’m sorry for being so fucking awkward and nervous. It’s just that I don’t know how to talk to you. It’s like I don’t know how to talk at all. Putting sentences together when you’re around is like trying to do complicated math equations. You’re my trigonometry and I don’t have anyone’s homework to copy this time.
Mainly I’m just saying sorry for liking that picture of you at the lake four years ago. Yes, I was stalking your profile. Yes, I do it all the time. Yes, it’s always from that summer. That was the summer I fell in love with you. It was from a distance and I never told you, not to this day. It would weird you out so I thought it was best a burden I kept myself.
We always talked before. We knew each other and were friends. We hung out as part of a group. But that summer you started wearing two piece bathing suits. Your grew what seemed like two feet and your hair went all the down your back. It shined almost white in the sun and matched the reflection of the water.
So yes, I’m obsessed with you. At least I am from a distance. I’ll go on doing that because we could never happen. Even if by some miracle it did, it would be over just as fast. I don’t know if I could take having memories of you and I together without the possibility of more. I’ll keep on speaking of your beauty. I’ll write about your perfection. I’ll immortalize you in words. I hope they do you justice and aren’t just as awkward sounding as I am in my head when scrolling through your pictures.
Your eyes have an orbit. They’re heavy in gravity and darkness, and your lashes are bridges to the vastness of space. I’m lost and I don’t want to be found.
Your stares feel warm like the sun. When it’s gone though it haunts me. A still picture of you in silence as you look me in the eyes and hold my gaze before turning away. I can’t tell if a smile dripped from the corner of your lips or not. It was probably just a memory being re-purposed.
You’re a 70’s girl with a 90’s past. Your thick eyelashes and dark stares get me high. I can’t say no, even if I wanted to.
Whenever I hear you I remember how to love someone I almost loved. I can smirk at the absurdity of love as well and the audacity to look for it. The spirits in your voice stir up the ghosts and they hold a glass in each other’s honor. Everyone’s invited. Past, present and future.
“So, what is it? What’s got you staring at me across the room without a word to say until now?”
Oona took a sip from her drink as she waited for the man’s answer.
They had been bantering for a short while. She approached him and asked if he minded some company. He didn’t object. Men usually don’t when she approaches them, although it is a rare occurrence.
The conversation was odd to her. There were no pleasantries or introductions. No attempt was made inquiring on her availability or current activities, but at the same time he was pleasant and inviting. He seemed to enjoy her company and was quick with a response to anything she said.
“I’d venture to guess you’re used to men staring at you,” he smiled and hovered his drink below his lips.
“I am,” she smiled with her lips on her glass.
“And often, I’m sure, they’ve lost to ability to form words.”
Oona raised her glass and nodded slightly before resting it on the table.
“But I don’t care about them. I want to know about you. The man who has yet to introduce himself. The man who doesn’t make eye contact the entire time, but not because he’s shy but because he’s somewhat over confident. The man who has yet to offer me another drink, a night cap in his room or breakfast the next morning. I want to know something about this man, in particular.”
He nodded and smiled as he rested his drink next to hers, “and if he answers that you’ll have to tell him what brought you over here to sit next to that man and carry on a conversation with him for this long. He doesn’t think that happens often with you.”
“He’s right, it doesn’t. And she might answer that, if his answer is intriguing enough.”
The man smiled and dipped his head slightly in a soft laugh to himself. He shifted his weight and position so it was facing her in an engaging way. His left knee bent and resting on the couch with his left arm leaning over the back of it.
“This man. Me. I’ve been here a few nights this week actually. The first night was Tuesday. On Tuesday I sat over there,” he pointed to a table in the corner of the lounge against the wall.
“And while I was sitting over there on Tuesday around 10, I noticed a beautiful woman come in and sit down at the bar. She ordered a drink and had conversations with the men sitting next to her and the bartender. She had a roaring laugh. She was captivating and I tried my hardest to keep my eyes from burning a hole in her dress.”
He picked up his drink and threw back a quick gulp of whatever liquid remained in it and rested the glass on his knee.
“On Wednesday night I took up the same seat at the same table. Partially out of my penchant for not wanting to be noticed, and partially out of superstition.”
“Superstition for what?” Oona asked.
“Whether she would come back or not the next night.”
“Did she,” she smiled at him and leaned forward slightly as if he were telling her a secret.
“She did. She absolutely did. My budding obsession wasn’t helped any either. That night she was wearing a red dress that was made from material which was close relatives of some of my favorite lingerie pieces. She looked as if she had come back from a fancy art gala or awards ceremony. Only there was a problem,” he lowered his head and leaned into her lean and played on her whisper receiving position.
“What was it?” Her voice played along, almost by accident.
“She didn’t sit at the bar. I couldn’t see her after she walked in. Being a man who doesn’t like commotion and being noticed I thought that getting up to move to have better viewing of this goddess of a woman would be too much, so I accepted my fate and took the glance that I was given and turned in early that night.”
“Poor you. That must have devastated you, not being able to ogle her all night again,” Oona’s voice was mockingly sympathetic.
“I was crushed,” he nodded back, “but I survived. Although it took an extra day to feed the survival. My Thursday did not lend itself to ogling and I was unable to look upon this beauty for the third day in the row. I had to wait until Friday to see her again and she did not disappoint.”
“Was she dressed in a royal gown, tiara while brandishing a scepter this time?” Oona tilted her head in a crook while staring into his eyes.
“No, no. She in a skirt, a blouse and some elegant heels with her hair done in a tight and professional manner. A business woman, a princess and bawdy laughter. She was a dream. I took this couch on Friday night, the one we’re sitting on right now. It has a better view of the entire lounge and, if she were so concerned, it seems a bit more inviting than a table in the corner.”
“True. Pretty girls aren’t drawn to dark tables in corners with men they’ve never met.”
“Her demeanor was more reserved last night, Friday night. She seemed tired. Perhaps from the day. Maybe from the week. Her smile was still bright but she was subdued.”
“Poor soul.”
“She seemed to fair well.”
“No, I meant you,” Oona placed her hand on his knee, “you waited an entire extra night to see her and she wasn’t putting on her show for you. It must have been tragically disappointing.”
The man smiled at her and bit his lower lip. He shook his head and then looked Oona in the eyes.
“I survived.”
“Again?”
He nodded, laughing softly to himself once more, “again.”
She stared at him, waiting for the story to finish.
“So, she never joined me. I don’t believe we exchanged a glance at all really. She left early that night and I did shortly after her. Which brings us to tonight.”
“Which brings us to tonight,” she repeated.
“What time is it?”
Oona pulled her phone from her purse to check, “nearly midnight.”
The man pointed at the bar, “do you see the woman with the blonde hair in the black dress?”
Oona turned to look at the bar and noticed a beautiful woman sitting at the bar carrying on a conversation with two men, one on either side of her.
“She came in at nearly the same time you did. I watched you both sit down and order drinks. I watched you both get comfortable and carry on with whatever purposes you have being here. I watched you both, carefully, for about fifteen minutes when my initial intention was to stare at this blonde woman at the bar for the entirety of my night. As time went on my attention turned more and more to you. Your dark hair and your green dress. Your blue eyes and your red lips.”
He paused and stared at her for a moment. He was waiting for a reaction. She didn’t want to give him one because if she spoke she might have cracked.
“Mmhmm?” This was all she could muster, with a slight head nod.
“I’m not comparing you two woman. You’re both beautiful. Stunning in your own way. I don’t find her any less enthralling tonight then I did the previous nights. But you, you make me want to let you notice me.”
Oona cleared her throat, “and then what?”
“I’d ask you to be my muse.”
“What does that mean?” She shook her head gently.
“To let me stare at you and your beauty. To let me use the inspiration you stir in me to create my own beauty with words. To embody every passionate, lust-filled, craving of your sexuality in each drop of ink I spill. To immortalize you as desire.”
Oona didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t sure how to respond to something so intense and personal. All she could do was stare at him with her hand still on his knee and try to keep her lip from quivering.
“I’m sorry if that answer was a little forward. I hope it was intriguing enough though,” he smiled again.
“Intriguing enough for what?”
“For you to tell me what brought you over here.”
“Oh,” she laughed a little to herself, “I was just hoping you would buy me a drink and I’d see where it went from there.”
“How’s it going then?”
“A little awkward now,” she gave a tight lipped grin while holding her empty glass.
“Is it? Is that a no to my question then?”
“What question was that?”
“Would you be my muse?”
“What is it I have to do?”
“Absolutely nothing,” he took her hand in his and stared in her eyes, “just be yourself and let me witness it.”
A Hopeless Romantic, Stirred 