Saturday, January 21, 2012

never ashamed.........................119:6

Shame is the cloak that regards the guilty, or the confused.
The tough and uninformed may feel no shame as they see no shadows, heed no voice and fear no rebuke.
Yet the tender and listening heart may be oversensitised to throwaway comments, and shiver.
The tender and listening sometimes need to hear the end of the story to lay shame to rest. The end is forgiving and full of promise.
The one with a promise in hand is strong and full of peace.
Peace does not live with shame.
Peace is the fruit of fellowship, of companionship, of the heart that lay open for instruction and forgiveness.
It will drown out disappointment, confusion and dread, rinse away tears and the despair that may appear with delay.
And the heart becomes light and free.
In truth it shall be free.

Sunday, January 15, 2012

stuck up world

It's a curious world for the author who either rubs against the contract by carrying the dream or tilts with her own place in the world. What rights do the dreamers have? All at once there is the option of self publishing or accepting the fine margins of the editor's market. I recently received a sweet rejection; my title didn't fit their market and they were only accepting two manuscripts for the year. So you think you can write? Absolutely, if you are free enough to part with the hand that feeds and trust your passion. Life could be better than that.
The manuscript itself seemed polished enough, according to appraisals. I will toss it back in the mail to other publishers, and move on. I put my ear to the sky for another book to work on. I have several in process, if writing is ever so sterile as to call it a process. I was once told to write the book that begs to be written, so I was asking. A story that was started about ten years ago piggy backed me as I listened, it pleaded and growled as I tried to look at the others. I've loved it and hated it over the years. It's made me laugh and cry, but was never quite right. I had hacked it and started over so many times that it almost felt redundant. But I still care about the main character.
I must make him live.
It's all in my hands.

ladders of staggers

Trying to fall into the place of hope is precious and precarious all at once. Hope can be the strongest rail but breaks like plasticine if the supports waver. Where do you find substance for this strange bridge, that is as certain as last night's dream but as fragile as a cloud. When it beats for you, nothing will stop the pace and speed. When it falters nothing will scream so silently. It is decidedly unreal and certain.
This is the hope that rocks beneath the face of a writer, taunting, teasing and taming the hums of doubt.
Nothing can speak so softly.
Nothing can fill you with such dread.

Another trip with the travel partner of hope seems so terrifying. She will not let you stop, yet offers few words. She laughs and it is for you to determine the mockery or love in her voice. She can break your insecurities into feathers, or sing them into the bird that will finish the journey. Your heart alone decides the flight. You decide the volume and courage. You decide to put the fears to sleep and hear the pulse of hope over the crackling lightening and tears of history.

If this is your story, you choose the higher voice and refuse to look down.
If this is your story, you will soar.