Lately, when I write,
I feel guilt sitting next to me.
Writing is often very easy for me,
and oddly enough I feel
a sense of shame that it is.
Maybe by writing this,
instead of ignoring it,
the guilt will leave.
I think it’s already helping. Thinking of people close to me being jealous of my recent writing achievements has had a negative affect. Writing the above helped me to pin-point where the shame and feelings of guilt originated from.
There are books all around my office.
On the floor. On shelves. A number of them
are spilling over in the dry sink. The sink is
old and has cat scratches running up and down
the brownish and yellow wood. I think it’s yellow.
Maybe it’s not. I tell myself to organize the books.
I walk into the office and look at them. I pick one
up and read from it. I place it in a new place. Still,
in the office, and not really put away. Just here.
Like me, and the desk I’m typing on.
I saw that before seeing it and now it’s as if I didn’t. The song of the dysfunctional moaning happens. As feet move, over screaming cement. A disdain foams just under thought, asking for more and more; move over and feed this original sin. A seedling isn’t just a thing happened, again, as the fearing behemoths protest- It’s all been done before.
My short story, “Only. Just. Here.” has been published.
I had a blast writing this. I was creeping myself out while listening to noises in a home I didn’t know, while writing the story. (Link to the book http://bit.ly/2W9IwGu )
The setting: Moosehead Lake, Maine. A couple purchased a home that is nestled into the mountainside overlooking the large lake. Things aren’t as they seem as the story quickens pace and takes the reader on a spine tingling adventure.
I hope you purchase and enjoy the book. The link to purchase is below.
P,S,. Megan and I had just moved into our new house and I had two days to write, edit, and complete a horror story to submit to the publisher. I told the construction crews to stay away from the house on Thursday, and Friday leading to the deadline. I locked myself into my new office and wrote the story.
Nothing’s good enough. So, I write nothing. I write about a grandmother sitting alone on a boulder sipping air while watching you. You don’t care much about this, but you still think of her. As a girl she wore sun dresses which you admired. Kicking dirt, ignoring her. In your room you had thoughts that blanketed freedom.
I walked on a face today. It was my own. The concrete cherries fished away again and lost my vision for another. The trees were so pretty when they ignored me. Eventually I found a further way. Might I come this way again seeing the eyes that carry the dark and might I carry the dark back. I already own my own. -M. Taggart