Y2: Day 24 (Cut The Fluff) Sensitive Nerves Get Disconnected

Sensitive nerves get disconnected with the cries of a muff who refuses to stop.  I drink in foul concoctions, only to be left stumbling out of bed at night.  I bump into my bedroom walls, because of exhaustion.  Is there no where I can go where no cries exist?  I can only hope so.  When the night is the shade of my heart, I look for another outlet to explore.  However, I’ve yet to find what I’m looking for.  Bing, bing, bing from the sound of the Smart Phone going off every time an update or a new message goes in.  I tell my aunt to lower the volume on the phone, but I don’t think she will comply.

The noise in my head is taunting me.  I often wonder if the rain in my soul will cease.  I hope so.  I don’t know how much longer I can endure the noise all around me.  Two women screaming at each other.  The one crying and screaming.  The other just screaming.  I need peace in my mind, heart, spirit and soul, but it won’t come to me.  At least it doesn’t at night, morning, or daytime.  If only there were a way to discern what is the best means for going about my day uninterrupted.

My grandmother’s cries get louder and louder, because she hungers for attention.

Now, there is an unexpected quiet.  I don’t know how long it will last.  I’d like it to last forever, but everything depends upon my grandmother.  If she stays quiet for the rest of the night, there will be peace.  However, I sincerely doubt she will.

Everything is all about her.  The lives of everyone in my household evolve around her.  I’m lucky to find time to write each day.  With weight upon my heart eating away at my sanity, piece by fragile piece.  If only there were more for me in life.  What else is there in life other than to write during given times of the day when I can, and taking care of an elderly grandmother?

There must be something else out there in life to fester up excitement.  If only I knew where to look and what it was.  If only I knew what else existed in life other than a life of drudgery taking care of my elderly grandmother.  Writing is my only solace.  I enjoy life when I write, but I don’t do so at any other time.

I’ve asked myself repeatedly what I want out of life.  I know I want to write.  I want to get published by traditional well known publishers.  I want to make mega bucks to live off of.  I’d like to so many things in life; however, I don’t know how to make these ambitions into a reality.  Sometimes I think I live in nothing but a dreams world; my escape from reality in a life of nothing but being a caregiver, blogger, and a writer.  I don’t believe I’m doing anything useful with my skills other than blogging.  I’d like to get books published but I keep getting rejection from publishers.

So, therefore, I keep writing and writing, collecting my manuscripts in the form of both print outs and digital in my binders and in my computer.  They pile up never to be read by anyone other than certain articles of which I write for my blog.  However, I believe the reason for my stories getting rejected is because they are substandard.

I don’t believe my creative writing professors trained me the right way all those years ago when I was in college.  They did not provide me with the tools enabling success in the writing craft.  All they said was, “Write what you know.  Write what you know.  Write what you know.”  I’ve done this.  I haven’t written on any subject I don’t know something about.  I incorporate my own experiences into my plots as my professors have repeatedly advised me, and I still get rejected by publishers.

I was told by one publisher the importance of the given character leading the plot, not the plot leading the character.  The main characters need to be in control instead of having the secondary characters take over the story.  I thought I did write the story in a manner enabling the main character to carry the plot.  I thought my professors from college prepared me for what I needed to know when it came time to get my work published.  However, I realized of late they did not.

I’ve been making sure I established the conflict within the given piece of writing.  However, even with the conflict established, the publishers always find something wrong with my stories.  I guess they want writers who have better ability than what I have.  I’ve always considered myself to be a strong writer, especially in the genre of drama.  I know drama must come from the writer himself.  Drama exists outside of ourselves, but the heart of the story must come from the writer.  The writer puts himself into the piece to bring out the drama and emotional connection he strives to establish with his audience.

When writing, I like to give my readers the experience of being a participant in the given piece of writing.  I try to breathe life into a character in a manner enabling the readers to literally become the character for a brief moment in time.  I do so through enabling the readers to step inside the being of the character; living and breathing life through the character.

I also know the importance of establishing a focal point in a given story.  I can usually do so, or at least I think I do.  I’ve been told on occasion my focal point isn’t clear.  I don’t know how I can make it any clearer.  I try to be obvious about where the story is going so my readers won’t get confused.  I don’t think they get confused.  No matter what weaknesses I manage to perfect, there is always something a reader finds wrong with my story.  I realize there is no way to make a given piece of writing perfect.  Perfection doesn’t exist in literature.  It’s in the eye of the beholder, I guess.

© Copyright, Kiki Stamatiou, 2016

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