The #Blogging Poll Results

Last Monday, I put out a poll asking writers if they saw any advantages to blogging on a daily basis.

*45% believed that writing daily posts will enable the blog to thrive

*36% did not

*18% selected “other“

-“I think it depends on the content more than the frequency.”

-“Probably not, though sometimes these month long challenges do bring new people.”

 

Here are various other comments that were included with the reponses:

“Quality vs quantity. I’d rather post once a week with something that followers want to read instead of posting daily and have followers delete it.” –Darnell Cureton, Fictionista

 

“I think putting out too much material can be overwhelming for readers. I find that the blogs whose writers post just once or twice a week are the ones I read religiously and look forward to.” –Susan Richardson, Stories From the Edge of Blindness

 

“Writing every day doesn’t mean your blog will thrive. In order to have a thriving blog, we have to interact in a meaningful way and that means we have to support the blogs that support us. Unless, of course, our blog is for information purposes or we are selling something to someone, then it may be different. Perhaps it comes down to relevant content, whatever the genre of the blog. ” –Poetry From the Inkwell

 

“I do post everyday, I think if it helps me, then it could someone else. I write a lot in advance and whatever is on my heart. And I even go back and read what I wrote last week or month even year. It may be different with everyone.” –Rebecca Jones, A Daughter’s Gift of Love

 

“I think writing every day helps … maybe not posting them every day. I loved the accountability of the #Write28Days and knowing that I had committed to posting daily made me do it. But as someone mentioned … the quality does suffer — unless you are a professional journalist.” –Hulda Bennett, Hearts Fully Alive

 

What about you? Do you have any other thoughts on this poll and its results/comments?

In Search Of You (Poem)

via Pinterest

 

*This is my last entry for the Write28Days Challenge. THANK YOU so much for following, reading and commenting! 

 

I can feel your touches

through the gentle breeze

the warmth of them

as my skin radiates in the sun

 

The mist hides your face

or perhaps it is the tears

that fall for you

 

This ache in my chest

unrelenting

 

My eyes linger on the brown earth

where there were once two shadows

wholly entwined

but now there is one

 

My love, oh my love

how my eyes have searched the heavens

just for a glimpse

of you

 

One more time

one more

 

 

(I dedicate this poem to my first husband, Aaron, though he may be gone over twenty years now, I still miss him.  God rest his soul)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why Writers Should Keep Writing

 

Some reasons as to why you should stay committed to your writing:

 

“If a nation loses its storytellers, it loses its childhood.”
—Peter Handke

“The purpose of a writer is to keep civilization from destroying itself.” —Albert Camus

“We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.”
—Ernest Hemingway

“We’re past the age of heroes and hero kings. … Most of our lives are basically mundane and dull, and it’s up to the writer to find ways to make them interesting.”
—John Updike, WD

“I think the deeper you go into questions, the deeper or more interesting the questions get. And I think that’s the job of art.”
—Andre Dubus III, WD

“Let the world burn through you. Throw the prism light, white hot, on paper.”
—Ray Bradbury, WD

“Writers live twice.” —Natalie Goldberg

“Tears are words that need to be written.”
Paulo Coelho

“A day will come when the story inside you will want to breathe on it’s own. That’s when you’ll start writing.”
Sarah Noffke

“When we share our stories, what it does is, it opens up our hearts for other people to share their stories. And it gives us the sense that we are not alone on this journey.”
Janine Shepherd

 

Prune (#Haiku) #Poetry

 

 

Prune

 

 

Fat June bugs chewing

inside a juicy prune’s core

my wrecked heart, attuned

A Poll For #Bloggers

To Mourn (Poem)

Pixabay Free Images

 

To Mourn

 

 

To mourn

where the darkness

squeezes, rips

my essence

until I no longer

breathe, care

 

It is winter in my soul

where the snow of pain

runs deep

its coldness

burns, hardens

 

Will hope

arrive, return

with the birds and flowers–

will my heart

ever

be whole again?

 

 

An Insecured Writer’s Rambles: Will My Writing Have Meaning?

 

*Note: Am participating in the #Write28Days (February) hosted by Anita Ojeda. Click here if you would like to participate.

 

Just celebrated a birthday last month. My 48th one. I’m finding it difficult to believe that I am almost the big 5-0 when most of the time my mind thinks I’m still in my 20’s.

Where on earth did the time go?

I can clearly remember my parents saying the same thing to me when they were in their 40’s.  The sad reality is, my father’s no longer with us. He passed away in 2014. He was only 67.

In my eyes, he was the true steward of God using his carpentry skills (he was so gifted with his hands especially in woodworking, crafting beautiful things) and his time for the church.  Those who knew my father always commented on how cheerful he was, all smiles and loved to whistle tunes from the 60’s as he worked.

Now, I’m looking at myself and wondering, what will people remember about me when I am gone from this earth? How have I used my talent/gift and time to reach others?

After a lifetime with disabilities (hearing and vision loss), I still struggle with my self-worth and whether my writing has any value (especially when most of what I write, both poetry and fiction, tend to be dark). It doesn’t help either when my husband and son think of my writing as just a “hobby” or “fantasy writing.”  And it also doesn’t help when my husband have discouraged me from ever publishing books since I am on disability benefits (there are other factors for his paranoia other than this one reason) when I have many, many stories and poetry within that I wish to share with the world.  So, I have resorted to having my short fiction and poetry published in non-paying zines a few times each year with the remaining items posted on this blog.

Is this me experiencing the dreaded “mid-life crisis?”  Is this me being vain as I worried if all that I’ve written will be lost forever once I am no longer here? How will people remember me? Just a woman who is so and so wife and mother?

I have been given this gift (writing) for a reason, and I don’t want to squander it.  So, no matter what, I will continue to write what’s on my heart and mind through whatever means I can find in the hope of reaching those who need reaching.

 

The Man On The Wire (Flash Fiction)

 

*Image taken from Finding Clarity for this week’s Flash Challenge (click on image for original post)

 

*Note: Am participating in the #Write28Days (February) hosted by Anita Ojeda. Click here if you would like to participate.

I was walking home one dreary day, after the graveyard shift at the Medical Center, when I turned left on 3rd Crane Ave and stopped dead in my tracks. Up above sat a man on the electric wire. He appeared to be completely engrossed in the early morning’s newspaper and accompanied by a silvery-black raven. There was an umbrella dangling on the wire between them. His appearance struck me as a bit odd with haggard clothing, and a top hat.

Glancing around, there was no other soul loitering on the street. I closed my eyes thinking that perhaps the shadows cast by the rising sun were playing tricks on me. When I reopened them and peered up, lo and behold, they were still there.

I crossed my arms and pondered for a moment. I’d been working the graveyard shift all week long so perhaps I was just hallucinating. Yes, that seemed like the most logical reason.

As my arms dropped to my sides, I walked on pretending not to see them.

All was going well until…

By the time I heard the blaring of the horn, I felt my body careening into the air and a second later, landing on the cold, wet pavement with such a force, my sneakers shot off and tumbled down the sidewalk.

As I lied there in a sprawling heap, I watched as the man tucked the folded newspaper under one arm, and with the other, held the opened umbrella over his head, and drifted up into the gray sky with the raven following close behind.

Before the darkness took over, the man transformed into a creature with white wings.

 

 

 

A “Just” Quote #Write28Days

This quote reminds me of spring with the warmer weather and how everything’s blooming.  A nice thought to keep with me for the next several days in that we’re expecting more snow, blizzard conditions and yet another arctic blast.

 

Do you have a quote you really like that reminds you of warmer weather? I’d love to hear it!

#WEPFF Requisition (Science Fiction #Story)

Pixabay

*Author’s Note: This post will serve a dual purpose. One, to satisfy the word prompt for today’s Write28Days Challenge (Glory). Second, to participate in WEP’s February’s Story Challenge (theme: 28 Days). 

 

Requisition

 

Glory fingered a loose strand of black hair as her green eyes stared outwards. A warm breeze caressed her petite body as she sat on the wooden steps of the white porch. The air carried a mild scent of sweet honeysuckle which she slowly breathed in.

“Enjoying your final day?” Came a husky voice from behind.

She turned partially towards her housemate, an aging, thin man, sitting in the rocker, and nodded, “Yes.”

He leaned back as he took in the mountainous view spread before them.

“It’s a shame you couldn’t be granted another twenty-eight days here,” he said as his colorless eyes scanned the horizon’s deep purple and pink hues, “it makes no sense at all as to why they couldn’t allow you to remain here indefinitely.”

“You know that’s not how it works,” she muttered as her arms wrapped around her knees.

“Yes, but it is unfair, not to mention unjust,” the man tapped a finger on the chair’s armrest.

With a shrug, she replied, “I’m just grateful to have had this one last wish before it’s all over with. I mean, goodness, I had the chance to see all of my friends and family, to say my good-byes…even if none of it was real…it was nice.  Really nice.”

The man scowled as he nodded, “Yes…yes.”

“I know you try to understand, Jessup, and I appreciate it very much,” Glory said as she glanced down the expansive meadow where she could see the shadowy forms of buildings that made up her childhood town, “but you don’t have to stay any longer.”

Jessup let out a long exhale, “Yes, but it doesn’t feel right to leave you to -eh- to face your end.”

She smiled, “You are too thoughtful, but I will be okay.”

His eyes swept over her before he bowed his head, “As you wish,” and within seconds, his body dissipated into a thin cloud of mist.

Glory studied the empty chair for a moment before returning her attention to the sky. The streaks of purple and pink were quickly transitioning to layers of dark blue and black.  The usual nightly orbs obscured by a looming menace in the heavens where billowing sinister clouds barely concealed an enormous fiery mass barreling towards her.

A shiver ran through her body as she closed her eyes.

Will I feel any pain? She wondered as waves of heated air brushed over her.

The earth beneath her rumbled as the roar grew louder and louder until her body shuddered right off the porch, and on the rolling ground.

Crackling and sizzling filled her ears as she opened one eye to see where the fire was when she realized the sounds were coming from her skin.

Just as the burning grew unbearable, everything went dark.

*****

 

Bleep bleep bleeeeeeeep.

The blipping line on the monitor instantly became a steady line.

A tall man in a white jacket stood staring at the screen for several moments, the bushy brows burrowing which revealed the deep lines around his brown eyes.

“Dr. Cruz?” came a woman’s voice from the nearby console.

“I will never get used to this,” he said, “extinguishing lives all for what? Profit? So that our government can repay its debts?”

“No, it’s mankind’s next step in its evolutionary process. It has also helped science learn much about the human’s consciousness,” the same woman replied.

He bowed his head for a long moment, eyes closed as he pondered on her words. Then, he shook it.

“Those are just the Company’s taglines.  We are nothing more than an assembling line for repurposing human bodies for those who can afford them. For the few who want to extend their own selfish, futile lives.”

“Dr. Cruz,” the woman’s tone now stern, “I wish to remind you that everything said and done here are being carefully monitored.”

He clenched his jaw, “Time of conscious death, 23:02,” his fingers tapped hard on the blue-lighted tablet’s screen.

To his left, the woman in a white jacket turned to focus her attention on the various displays of electronic devices in front of her.

“Closing the file for collateral number 230645 aka Gloria Swann,” she said as she pressed on the glowing screen, “body already prepped and ready for shipment to recipient number 02A02,”