Pushing Words: Or How I Learned to Stop Procrastinating and Start to Love the Craft Again

fall-treeNovember is National Novel Writing Month (Nanowrimo for short) and this year I was determined to actually put my hat into the ring and write my first novel.

To be sure, the fiction end of the writing I have done so far, mostly unpaid for the last decade or so, has sharpened my skills and allowed me to meet some wonderful people (like the nice young woman who offered to do a cover for my book as a thank you contributions to her website project) and the like, but I never considered myself a real writer and sometimes I still do not at times.

BayArt was kind enough to give me a platform to reach out with my one fiction piece that fit the inspirational tones of BayArt itself, which you can read here.

As far as any other fiction was concerned there were story ideas in my head and some rather good ones in that crop I may add but the negative voices in my head would immediately chime in:

“Who do you think you are, trying to write a book, it will never sell, it is too much work and you really think you’re an actual writer? Like a writer-writer? Yeah OK buddy, good luck with that one.” 

During the last three to four years, I have been on a journey and a huge part of that journey is centered around debriding my mind of the nasty thoughts that have held me back for decades from showing my true potential.

It took me losing just about everything to come out of denial and then almost losing everything I have now just to get myself to this point, but if I have the courage of my own convictions then pain is only a doorway to enlightenment.

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Of Roots and Fractals (An Inspirational Short Fiction)

First of all, before we begin let me point you to my first post on BayArt, which is the first step in a very long journey for me personally.

Secondly, if you like this post you can find more of my musings here

This is a short story I wrote from a writing prompt about the effects of turning your back on the gifts the universe provides for you, as well as a tale of courage and redemption. 

I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed sharing it with you here. 


Bob admittedly felt strange as he awoke on that Sunday morning, staring at the blue sky from his bed in his tiny one bedroom apartment, the bright sunlight forcing his eyes and his mind under the covers to try and regroup.

It felt like he got no rest at all, even though he had gotten into the habit of sleeping as much as possible, because it was better to be blissfully asleep rather than think about how lonely and isolated he was every single day of his life.

His eyes burned and his body ached as if he had been on a bender and then proceeded to start a fight in which the odds must have plainly been against him. Bob had vague recollections of a strange dream, of hands, reaching out and a voice that kept telling him he had one last chance.

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The Journey Back Part One: The History and the New Path

13892189_1153112248043222_7635208731133739943_nLike most tragic events in life, large or small, I would be hard pressed to tell you how this all began.

Did it start as early as I suspect, from infanthood, the feeling of abandonment that children get when their parents are not quite ready or capable of being the kind of parents that provide not just the material goods we all require in early life, but the sense of love and security that any child needs at the beginning, by being held and reassured?

Knowing what I know of my father it is possible.

Did it start once my schooling began when one little incident marked me for life as the loser, the one to be pointed at, the one to be pushed aside and shunned, hearing the words come out of the mouths of your peers that crush your soul down into a little compact box, never to be opened?

Was it coming home, hearing the same words and phrases (loser, lazy, ugly, worthless, nothing) from my father that I heard from my peers every day, reinforcing the idea that I was nothing more than what I was told?

Was it being no more than twelve or thirteen years olf after my mom was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis and having my father leave for another woman, leaving his son to carry the burden of being the ‘man’ of the house for three of four months, walking two to three miles to do the shopping, cleaning bed sores and taking care of a mother the son barely knew as a person?

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