Write it Out
Pieces written to process emotions, events, and life itself.
-
“That’s not how my other patients describe the voices they hear,” he said, his voice steady and reassuring. “It’s much different. In fact, I have never heard it described the way you just did.” “That’s good to know,” I replied, nodding my head with one quick, chin drop. He was an extraordinary psychiatrist. Usually, they
-
There are pieces that I have written that seem to write themselves. There are pieces that even several years later, I remember where I was and how I felt when I wrote them. There are pieces that the narration and music for the audio recording hit the emotional mark of the piece perfectly. Endlessness is
-
“Where emptiness meets eternity” is a line from my poem The Death of a Heart, from my first book. I don’t know where things I write come from. I am clairaudient and some sort of medium, so I hear (and see) spirits, (which I plan to blog about sometime) so I can’t say if it
-
Sometimes trudging through my word doc files is a depressing state. Abandoned stories untold, the character’s corpses cluttering up the hard drive. I have been known to resurrect them, even years later. This usually happens after a visit to their perpetual state of limbo (their file) and I remember why I created them in the
-
“Do you want Mum’s old books?” my father said, his eyebrows raised in question. His gray-blue eyes met mine. “They meant an awful lot to her.” “Sure Dad,” I replied, “I’ll take them.” I knew the books meant a lot to my mother, although, I wasn’t exactly sure why, other than the fact she loved
-
Hushing the voices, a dark quill shattered. When I listed my books from last to first and realized their titles formed a complete sentence, I was stunned. It was not something I consciously planned, and yet there it was: a cathartic trio of books wrapped up in a sentence. It seemed more like a message
-
Awakening was both liberating and horrifying, in my experience. On my journey, I gathered a lot knowledge and my awareness expanded. Some of what I learned was difficult and left me with unpleasant emotions. Some explained why the world is the way it is. Some was unspeakable and haunted me, and some was so unbelievable,
-
I write from my experience and understanding, offering my perspective, as we all have a unique way of seeing things. I encourage the reader to question, seek, and research. You may see things differently. The truth is cloaked in a web of deceit in which those who seek it are often caught. It can send
-
The sinking feeling of depression creeps up on me again. It feels like a lead weight I’ve suddenly found myself encumbered with. Like an anchor, I toss it overboard. It swiftly sinks through the depths of the cold darkness and I along with it, yet I remain in the vessel from which it was dropped.
-
There was always something: some event, some comment, some form of self-doubt, that left me with conflicted feelings about my writing. Sometimes it was the pressure to publish from someone who had read my work. Sometimes it was my inability to believe anything I wrote was any good. Sometimes it was the comments I received
-
Not long after midnight, I went outdoors. The night sky was filled with stars, the wind was brisk, and the wind chimes sang in the night air. I felt more peace in those moments than I had all day. There was nothing in the darkness that frightened me. There was nothing under that black, glittering
-
Writing close to the bone is easy – sharing it is another story. There is something about allowing other people to read your innermost thoughts. I liken it to being naked in the town square. People are staring, some pointing, others snickering. The feeling can be exquisitely uncomfortable, but like anything new the novelty wears
SB LACROIX 