Tag Archives: become-a-better-writer

How to Get Inspired For Writing.

“Inspiration is like vomiting.”

For the past few weeks or so, I’ve been struggling with trying to take push myself to write.  I literally didn’t make any attempt to write thinking that some muse or some writing energy would engulf me and take care of it for me.  2 weeks past, 14 days, a whole bunch of hours, and still no writing.  I spent my time marketing my blog in different websites and forums.  I ended meeting a lot of great people and even having some rather interesting conversations.  I just, for some reason, didn’t have the passion to write.

Earlier this week I forced it.  I drew out several paragraphs and found myself rambling.  My thoughts weren’t fluid, they were rambling on and moving sporadically.  I started off with an idea, an idea that I preemptively thought of months ago, and I just kept expanding and expanding.  I ended up expanding so much that I lost grasp of what I was writing in the first place.  In most other times that I’ve started writing, I have floated out of the range of my original idea, but I was always able to tie myself back.  Those past instances when I started writing earlier this week, that didn’t happen.

Yesterday, I opened a book which was a collection of poetry by T.S. Eliot.  I put it down, as I wasn’t in the mood to read rhyming verses.  I went on the computer and searched for Neruda.  Good ole Pablo Neruda never failed.  I read a few poems, I even wrote one down in cursive to get the feel of writing poetry again.  Then, I wrote my own.  The poem I wrote was about the time I spent waiting to see my girlfriend again.  It was pretty solid, I was content with it.  So content, that I actually ended up sending it to my girlfriend which wasn’t something I planned on doing.

I ended up writing the previous sub-chapter for Zidia, #6: Could You Stop, You’re Breathing Too Loud. Actually, after that I also wrote a song on guitar, which wasn’t bad actually.

Today, after work, I fell asleep for a few hours.  I looked up poetry by Ruben Dario.  First I found one that rhymed and simply continued my search.  Personally, I just think rhyming takes away from the overall rhythm and texture of a poem.  I read a few poems by Dario that had no rhymes, and then I started writing my most recent personal development post:  The Popular Kid Was Never That Good at Talking to Women. It stopped writing at 1,050 words, and left it to be continued.  I felt accomplished.

There’s something about the playfulness of poetry and the lack of structure that helps me explore the music behind words.  It’s something that feels like I’m standing in front of some scenic view.  Nature doesn’t have to make sense, and neither does poetry.  In attempt to explain and destroy the magic of being enthralled, this can all fit in a simple theoretical equation.

  • Nature, or any type of scenic horizon, plays with our senses, which gives off an inspiration.
  • Poetry plays with our writing senses, which gives off an inspiration for writing.

This is just something I’m trying and something I feel is worth experimenting with.


#6 Zidia: Could You Stop, You’re Breathing Too Loud

Bethany walked out onto the street. Their new companions stared at her with stolid faces. Her eyes burnt of red anguish from her slightly forgotten tension. She weakly pushed her body forward as she came closer to the cars where everyone stood watching her make her pathetic attempt to continue living a life she had no interest in moving forward with.

“Peter, drive the Camry around,” Chase said, “It looks like we’re leaving.”

Peter nodded his head. He pulled his keys out of his pocket and squeezed behind the van and the Camaro. It wasn’t long until Colin came out of the condominium complex looking nothing like his sister. A bright expression dawned on his face as if he effortlessly just moved a boulder with his pinky. He smiled as if everything in the world was perfect and peaceful.

“Okay,” Colin said, “I guess we’re good to go then.”

“Well, you sure did take awhile,” said Chase. A distinct tone of curiosity wrapped around his words.

“Oh, we just had to talk about a few things over there. We’re okay now.”

Chase nodded his head in an unpersuasive way, turned to glance at Bethany and her whithered appeal, and wiped the ends of his mouth. “. . . I bet”

A tan colored Toyota Camry arrived in front of them with Peter in the driver’s seat, the backseat filled from window to window. Colin was literally avoiding having to tell Bethany that she would be riding with Peter and not him. He didn’t know whether or not it would break her, shattering that last string of tolerance she had for all the changes that were happening.

“Beth,” Colin said as quiet and controlled as he could, “You’re riding with Peter. I have to ride with Jessica.”

Bethany looked up at Colin. Her burnt out green eyes emoted defeat. “Whatever,” she said, not in the mood to fight anymore.

Colin bounced his head up and down, smiling. “Good,” he said relieved. “I guess that’s settled.”

As Bethany walked passed Colin, he followed her with his eyes. She went around the front of the car and knocked on the passenger window. Peter looked up and unlocked the door for her. She opened it, crawled into her seat, and then slammed her door. She didn’t greet Peter or introduce herself. She just crossed her arms in a defensive manner, and sank her head forward.

Peter looked at her suspiciously, and then he turned to stare at Colin through the front windshield of the car. Colin responded by shrugging his shoulders in an indulgent manner.

Colin turned around to see Jessica leaning on the side of the Camaro she just hot wired. Her eyes wandered in quiet. Colin wondered if he should say something.

“We just had a lot to talk about,” Colin said, trying to clear the air.

Jessica exaggerated a grin and then shook her head, “It’s none of my business,” she replied. “Let’s go!”

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

The inside of Peter’s car smelled of pine air fresheners and strawberries. He kept two of each on the dashboard. Also on the dashboard was a small metal stick figure with a tan colored grass skirt. If they pressed on it, it would do a quick hula dance. Other than the large military sacks in the back, the inside of the Camry was excessively clean. No spots, no left over food crumbs, no smell of oil, mold, or any thing anyone would find in any car that had gotten old and rotten over time.

It was almost noon, the sun must’ve almost been lifted into it’s peak in the sky. Chase led both cars, Jessica and Colin in the middle, Peter and Bethany in the behind. Peter kept his eyes in front of him, from time to time he would spare a glance back at Bethany, but she continued to stay the sam; her arms crossed, her face unbelievable still, but her eyes zoned out as if her soul floated off in some fantasy dream land.

“Are you hungry?” Peter asked.
“No,” Bethany replied monotonously.
“Well, when I get cranky I usually get hungry.”

Nothing. Not even a small flinch from Bethany. Even with Peter trying to harmlessly get a rouse out of her, spark anything to get her to show some sign of life, she still would not move. She continued to sit in a statuesque manner. Her eyes slightly stuck below the glove compartment.

“Well, when it gets really quiet I get nervous, and when I’m nervous I have fat person issues, and I just feel the need to eat something.” He reached over to the glove compartment in front of Bethany. She sank back into her seat slightly moving her legs closer to each other.

Peter stopped with his hand in midair as he noticed the small insignificant movement in Bethany’s legs. He exhaled and continued to reach over to the glove compartment. He clicked it open, and let the glove compartment fall out carelessly. Bethany moved her legs and adjusted herself to the side. Peter caught his laughter in his mouth.

The glove compartment was filled with packets of dry fruit and jerky. Bethany saw the labels on the several plastic packets, but looked away stubbornly. She stared out at the window watching the road as they entered a freeway. Under the freeway she could see the lower level road that crossed below them. Several cars were left abandoned all over the freeway. A large trucker ran perpendicular to the road, closing off several lanes from being able to move forward. It looked as if everyone just ran out of their cars and disappeared.

Bethany could hear Peter chewing loudly as he exaggerated the movements in his mouth. She knew he was exaggerating by the way he opened up his jaw widely and bit down on his food. He also clicked his gums, he grinded his teeth, and made obscure sounds with his tongue. She didn’t know whether or not he was just being a moron, or just trying that hard to get her to talk. Peter turned to face her, catching her as she stared at his open mouth.

“I bet your hungry now,” he said, wiping the front of his teeth with his tongue in an impolite manner and swallowing uneasily.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Well then,” Peter placed the packet of jerky on top of the dashboard in front of Bethany, “I’m just going to leave this here, and whenever you feel like telling me your lifestory, you could grab it.”

Bethany stared at the way Peter smiled, as if nothing bad could ever happen to them. It reminded her of Michael. The way his mouth curved slightly on the left side, the wrinkles that bent under his eyes when he pushed his cheeks up. Then the stiff cold texture of the bathroom where she stood in front of Michael crept over her body. She could feel Michael’s face peacefully floating under water with the torn expression leaving him lifeless.

“How about it?” Peter said, silently waking her up from her reverie with almost nurturing eyes.

Bethany could feel the perpetual tension of fear and sadness reaching into her. She could feel the emptiness in her stomach and the fragility of her bones. She stared back at Peter, his open grin and inviting facial expression.

“. . . I just really don’t want to talk right now.”

Peter froze for second. His breaths quietly traveled through his broken pursed lips. He shook his head and looked away from her. She could hear him exhale as he readjusted his seat.

Again, the tense silence unraveled.

Why You Shouldn’t Write Like a Harvard Prick

There are “Immature Writers” and there are “Incomprehensible Writers.”

I just got back from reading a chapter or so from The Dark Tower by Stephen King at McDonalds. I’ve decided to read a McDonalds today because the seats are comfy, the lighting is tolerant, and the windows hold up the ceiling. That, and the fact that it’s 20 or so steps away from my house and everywhere else is freezing.

This morning I had the choice between reading Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov or The Dark Tower by Stephen King. Out of the slim selection of books I found around my house, which included, Twilight, FightClub/read, The Perfect Mile, Paradise Lost, some poetry by T.S. Eliot, and Message in a Bottle by Nicholas Sparks, I figured The Dark Tower and Lolita were the only books worth reading at the time. I weighed out the pros and cons with each, I didn’t want to read something close to horror simply because I’m writing something in that genre and I don’t want to unconsciously steal the creativity in that work and end up writing just like it. However, as good as Lolita and the luscious details of caressing children would’ve been, I still decided to go with The Dark Tower, simply because it’s written in third person. From the numerous writing forums I’m currently participating in, a lot of people are telling me I need to work on a structure of writing in third person.

Within the First Few Pages

Within the first few pages I found myself reading the same sentences over and over and trying to focus. That’s bad. Most people would say that type of behavior is signs that I might have some attention disorder, or an inability to stay focused. Bullshit! It’s the freaking book’s problem. The book is broken! Maybe not to everyone, but if I open it and it doesn’t make sense to me, it probably doesn’t make sense to a lot of other people either. Books are supposed to draw in the reader, no excuses. It’s not the reader’s fault that they’re bored. It’s also not the fault of the reader, or most people altogether, that they’re not at a reading level of someone with a graduate school degree. What’s really the point of writing if no one can understand what you’re writing. If a tree falls in the middle of the forest and nobody’s around, do you really call yourself a writer?

People read Twilight. The only people who don’t read it, are writers. The language is too 5th grade. However, the reason for Twilight’s success was because people we’re into the idea, not because they like reading. Most people don’t even like reading, yet Twilight got practically every girl in America to not only pick up a book, but to read four of them. Most people don’t read for the poetic weaving of words or the underlying politics that hides subliminally behind every idea, they read because they want the story. They don’t want the Harvard vocab.

“Sorry Stephen! I don’t know what a god damn ‘hovel’ is!”

It is not your readers fault that he or she has no idea what you’re talking about. It is not your readers fault that they put down your book because it seemed like homework. It is no one else’s fault but yours that you were trying to speak a language that only a small minority of the world can comprehend.

But, if that’s what you’re going for, it’s your move.