Category: Narrative Essays

The poetic genre I love

When earth shakes, do snakes escape from its mouth, while all roots unroot from the soil? — how can I, the author of this sentence, be surprised by what I’ve written on my own… is it my natural ability to observe from another’s perception that brings me to that conclusion, or perhaps, let us be a little insane, odd, and whimsical, and let us say that it was a presence, the muse, that murmured it to my right ear.

A crack, an opening, the underground, catacombs — yes, I write semi-automatically, plunged emotionally inside the subconscious lagoon of my core. My poems are literal, where I let whatever wants to sprout out be — I just kind of express myself unconsciously. The moment I have a subject in mind — no matter what the subject might be, I go for it; I let my creativity take full possession of my being.

Should I say that I write while accessing my Random Access Memory, I don’t know! But what I do know on the other hand, is that when I write a poem, I completely abandon myself to my needs for art, and where the finished product needs to trigger the emotion of astonishment and puzzlement inside of me, like, is it really me that has written that oddity! Else, everything needs to be rewritten, for I am unsatisfied. I like to be the reader behind the eyes that has written the work, same as I would have read any other writings. I am out of my mind when I write, but back into the shell when drafting.

The seascape joins the shorelines, giving birth to an oneiric landscape - Literal, figurative, metaphorical — these are the main adjectives that I want my creative works to be described as, and where I try my best to construct my texts in the best possible way as I want them to be, and as well as I like them, always remembering the feelings felt when reading works written by other authors, whether good or bad.

When I write poems, I want the world to flow through me, for the world is a mystery, an everfloating debris of emotions. Thus, I want to write poems about everything that the world holds, wanting to be the medium through which the hatred, violence, love, romance, death, happiness, sadness, and all these emotions that have been given away to life (entity to me) incarnate themselves through the poetry I write.

Yesterday my husband and I we were discussing about a peculiar movie we like, and where both of us had different thoughts concerning the enigmatic ending of the movie, which I do think was a literal and poetic ending, opened to every kind of interpretation, the beauty of creative work. That’s when I realized that my poems too, or any other poems, could also be interpreted differently by the various type of readers, because precisely I write poems figuratively. But that’s my playground of interest — the metaphors, the flowery, the fanciful, the surreal, that’s how I fell in love with poetry, always, and that’s the degree of aesthetic that I thrive to ornate my poems with, so that readers that are fond of that genre of poetry might gain the ultimate satisfaction — at least I try to.

Being what I am, I am unable to write essays or any other serious subjects passionately, without getting bored… too detailed and prosaic for me, and where I have enormous respect for those that write these kind of intellectual articles meant for informational and educational purposes… not meant to tickle the fancy of readers, but where I would have been more than happy to have my poems being deconstructed by one of those literary critics, those thirsty for the psychology and logic behind literature. What would be the finds, the adjective of qualifications to describe what and how I write — dark, depressive, illogical, confusing, or else, I don’t know; puzzling and mystical, that’s what I would though.

Else, would I be criticized for appropriating the experience and life of others — a life snatcher, when all I ever do is trying to write with these emotions, calling them from the depth of my subconscious, drawing the ideas and inspiration from the well of my mind, and interconnecting and intertwining my own experience to that of the collective consciousness, the web of life.

Do my poems echo back emotions, the creation that’s voiceless, yet veiled with imagination? Are they movie projectors where the films display bits and pieces of what my imagination holds, though literal and surreal? Or, are the poems I write same as in dissection of a poem, a poem where elements of my own experiences sneak silently within the construction of the poetry I write. In the end, I just hope, and do my best, so that these poems I write are as literal, metaphorical, and as aesthetically pleasing to the reader’s mind, same as much as I have been conquered by this poetic genre.

That’s why I don’t abandon

Darcocyte would have been an aborted project if I had abandoned its conception. But that is where my strange anthropomorphic habits tend to save the day — looking at it as something tangible and true, one that belongs to the realm of existence — I couldn’t fail to write it. My personal interaction with objects, I think so, tend to nullify any kind of want or need to abandon that which comes from the deepness of my own core. I know that looking at things in such odd ways might not seem obvious to some — but what is obvious to the creative writer or to any other artists? I do wonder.

I tend to address a finished product of mine as my baby because I’ve conceived it from the bottom pit of my own imagination. Now, I don’t know about the other writers, but the very fact that the essence of the stories and poems that I write are born from my own imagination, make me seriously think that these are extended members that sprouted out from my own self; the invisible roots that reach out to the world, and where in my mind - again here it’s my personal way of thinking - I can’t abandon something that’s integral of my being.

I have always been the type of person who pays particular attention to my relatives - it is innate in me - and I really don’t know if it’s that particular side of me that renders me so passionately attached to what I produce as an individual, but it works all the time. And that’s what happened with Darcocyte, I just couldn’t let it down when it’s an integral part of me…

Passion is, and will always be to me, that one emotion which permits the artist to go through their work with serenity and enjoyment, and this, without any kind of reward or encouragement. It’s the passion to make my imagination concrete that fuels my determination of the before publishing level, and where after that stage, well, that’s clearly another story. But as for that part of concretizing ideas and thoughts into stories, poems, or blog posts, I am way too passionately driven to abandon their realization; too attached to these extensions of my imagination and personal experiences.

Perhaps what I might be writing here might make me seem like an arrogant; but I am so passionate about what I write that I find my own stories as being flawless🤭😅 and where I’ve even prepared a long list of answers to defend my baby novel against the worst critics, because I understand that reading exotic English writings are not the cup of tea of every readers.

Thus, to me, being passionately attached to my artwork helps me to continue hoping that one day I will be able to make money from my writings.

And what about you? Is it a passionate thing between you and your writing. Are you a passionate creative writer?

From then till now

Not all those who wander are lost;
— Tolkien

• It all started on Pinterest. Yes . . . Six or seven years ago I was introduced to this platform by Xu_Ann_the_3rd, my lil’ sister; and since then, I’ve been contaminated with the virus of creativity, DIY, and everything aesthetic. All of these creative feeds, sites, and as well as their users, inspired me till the inner core of my being to dare and be. Back then, I was pinning everyday and all day, busy checking all the boards of these interesting personas who inspired me so much. In the end, I had finally been able to find those, whose minds talk same as mine.
• Because during this period of my life, I didn’t know what I wanted to embrace as new career, I was often on other digital platforms, experiencing with chatting or any other forms of online activities that would have led me towards a stay@home job.
• Meanwhile, I opened an account on a writing app (which I don’t remember the name), and from there, I started to write short stories, amongst which the story of a cockroach in love with a girl rekindled my imagination that I thought I had long lost.
• Then came the WordPress.com chapter, there where I created my first blog, lovelyricism. On this platform, I was able to hone my skills through writing and submitting to their everyday writing prompts page; swimming towards progress into their lagoon of precious tips, amidst a community of talented writers and bloggers. And that’s where, during that same period of writing everyday, that the first sentence idea for Darcocyte appeared in my mind — “Don’t go ploughing the infertile land my little girl, the man in the vessel will try to lure you…”
• I started to write on microsoft word (software key that was included with the buying of my first laptop), alongside other little drafts and scribblings done here and there — all lost during a malware infection that wormed its way inside of my former laptop, rendering it completely obsolete. Fortunately I had the daily habit of saving Darcocyte on a USB key. Since then, I fell inside the dark pit of paranoia, suspecting almost everyone to be scammers and malevolent hackers. I should have stopped right there, but there was something screaming out in me to continue my way, for in the end, everything would be alright.
• I changed writing software, and went this time with Google Doc, thing that I don’t regret the least, for its ease of use and understanding. Briefly speaking, I embraced the Google ecosystem for its core functionality and integrality.
• I erased all of my former accounts (Christa Chn), to start anew with a new pen name (Eaki).
• I created my second blog on blogger under the pen name, Ea-ki; but with hindsight I realised that it was a difficult name to pronounce, thus decided to go for an anagram of my real name, which formed Eiravel Mist.
• As the story took the shape of the science-fiction genre, the more I needed to research online about the nature of some things, and as well as the mechanics of others, trying to make my story as interesting as possible for the curious reader. Metaphysics, parapsychology, pseudoscience, gene editing, telepathy, aliens, strange science, quantum, everything deemed paranormal and surreal were read and scrutinised meticulously, as to be implemented in the story.
• While I was at the phase of my last rewrites, I started to think and read about the most favorable channels where I would be able to publish, market, or even find a legit publishing house or editor for my book//e-book. To me, the process of getting a book out there was the most difficult part for me, much more difficult than that of writing Darcocyte. That’s where I understood that the internet has shitloads of problems, truffled inside of an illusionarium (yep, it serves to write in metaphors).
• Meanwhile I continued learning some internet basics and their components, all the while doing social media, blogging, practicing other types of writing, wrote a French story for a contest (No, I didn’t win), wrote a poem for a national contest (No, I did not submit, for fear and doubts had been gnawing my mind then).
• Writing, writing, writing. Practice, practice, practice. Reading, reading, reading. Rewrites, rewrites, rewrites. Edit, edit, edit.
• Then it happened, after four and a half years, Darcocyte was enough elegant and aesthetic to my eyes as for me to publish it. Too hasty to show it to the world, and too tired to search for more, on impulsivity, and without thinking further, I self-published on a platform that doesn’t even make payment directly to my bank account, and where I have settle only for crumbs — I’ve settled for less (And these are the two main things that are actually stressing me, and where I need to calm down so that I might consider things under another light).
• Now I am waiting, observing, and trying to calm down my impatience, hoping that I have well interpreted the signs.
• But life needs to go on, doesn’t it? I should not forget that I have a poetry book to edit, and other short stories ready for publishing. This time, I won’t settle for less… TO BE CONTINUED.