Narrative Essays

Bits of thoughts from a shattered heart

A river stream

It’s patience; my impatience

A river runs deep inside of me. And it takes its source from the mountain of my mind. It slowly flows, streams patiently, and on its way, it engulfs some water creatures, some aquatic plants, and loads of pebbles and soil, and this, all the while I sit on its bank, dreamily looking towards the vast sea.

It’s patience; my impatience. And yet, the river it tells me that we are one; that its course is my course, and that all of these creatures also swim within me.

But I couldn’t wait. I wanted to speed towards the vast ocean, to meet all of its creatures, and swim freely within its large mouth — when the river in me, had not even met the other tributaries.

Thus I’ve taken Darcocyte out of my riverbed, there where it was still learning to swim, and rushed till the ocean. And there I drowned. But the river and I are one — same course, same pace, same path . . . but I was too impatient, too impertinent, a foolish head.


There is no bright star that lives in the space of my head, granting me wishes

The other day I was brought back to the reality of things, when I realized with sheer horror that Darcocyte is filled with grammatical errors and bad syntaxes.

There is no unicorn. There is no magical fairy or lamp, no fairy dust or magical wand, no wishing well, no good fortune, no celestial guides, faith don’t move mountains; the internet is not the vast ocean, it is simply a lagoon; there is no bright star that lives in the space of my head, granting me wishes; life is real, it is not surreal. There is only patience, diligence, hard work, logic, perseverance, the reality and knowledge of things, and in-depth analysis. The rest, only fiction, thing, that I need to wrap my mind around more often.


I didn’t know what to do. I panicked when I realized that I had written a first book that’s filled with mistakes, thus I’ve unpublished Darcocyte.

I’ve been reading Darcocyte again with new eyes, and this, after one whole year. And my heart couldn’t take it. I am stressing all over it. I have lost my writing rhythm; I have been thinking too much. My train has derailed from its track; I am staggering. From a streaming river, I returned back to a stagnant state.

Yet, most of the great writers said that the writer should forget their manuscript for some months, as to be able to re-read it with fresh new eyes, and thus be able to discern their mistakes, and self-edit more easily. And now I can confirm that it is the truth; but came to that truth a little bit too late.

I didn’t know what to do. I panicked when I realized that I had written a first book that’s filled with mistakes, thus I’ve unpublished Darcocyte. I am to blame for not having changed my baby’s diapers and gave it a bath for all of these months😅…

Trial and errors, and now I am going through a nightmare, a nightmare on editing street; a bad dream that came true.


I have finished my book of poems, and yet, I still have no clue about what to do next

I have finished my book of poems, and yet, I still have no clue about what to do next. I am filled with so much doubts now; and I have nothing to hang myself to. I’ve lost my way in a maze filled with traps. I don’t even know how to write . . . see, this is all crap, just like a robot would write. Me and my mind, we are unable to create properly, I am thinking too negatively.

It has never been exotic English. Some part of it was none-sense, ugly, bad litterature. I have failed right away as an indie-author. Yet I never had bad intentions. I wanted to embrace the e-bohemian culture, the DIY culture. For it was there that we are going, isn’t it? No. It can’t be 2020.

I wanted to do it for the others out there. For those that want to write or blog, to create, but who don’t know how, where, and with what to start. But I wanted it to be the truth of my individual experience. I wanted to be that light, even as tiny as it may seem, in this vast darkness. Just because I can do it. Just because I have the necessary determination and thickness of skin. I wanted to do it for you, for you to know the different ways you can take as to arrive at your destination — though without a dim, though without the necessary talent, and the education needed. It’s not for everyone, but for a handful of bold people, of that I can attest.

I’ve hurt myself against many interesting online services that are not available for most underdeveloped or developing countries. Services where independents and freelancers can dwell and tap into, as to free themselves from this birdcage. And most online articles are about those online services that are not available for us here. That really was my mission, to collect my own writing experience data and archive it on the world wide web database.


Could a book have a will of its own? When it is not ready, it is not ready

Have to say that everything pointed elsewhere. But this stubbornness of mine, this stupidity of mine, this impatience of mine. First of all I hurt myself against a method of payment that was not available for my country (first locked door), then the pricing formulation was too complicate and obscure for me to understand (second locked door), then I was overwhelmed with all of these frustrations. Things were not working smoothly, I was not seeing clearly. Thus, could it be that a book has a will of its own? When it is not ready, it is not ready. Have I not again listened to my intuitions? I guess so, for everything points to the mistakes I’ve made due to my impatience.

As I am writing this blog post, I don’t know anymore what to do. This whole thing is stressing me — and I hate stressful situations. I hate it when I am stuck like that. I hate it that things are not turning out like I wished them to be. I get mad like a child that throws a tantrum when I don’t get what I want😂 especially when I’ve worked hard for that something.

I still don’t know what I had in my head when I started it all out, but surely I always had good intentions.

I want to believe again, to be again, to try again

What is perfection without our own personality attach to it? Without our own magic. I have my own style of writing, not to the taste of everyone, not, for anyone — a little bit decadent, a little bit odd and surreal, perhaps incomprehensible to many readers, but always with parts of myself. I am not a book thief, everything that I’ve written has been meticulously researched online. Perhaps my texts, even my whole ideas have been mined and sold, but I will always remain the author, it’s already in the memory of the universe, in the memory of water. I am not blind, remember, I make one with the river, a river that sees clearly.

I want to believe again, to be again, and to try again. To attest of my online writing experiences. To believe again that there is a bright star that lives in the space of my mind, granting me wishes.

Thus talked the river in me:- slowly but surely; with patience and perseverence, you’ll stream till the vast sea, and there, you’ll meet the hermits and all the crustaceans; the starfish, the giant squid, the great shark, the enormous beluga, the five hundred thousand years old giant turtle, and all of the water creatures that live in the deep sea. And as for your desperation, I am water, and water cleanse and wipe out everything, from bad memories to what aches. I am water, and you are me.

Narrative Essays

Nightmare on editing street

Notepad & Black Coffee

Today I waked up and thought about how much time and effort goes in editing my writings, and I asked myself - isn’t there any other way for me to alleviate my editing struggles? Am I condemned to never be able to spot my own grammatical errors, word dispositions, and wrong display of sentences right from the start. Also, am I condemned to go through all of these re-writings and editings, and still never end up with a perfect display of what I want to convey.

What am I doing wrong? I know that editors are the ones that bring that final touch to the finished book, but still, as an independent writer, I can’t afford to hire the services of a professional editor; and, I am sceptical of $5 or $10 *editors*… But if ever I’ll hear good recommendations about one, I’ll hire their services… that’s for sure.

Thus, during these last four weeks of Nightmare On Editing Street, I have been busy with editing a Halloween story, which by the way is a story that I wrote and supposedly edited last year, and that I haven’t been able to polish as to publish for today, and this, all the while also being busy struggling with editing my book of poems - where wrong words/sentences, grammatical errors, and non-sensical lines, keep popping up in front of my eyes, and this, each time I go though re-reads.

They are like Freddy Kruger or some other monstrous serial killer from a slasher movie, that lurk in the dark, imperceptible. You look once, they are not there, you look a second time, they are there, you look again, they’ve disappeared - which I guess is their favorite sadistic game to play, which is that of causing terror and horror in their chosen victims. And in me, it’s the terror of not being able to finish what I have started, and the horror, it comes through these mistakes that I discover after I thought that the piece was good to go.

It’s non-stop edit all the way😅.

Sometimes, I even wonder whether it was me that has really written this and that, or, even wonder paranoically whether someone around is messing with me, sabotaging my online work, because, I never seem to remember about ever committing such aberrant errors, or even, committed such a degree of omission while editing. Thing that’s very odd, even creepy, if you deeply think about it. A Nightmare On Editing Street - a haunted machine.

Perhaps I should blame my daily self-affirmations, “I write beautiful sentences, I write beautiful sentences, I write beautiful sentences” for tricking my brain to believe that what I have written is beautiful, or even, perhaps these self-affirmations might have triggered a strange phenomenon that cause my subconscious, which is slower to react than my brain, but more precise and wiser, to filter and spot the errors each time I go through the text, so that I might really write beautiful sentences… who knows how these obscure rendering works, or not😅.

Why, why, why? Other artists like painters or sculptors, they don’t need editors to edit their art! So why can’t it be like that for creative writing? Is it because I am not a native English speaker that I struggle that much with editing my own work, or, have I not practiced or read enough. What have I been doing wrong in my process? That’s so frustrating for me to have not been able to develop a personal editing strategy that would help me gain time, and as well as to end on a high note.

Suffice that I practice more, and perhaps, write slower than I actually write, as to develop this strategy of mine. Because this time, I don’t want to lose four and half years writing and editing like I did with Darcocyte. I know there has to be another way of discovering these errors right from the start of editing, or even drafting.

Or perhaps, I am putting too much pressure on myself, and I am dramatising for nothing. In the poem The Edit I wrote: This phase of edit makes my stomach churn; For it will soon be over, I confirm.

Narrative Essays

No. I am not suffering from writer’s block

No. I am not suffering from writer’s block. My brain is just consumed by the too much thinking I make as to find a way to balance my life right now. It’s still a little bit chaotic, for I still haven’t found my pace amidst life happenings.

No. I am not suffering from writer’s block. But a type of fear has started to consume my heart. It’s still a tiny spark, this fear - but in the long run, it might as well set ablaze whole forests in my heart, in my mind.

No. I am not suffering from writer’s block. No, I don’t fear criticism, because I understand that to each their own. I don’t even fear of sounding stupid, because ridiculousness never killed anyone. I don’t fear those who like to point their one finger right at me. Because I’ll snatch it out with my teeth, munch it, and then spit it out in the wild as for the vultures to chew it - see, I just wrote a horror scenario😂 also peace to everyone. Thus, I am not suffering from writer’s block.

But this fear, it concerns much more the fright of losing her … my muse … because I am not penning down lines of poems and paragraphs of stories as I used to do everyday. Yes, that’s what I fear the most right now - that she will leave me, and that I will be left to dry and wither, and finally, die a slow death inside.

I am like that passionate lover who does everything they can to prove their degree of affection and adoration to the beloved of their heart. Thus, to sit down everyday as to write is an offering to my muse, this gift of creativity. I don’t want to use my muse. I want to possess her - well, metaphorically speaking of course.

Seeing that I am not a native English speaker, I write very slowly, turtleishly, frequently stopping in the middle of a word or a sentence to think about the right English term that I should use, or even to linger on the arrangement of my words. And sitting with my muse, which to me is the only audience pleased by my amateurish writing, while thinking and focusing, is a must for me. But it takes time to make adjustments, to find the right or perfect balance between my chores, my duties, leisure, relaxation, writing a new book, blogging, imagining; to settle in a new favourable routine that’s promising for me.

And that’s where my fear stems from - the fear that in between, my muse will become dormant again, burying herself under piles of inactive feelings and random access memories agents; or even, dying out of hunger, she would leave me for another more enthusiastic and thrilling mind. That my creative influence, inspiration, will sink furtherly at the bottom pit of my mind, that same shallow area where I went to deter it, to awaken it, to activate it, while practicing vigorously for all of these years, so as to beat the odds, which by the way is my favorite game to play.

No. I am not suffering from writer’s block. It’s just that my brain is drowning within an ocean of thoughts, amongst which, thoughts that my muse might abandon me … thus the cause of my present fear.

No. I am not suffering from creative’s block, because today, while being Friday, I have been able to write this blog post which I’ll be revising tomorrow, to finally publish it on Sunday. And while we’re at it, I’ve also got the idea about the photo I’ll be taking to ship with this blog post, which is a little note that I’ll tape on my back yard brick wall, accompanied with some wild plants. Thus, this issue has been settled. No. I am not suffering from writer’s block.

Narrative Essays

I won’t lower down my expectations

“Garner your strength, writer, stifle the ache, for your words need to flutter”

I know that the world is shaking right now, where most of us are sad, angry, aching, mourning; and that amidst this strange and wretched time, everything appears grim, morose, and without hope - but should our own heart be alike the gloomy ambiance that’s surrounding us? That’s the question that I’ve been trying to work on since my plans changed completely during that lockdown period… since the pandemic took over our world.

And since then, I am trying to work my way through this new shift in reality, trying to adjust the sail of my ship on that new ocean vibe, reorganizing everything in my life; trying at all cost to stick with a difficult schedule, as to find time to write. Since then - well, after I came out of a whirlwind of incomprehensible deception, demotivation, and gloomy emotions - I have shaken myself up, purged my poisonous thoughts, kicked my blues away, shifted my intent, modified my plans; and after many hours of self-introspection, I have finally been able to identify the root cause of this uncontrollable deception, which clearly made no sense at all. I then knew why earth had shaken underneath my feet, causing tidal waves in my heart.

I didn’t come this far to only come this far

It was such a strange moment - that point in time when fear, doubts, what’s inconceivable, and the strangeness of my uncertainties, merged, giving birth to my distress. It was a situation forced on me, at least that’s how I felt… and I just couldn’t let those negative emotions poison my heart anymore; I couldn’t let distress overwhelm my senses and stop me from thinking; I couldn’t let distress freeze my movements - for I didn’t come this far to only come this far.

The future is not written yet, tables might turn at any point in time, and tomorrow, everything is possible, the better as the worst. Then I decided that I shall think of that tomorrow with pessimism, for I want the better tomorrows, the most exciting of all tomorrows, I want to be that glint amidst the chaos. Thus, I decided to not lower down my expectations concerning my writing ambition - that of selling my own books, books that I like, crafted things with imprints of my own sentences, and of course, to feed this blog with my thoughts and wordcrafts. I decided to continue circling my thoughts around creativity, just because I feel happy when I use writing as my main medium of expression, just because I don’t force myself to write stories nor poems, or even force myself to think about what to blog next. On the contrary, I miss creating more, I miss imagining the next story I’ll write or photos I’ll take for my web pages, or even to sit down, as to craft more poems.

In the blog post harpooning the next day, I wrote about how I overcame my doubts and my fears and of all the dramatic situation occurring … but I didn’t expressed myself on what triggered that profound and uncontrollable distress that made no sense … which I happened to understand only after I went through a series of self-introspection. Found, I’ve missed the opportunity to market Darcocyte and this blog during that period where everyone was locked up at home, with only the internet as means to butterfly and socialize. Found that my doubts and thoughts about the errors I’ve committed were stopping me from thinking clearly about what to do next. Found that I was panicking over the fact that I was making the same mistakes over and over again, with intrusive thoughts and constant feelings that I ignored my intuition once more …

"Writer, garner your strength
Don't lower your expectations
For your words need to fly
Away, into the world."

But wait! You know what? In the end I’ve understood that my overwhelming negative feelings were not even about my trials and errors concerning the business of writing … It was more about me, something more profound, something more sensitive. An opened scar. The feeling that I had lost my wings, again. How much of intense emotions I felt during such a little period of time is unbelievable. Everything shifted, mingled, and then, raptured. All that I can say here, is that it was intense, very intense indeed.

Now I am back on track, after I’ve shaken myself out of the feelings of delusion and dilemmas. I’ve gained again my sense of logic, which as you all know is necessary to live in this reality. And after I’ve spotted my errors and identified the steps that I might have skipped, or even the bridges that I might have burned, I came to accept the fact that I was bound to fail, simply because I was not well prepared - in terms of payment gateway, money, registration of intellectual property, bad devices, those wrong technical setup, my paranoid thoughts about pre-plagiarisation of my writings, not having learned in depth about the technical and marketing part of selling books online… and it goes on and on and on - all of these issues that I haven’t properly worked on, when knowingly I had emitted the intent of pursuing the journey of the independent author … but dammit it’s hard. You write the book for four years while doing intense and risky researches, exposing yourself to whatsoever they beam at you, wondering if ever the things I’ve searched for hasn’t been combed through by intelligent services or the surveillance system, yep 🤔😝😅😂🤣. Thus there were lacunas. Thus the pathway didn’t align, it didn’t flow, it didn’t set, for there were too many missing ingredients.

I am trying another route

And of course, knowing what I know now, my expectations and dreams remain intact, though I have to now take a detour. I am trying another route. It will take the time and effort needed to concretize my expectations, to concretize my dreams. I am still learning, while the fire of determination and passion burns within me. I don’t think that one remains eternally an amateur in a chosen domain, and I do think that what I am learning now will surely help me in one way or another in the future.

Also also, one of my dreams came true! Tadaaa😅 I work from home now! Tadaaa … I assist my MIL! Tadaaa … not at all on my list of expectations, but strangely, this new priority forms part in the alignment of my journey as a creative writer. Like what! My path is starting to align … be patient, I say to my heart … a little bit more of patience, I say to my heart.

Narrative Essays

Writing abates the storm in my heart

writing to relax

Writing abates the storm that often rages in my heart - like frustrations, anxieties, sadness, anger, unacceptance, incomprehensiveness, and all of these other emotional disaster that wrecks my all.

When I write, my heart feels lighter, my soul soars higher, I can see clearer, and I feel happier. When I am immersed within, only facing my own emotions and all of the characters that wildly run in my imagination, I feel an in-depth connection with the cosmos, where, metaphorically speaking, we work hand in hand as to give substance to what abstractly appears in my daydream mind, and where for me, it’s relaxation to peacefully reach out for these buried ectoplasm that carry memories which stem from immemorial times.

It takes time, energy, practice, and every once of concentration as to be able to dig deep inside, in search of stories and poems. Peace of mind, of the heart, and of the surrounding environment is a must, and to remain alone with yourself in a silent room, as long as possible, is what triggers the deep dive - at least for me that’s the type of exercise that helps me to write, though how difficult the craft of writing is.

“Tell me wind, tell me tempest, tell me sea water, and everything else that carries memories and murmurs of the world, if you could guide my hand and guide my heart while I write, perhaps this heartwrecking environmental disaster, this spilled oil that traps the sea and its creatures, and pollute our beach and our air, could have been prevented…”

When writing a story I never know the type of characters that I’ll meet along the way, precisely on one of these days where I am going through an emotional roller-coaster. Love, passion, creative enthusiasm, or any other overwhelming feelings trigger the necessary inspiration which helps my sentences to come alive on paper or screen.

It is an adventure that takes place in my imagination; and though the pen is in my hand, or typing the words on a keyboard, I am only an observer who is thrilled to know more, to know how the story unfolds, eager to take part in the lives of these characters.

There is something soothing that takes place when I write, or even while trying to get the necessary inspiration and ideas for stories and poems. I am unable to describe clearly what really takes place in my heart as to share it with you, readers… all that I can say is that it’s a gentle type of peace that invades my heart, but also a bit of pleasure, an once of satisfaction, and excitement too. Thus I am unable to name with exact precision the feeling that takes over my heart when I write - this emotion that calm my nerves when I feel down.

Through writing, there have been so many emotions that have been thrown away on a stormy heartfelt day, that now, I am unable to live the rest of my life without penning down my thoughts. I don’t even want a day to go by without having mused about a story, a poem, or even, without going on thinking about what to blog next.

Perhaps this all thing that I am doing might sound silly to most; where my creative state of mind and my trying as an author-blogger wouldn’t be understood by the many… I don’t know, I am just guessing, perhaps, wrongly guessing. But still, to those people I respond, or, I’ll respond, that all I know about, is that writing abates the storm that rages in my heart.

“Wind, blow through me, and lend me your memories while I write, to abate the storm that rages in your heart : to calm down the fury in my heart.”

Narrative Essays

Harpooning The Next Day

To be happy, make things that make you happy

I’ve been doing lots of thinking since this ill-wind blew its mortal breath upon the world. This situation, or these sequences of situations look like one of these fictional stories I watch on television, read in books, or even, same as those stories I write or daydream about . . . Sad days which surely have already inspired the writer in us.

Since lockdown, my life and my everyday habits changed suddenly, and overnight, I became the personal caregiver of my mother-in-law. I had to revise all of my priorities, and re-organise my everyday life - where I am still trying to reconcile writing my next book, blogging, parenting, my house-chores, reading, caregiving, and me-go-time on my everyday planning schedule. I had to adjust my time and even myself to this amor fati (love of one’s fate), and rethink about the basis of my own foundation. Slowly but surely, I am adapting myself to this new reality; adopting the change that came about; harpooning the next day.

I thought that I would be taken aback, or even feel dreadfully sorry about my recent decisions, while my life would be dreary . . . but it is not the case, fortunately. It is as if, my heart learned acceptance. I’ve let one of the birds that was caged within my heart flee.

Writing always haunts me, and my want to blog, write poems and fiction passionate me more than ever before. I’ve even submitted two pieces of mine during those two last months - a fiction piece, and a non-fictional one. Thus, my writing ambition has not weaken the least, on the contrary it has widened, and even perhaps, matured.


Right in the beginning of lockdown, doubts and darkness started to appropriate my mind - pessimistic feelings about my writing aspiration took its toll on me - I felt like a fraud, useless, stoopid, delusional. Lies lead to deception . . . and I was convincing myself that I lied to my self, because deception was gnawing my mind. My self-esteem and self-confidence took a harsh blow during this short, but yet how intense time.

The other birds in me were dying out of passion and enthusiasm.

But I am not a fraud, for I write. I am not useless; I endorse all of my responsabilities; good for others. I am not stoopid; I certainly know what I want, and certainly know what I am doing. I am not delusional; I see opportunities from my own perspective.

I’ve been doing it all wrong, of that I am sure. And though how slow I am, and how much time flowers take to bloom in me; and how slowly the birds in me learn to spread their wings, my mind is a fertile land. Perhaps I’ve seen an oasis which was only a mirage, or an oasis that they made me think was only a mirage . . . But the oasis in me is broader than this oasis, which by the way, is not a mirage.

Too bad! I guess, for I shall continue my way more individually than ever before. My fictional, poetic, and blogging happy endeavors appease my soul, and I envision a bright future filled of serenity, only because I swim inside this creative lagoon. I don’t see myself persuing these other activities that infuriate and frustrate me; that lock me up in total distress. No! I won’t give more power to negativity, for I want to live in happy places. The birds in me have the right to chirp as much as they like. I have the right to express myself, to express my creativity, and I can’t, and I WON’T, take responsability about how others personally interpret my writings - which to me is art for the sake of art.


If I had abandoned my creative persuit, I don’t think that I would have seen again the lagoon where I birthed out; I wouldn’t have found myself again. I would have been a total wreck. So I’ve decided that no matter what, I’ll keep trying, and if I don’t succeed, well, at least I know that I am making things that passionate me, and that I found a creative leisure that makes me happy.

Narrative Essays

My Sudden Realization Amidst The Crisis

Cheers to the aftermath…

I have always been a quiet-over-confident type of person, mainly due to my loyalty and worship of the self; and where most of my tragedy shows stem from the fact that my self-esteem has taken a harsh blow. I lose all self-control when I feel that my self-esteem has been attacked; I see red, and I lose all sight of the pathway that I’ve slowly built.

My failures, mainly when I’ve planned and masterminded everything on my own, lead me to those feelings that are very hard for me to digest - that taste of bitterness remain stuck in my mouth for endless periods of my life.

For me, there is always someone or something else that is responsible for my failures, my mind then designating a culprit behind the unrealisation of my dreams - the start of my fall inside the pit of delusions, where these persisting gloomy thoughts turn into obsession.

Everyday I’ll be obsessing about who or what is, or are behind my failure - I’ll be telling this or that to my husband, or this or that when going at my mom’s place, looking sick, mad, psychotic, delusional, and where they will all try to assure me that it’s only in my head, and where… *sigh* well, you see the picture of them panicking when I go through this delirious phase - mother, sister, husband eyes go-go😳 while am raving mad, and being paranoiac about… well, it’s much more that I am being way to over dramatic, suffering from irrationality, going through some type of disturbance due to denial of failure, a sense that I have betrayed the self, my own self. Just a delusional type of indignation.

This obsession, it clouds my mind and prevent me from seeing what I’ve achieved, that is, my success of having written a whole book, one hundred poems for the upcoming one, as well to have written all these poems and articles for this blog, and so many short stories penned and typed here and there; this persisting indignation, it also make me forget about what I can do, that is write, versus my inability to make the right decision about choosing the right platform to sell Darcocyte, or even my incompetence to market myself, my book, this blog, my writings.

Eventually, after having been very very very angry (the delusional, irrational, and irrelevant kind), while anxieties made me eat a lot😂 - the viruses suddenly appeared, and in a strange way, my anger concerning the web, Darcocyte, and everything else that were primar sources of my frustration and craziness, quieten down. It was the shock, a large baff in my face, the sudden realization that I’ve been acting like an insane paranoiac, accusing everything and everyone, blaming others for I’ve not been able to complete my dream.

Things did not went my way and as I had envisioned them to be, which caused much anxieties and a great deal of annoyance in me; even going so far as to prevent me from finding solace in everything that I have already realized, even forgetting about all the years it took me to hone the skill of writing, the long hours of practice, the analysis of the books I love, the long wait until I finally finish Darcocyte - and then, just like that, Corona came around, slapped me in the face, and life suddenly seemed too short and fragile for me to be living inside the continuous and perpetual agony of denial, delusions, and paranoia. I am way too much in love with life and of all the beauty it contains to continue inflicting myself with the heartache of failures.

It’s hard for me, as a mother, wife, daughter, sister, a family member, a friend, to face the reality of this virus that is eating us up… It’s such a harsh situation, mainly when you have loved ones. Everything and everyone has been obliged to slow down - to think, to repurpose, to….. fill in the blank here; and where I had to rethink and repurpose my plans, too, going blindly into the uncertainty, while facing whatever is coming my way.

The aftermath of this whole crisis, what would it be? I wish I was the oracle or had that crystal ball, but everything right now is so uncertain and inaccurate, thus I continue to write and blog amidst the destruction, even forgetting that there was once denial and anger, and just doing what my heart wants, hoping that my loved ones and everyone else remain safe and sound.

Narrative Essays

The Dedication Amidst Anxiety

“When you’re going through hell, keep going” - anon

Creativity to equilibriate

Anxiety has always been a poison to my mind - it rules me, it makes me unproductive, it fogs my mind, I can’t see clearly. My mind is an arid land when confronted to anxieties, which most of the time change into stress, and stress to depression. Ever-since my mental breakdown, I am not anymore as I used to be - I am more fragile, more susceptible, more frustrated than ever before, falling in and out of the mental prison of anxiety, and can’t think properly when darkness takes over.

Sure, to liberate my mind and alleviate the anxiety, I practice free-writing on paper, that I immediately tear after having relieved my heart of everything that hurts… but these are scribbles penned down automatically, and where I roughly write everything that’s hidden deep, locked, these layers of chaos, these cracked feelings that I am unable to shout out or say - some ignominious unlighted sentences, quasi-demonic, I will tend to say😂 I don’t know to whom these stabbing words are meant to or for, but what’s the most important, is that afterwards I feel relieved and my heart lighter, and sometimes even get some inspirational elements from where I can extract stories, poems, or even get ideas about what to blog. I love to think about this process as a phase of transmutation, where I take my anxieties, the obscure, and transform them into creativity, into writing.

It’s the calmness, the peace, the beauty of things that I perceive, and also doing what I like freely and without frustration that render me productive. I don’t thrive amidst chaos, negativity, and stressful environment, for these lugrubrious atmosphere, they annihilate every perception that I might have of an harmonious existence. Thus amidst tension, stressing factors and all the rest, my mind basculate into the dark side, the paranoia, the mistrusts, everything that’s negative, the coldness, the heartless - and instead of creation, it’s the incarnation of destruction that takes over, the duality without balance, the Yin that completely obscure the Yang in me.

And yet while writing these words, no matter how gloomy they might hit, I feel relieved of a heavy weight, for these sentences that I am writing right now, written aesthetically and creatively, they appeal as a beautiful creative leisure to my mind, insisting that I am here, alive, in full pocession of my mind, because I am taking all of the elements that’s from the well of a dream, everything that is abstract and fractal, everything that is geometric, symbolic, and formulaic, and that I am working my way through it, that I am solving, giving that which is shaped from the depth of my mind the chance to become concrete, to exist, to fly away from the darkness, the nothingness. Materializing my thoughts with these words in full awareness and a certain kind of logic. The want and need to be, stronger than these anxieties.

Thus, writing is the only interesting activity that appease my mind (well, apart watching T.V and movies😊) in times when anxieties strike, mainly during these times of health, economic, humatarian, and sanitation crisis - for I know that I am freely doing what I like, that simply writing is not a cause of frustration in my life, and that it is the balance that equilibriate my anxious state of mind of these days, and those to come.

Creativity is my own personal response to destruction, and where amidst these dark times, all that I can bring to the table, is my dedication to writing.

And what about you? What you do to balance, tackle, or cope with anxieties?

Narrative Essays

Metaphorical and Literal

The poetic genre I love

From abstraction to expression

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.

Narrative Essays

Women, Sensibility, And Fiction Writing

Happy International Women’s Day

The fantasque mind of women

As a reader of fiction, I never choose the book that I’ll be reading based from the name that’s inscribed on the book cover; neither will I ever pay attention to gender or race… these information are of no whichever use to me, for I have my own personal choosing criteria — and it’s where only after that I’ve read the book (of course if the author’s style pleases me) that I am interested to know who the writer is; eventually looking to read more of their work. And till now, I remain greatly appreciative of women’s work of fiction, for there is a gentleness, the acceptance, something more delicate and dreamy in their personal style of writing fiction, accentuated with these feminine delicate emotional attributes that unconsciously embed themselves right into their stories, and as well as the characters that make up these stories.

I do think that’s why fiction written by the feminine genre stirs that much our feelings as women, for we sense the understandment and delicate attention brought to these character’s conception. Anyway, doesn’t it take a woman to understand, or even to know what women want and secretly fantasize about - thus their stories fulfilling our (mostly I think) wildest dreams.

When I read fiction written by the female genre, I feel the strangeness that inhabits the depth of the soul of women, and of their thoughts that escape like birds out of a cage in the written form… I feel the relief from the frustrations… I feel that there is a parallel way of thinking that ties the feminine genre mind — some sort of mystery blended with delicate intentions, without austerity, carved in fine prose, without details to shake up our reading escape and fantasque dreamy mind.

In my opinion, all women, without exception, are all born with that maternal instinct encoded deep into our genotype from conception, thus this tendency to reassure, and to force characters to find that light at the end of the tunnel - to find their happy ending, one amongst our deepest feminine fantasy, alongside finding the right charming prince… Isn’t it so?

Of course, male writers write mostly about men because they are men, and where sometimes, or more than often, there seem to be a lack of further visualization and valorisation of their feminine character, say, only portraying depressed, insane, frigid, volatile, hysteric, melodramatic, or psychotic distressed gyals with no whatsoever chance of making it in a way or another (😅hope I am not over exaggerating here, but that’s what I’ve understood).

But what about women then? Are they lesser able to navigate in lagoons where their main character are the male genre? And what about the famous detective Hercule Poirot, main character written by a woman — Isn’t there something undeniable and unique in the way the character and his sidekicks are portrayed in the books; all these mysteries penned down like the remembrance and metaphor of our own feminine condition, obscured and intelligently nuanced for proper consumption… Or is it only again that mind of mine that is not on the same frequency as everybody else?🤭

Anyways, for me, there is still something—even as slightly as it may seem—that differentiate the writing style of a woman that writes from that of a man that writes fiction, and where the subtle, some elusiveness, and the sensibility of women, versus the detailed and roughness, dominate the scene and signature of both genre.

In women, I compare thee the poem I wrote recently, I take that step forward to reveal metaphorically and in the most beautiful language there is, my intimate and personal thoughts about the essence of women, because nothing compare, or ever will compare, to the feminine genre. I do think that our contributions to a balanced world are key determining factors to the smooth running of our society as the human race. Of course, nobody is perfect, and women, with all our flaws, feminine hormones going haywire, and lack of self-understanding, are more prone to afflictions of the mind than that of our consort, and to me, it’s these unconscious breadcrumbs left in between lines for the mind to escape on its own that beautifies and mystify fiction written by women.

So, what do think folks? Are we on the same page concerning the sensibility that emanates from fiction written by women?

Narrative Essays

What Is A Personal Blog

hand holding mug of tea with milk, alongside diary, tablet showing blog site, and fountain pen

In my youth I always kept a diary, scribbling about thoughts, ideas, my life, heartaches, and all the rest. It was my little secret garden, my get-away for mind relaxation. I never knew why I liked recording in that diary every bits of my teenage years, but every time I finished writing about what frustrated me back then, I felt better, ready to smile to the world again. I think that most diarist would agree with me that things tend to get better, while life seems brighter, after having poured into words our thoughts.

But what about blogging then? Well, compared to a diary that has key and lock to guard against prying eyes, a blog is not for the cagey - those that want to guard intimate secrets, even though you can password protect. To me, a personal blog is much more like one of those T.V reality shows (that by the way I am fond of); log entries that are made accessible to almost all web users.

Thus, a personal blog is a futuristic version of the diary, with possibilities of doing more - for compared to the limited page of a diary, a blog has limitless pages that are easily searchable through timely archives, categories, and topics, and where you can make it available, or even share publicly.

Social medias too can be qualified as personal blog, but not for the passionate diarist - those that are into long form writing.

As for me I blog about my adventures as a writer that uses the digital system, with hope that other aspiring writers don’t do the same errors as I did, and along the way give answers to questions that they might be asking to themselves; exhibit my poems and short stories, making them freely available to those passionate readers of poetry and fiction, while demonstrating my personal aesthetic type of writing. Roughly, my desire is to inspire and motivate aspiring or amateur creative writers through my own writing odyssey, while trying to bring my own contribution to the design of a better world, because why not! I also intend to use blogging as the main medium through which I can sell my products and services in a near or far future - thus my urge to blog with such degree of passion.

I do think that the personal blog is the main hallway to the personal opinions, thoughts, interests, experiences, reflections of the one that blogs, and these characteristics, I do believe, are what make personal blogs so attractive to readers like me - those that crave genuine emotional connection through these words put down in words.

Hence, what do you folks think about personal blogs?

Narrative Essays

Passionately Attach To What I Produce

That’s why I don’t abandon

The passion behind

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?

Narrative Essays

The Struggle Is Real

Just a simple user

No control over tools. No control over that system. Who am I on the internet?

There was a time where I was taken aback by the websphere. I was discouraged, I was confused, I was overwhelmed — mainly due to the fact that I was blind as a bat flying in daytime. Thing is, to get the necessary control over something, you need to first and foremost have even the minimal knowledge of how it works; and to know the mechanism behind a process, you need to learn it as to be capable of designing your subsystems, as to be able to operate it as you wish and be the chief on top of that creation… and that’s from where stem my habitual frustration, which most of the time affects my online posting mood. I never had any whatsoever control. I am a simple user.

With time I came to understand that the main ingredient to a successful digital entrepreneurship is in fact your IT knowledge and background, or any other direct affiliation you might have with the internet system. And that’s where I got it wrong right from the start. I am not a web developer, I have no single knowledge of the in-depth of how IT systems work, nor am I affiliated to any of these subjects. I am only a droplet in the digital lagoon. My head is filled of dreams while surfing on the surface of the sea - not caring what lies underneath.

The internet and its components are complex processes, so are the software that were built upon this main foundation — subsystems that are easily manipulated by those behind the scenes - the back office - the core of the filaments of the web. And to actually have a minimum control over traffic, design, the security of your site for users and as well as your own data, one needs to be actually related in which ever ways to heightened level knowledge of the know-how IT system foundation works, as to be able to operate and manage your own web system… Isn’t it the truth? Mainstay: the person or thing that something depends on most in order to continue or be successful.

Thus, to prosper online, you may choose to become one of those tech moguls that have knowledge of development with full control over their products — literally go big, or else, remain a user that relies on control systems, which might as well be into deceitful and misleading activities that users, or even their site authors, might not be aware of, thus putting us, the users, and our work to great risks, perils, and hazards.

In the end I am only a simple user that relies on the virtual equipment and materials built, programmed, and managed by others . . . and as a natural born control freak, there are things that are hard for me to digest. But now that I am starting to get it, and where all of my illusions about the web have been shed — mainly my daydream of spreading pages and pages of my works from various high towers—yes, from the perspective of others, it would have been quite insane doing it like that—but where I strongly believed that on the internet it would have been elsewise, say, publishing, distributing, and posting to a grand audience… wouldn’t that hilarious and quite delusional musing fits what the internet should have been here. Me and my silly dreams of wilderness and independence.

But still, as a simple user—which I guess I’ll remain so for I only want to use the web to write stories, blog, create content, and as well as to make connections—I prefer to run within these complex systems and organizations than that of being killed, captured or whatever else, in a wilderness filled of vicious hungry predators, and whatever else cyber criminals that might be hidden on these isolated pathways. I am very very far from my dreamland, this all thing is only a joke.

Narrative Essays

About Meditation For Creatives

My experience of the thing

Zen attitude for creativity

To “meditate” is defined in the dictionary as: “to think deeply and seriously about something” - but to gain what exactly? As for me, in the beginning, I wanted release from stress; and with all the books that I already had - about the power of Meditation and all the rest, combined with my knowledge of what’s esoteric, I finally decided to try those techniques�?that would liberate the ideas imprisoned deep into my subconscious. Thus, there are many reasons that trigger a person to make the decision of starting meditation - peace of mind, increase focus, happiness, amongst other reasons; but also to draw forth these unlimited supply of ideas that’s buried deep inside one’s own consciousness (yes, it’s possible, but not without danger).

I acquired most of my knowledge of the know-how to meditate through reading various books on the subject matter, including self-help books, where I experienced the benefit gained from the various techniques to meditate, through practicing. But, it was only after going through loads of difficulties and issues, that I have been able to experience it; which sadly many writers don’t guard against in their books.

I don’t think that a person should go deep into those techniques without proper guidance, following, and surrounding by legit and approved masters of these exercises of liberation, especially, if the person had/has a tumultuous life, traumas, or any other psychological issues. Now, if ever you want to go into this inner adventure all alone, then, I do hope that you buy a punching ball, or any other intended object meant to help you release the steam of your internal pressure cooker; and also that you have a good psychoanalyst/psychotherapist at hand (not a psychiatric though, please) - one who has knowledge, or studied the behaviors of the users of various techniques used to meditate; or better, that you live alone, or at least warn your surroundings that at any moment you might transform into hulk (now, your experience might be otherwise) .

There are many techniques that are being taught by the various spiritual and scientific institutions that exist, mainly, meditative prayers, transcendental meditation, mind stillness, self-inquiry, mindfulness, yoga, worshipping, trance, dance, chants, mantra repetitions, focusing, contemplation, formulating, binaural beats (learn the effects of exposing yourself to these frequencies though), and so many other techniques, which you can choose and pick now from the internet, but not going through it without the knowledge of the consequences which arise from starting to meditate on your own without a guide, for it is only a small portion of the whole knowledge needed to acquire meditative state that is given online. So, enter, or expose yourself (frequencies) at your own risk.

If during your first encounter with these techniques you feel overwhelmed, uncomfortable in your head and body - know that if you continue to gently practice, you will eventually experience it; but not after having dug within the layers within. And make sure that you understand, that once you have initiated the meditative program, well, there is no going back to your former self - whether you continue on your way to progress; or stop, and your state of mind worsen (that’s from relatives and friends that have quit mediation because they couldn’t bear the weight of overwhelming feelings. Have to say that they had issues). So, think twice, or even 10,000 times, before getting into deep meditation, because once you are into it, there is no stepping back.

As for me, I prefer to excercise both the techniques of contemplation, that is, to focus my attention on an object (in motion or not), and this, without having any thoughts, and in the end, it’s a beautiful feeling that takes on my body and mind; and, the exercise of stilling my mind. I don’t know the mechanism behind, but I can assure you that they are beneficial to my mind to get the necessary ideas to write about.

But I’ve also tried transcendental meditation😁😂 where of course I learned this technique from YouTube, where the guy firmly stipulated to not try this technique, but anyway explained how to do it - and damn, and by all the planets above, and ##@@#&&!!?## I went through loads of shit - it works, but, never ever never do that all alone🤣 (I don’t even know why I have put lol emoticons, because it is not at all a lol thing). Just be guided, for not everyone is a force of nature.

And how it went for you? Was it a cool experience, or a crazed one?

Narrative Essays

Writing Is what I Want To Do


If there is one verb that inspires and motivates me to go further, and to do more, it’s without contest the verb “be”. I believe that what we really want, determines what we become in life — hence, the where there is a will there is a way quote. But only if this was accurate . . . make a wish and all of your dreams will come true . . . life would have been different, I guess. But for a dream to come true, it demands efforts — lots of it, for it is not magic. Most of the time, for our dreams to come true, there needs to be a combination of great passion, hungry acquirement of the knowledge behind the thing sought after, practicing with great endeavor, keep focussing on the pathway your slowly building, while not caring about what the others are doing, and surpass oneself as to beat the odds. And of course, to each dreamer at work, their own level, from which they will begin the work towards the accomplishment of their dream.

As for me, I began from the level of a reader — a connoisseur of fine writings. I already knew that the stories that I would write needed to be of the same aesthetic as those sentences I love reading—I knew only that, and for the rest , that is, grammar, punctuation, learning to work with a word processor, blogging (which is different from writing fiction)—I had to produce the necessary effort to acquire the necessary skills that would finally make my dream come true.

Eventually, my efforts were fruitful, as all my work can attest; but now that my dream of writing stories and poems have materialised, the new dream that I want to make real, is, making a living from my writings — become and independent professional author of fiction . . . but it’s also here, at that point of making sure that my projects materialise through to the end, that I find myself — not lost, because I am already on the road that I’ve chosen; but rather stuck within the process of trying to find the most logical ways of attracting the right audience, or customers, that would eventually connect with my creative style.

Sure, a legit publisher (because they have the needed connections, bird’s-eye-view, and the necessary book marketing knowledge) would have taken all the hassle of marketing (which drains all of my creative energy) off my shoulders, but sadly, it’s not the case, so, prepare to see an avalanche of my works flooding the web…loll, well, until I go back finishing my next book. I am ready to launch my career, because writing is what I really want to do. Come what may, this is what I want to be.

Narrative Essays

My 2020 Resolutions

Concerning my creative career

My tries of yesteryear
Fell on the soil -
Bloomed out a strange plant
Whose leaves I ate this year -
Mistakes to not make again
Mistakes to not make again. -Eiravel-

Here comes the time of the year where some resolutions need to be thought about. As for my 2019 resolutions, most of them have been achieved, like, finishing my novel, publish it, as well as being clear on what I really want to achieve, and on which pathway should I much more focus my attention. Now that some of my goals have been attained (though it’s only half fraction of the whole plan), I can continue my launch through this self-made adventure, as an independent writer/author.

So here are some of my main resolutions for my 2020 creative career:-

Finish my poetry book

Top priority on my list of resolutions for this year - give birth to my second book

Find a publisher for the physical format of my books

Because alone, I really suck on that part of making my book available, for it was way too much stressful for me. Now that I know, I intend on taking another route.

Keep up with a healthy weight

That one too, was on my list of priority for my 2019 resolutions - but I did not achieved my goal of regaining a healthy weight. Thing is, I believe that the stress caused by my overweight can have bad impact on my creative mind, for I am unable to think well, when there is so much tension.

Make the needed connections

Now that I’ve given proofs (through blogging, writing poems & short stories, and as well as my ability of producing books, I think that it’s time for me to go seek those local professional authors, as to further expand my library of knowledge - while they might perhaps help me to publish my coming books.

Try those sites built to sell services

I think that I am ready, or I need to force myself to be ready; for as you can see, I have extra costs to pay for now, thus, if books don’t sell, I’ll need to work towards other things.

Post on this blog once per week

At least try to organically optimise, as to attract readers to my blog; because what’s the use of sharing my thoughts, or any other content relevant to my experience and adventure, if there is no one to read my posts . . . so this year, I’ve decided to maximise my chance of being found through the web.

Treat what I am doing as a business

Because that’s what it is, isn’t it? Though the steer wheel is not in my hands (we will never know what happens at the back end of the internet), I intend of leading my small biZ like a more gentle version of a caid or donna, or not . . . loll.

Be more present on Social Medias

Because this is where the real people are, isn’t it!?

I guess that’s all folks. I do think that I have a very busy agenda for this whole year. Now let’s see what adcomes of it, for nowadays, the currents are always changing and shifting, or things aren’t working how we want it to, thus our sails need to be constantly adjusted in the proper direction; but I guess that I am a very adaptive person, and that in the end, I know that most of my resolutions will materialise - one way, or the other.

Narrative Essays

I’ve Been On Cloud Nine

Productivity through total focus

I’ve been flying on cloud nine, woolgathering all of the ideas that might make up my poetry book i-Organel Dreamscape. It was a mindscape filled of wonderment, where I’ve been meeting with all the creatures that run wildly within my dreams—those figments that make up my imagination—and expressing all of these moments in the form of the poems that I’ve been writing during these last days that I’ve been away — where in all, I’ve been able to mind-gather one hundred poems, themed surreal for my book i-Organel Dreamscape.

I’ve enjoyed every single hours spent within the realm of my deepest fantasies; my mind hooked on this new form of creating and producing; where I’ve experienced the power of productivity through isolation and total focus.

Now I understand why it took me so much time to write�?Darcocyte�?— lack of concentration and focus, due to these little online distractions (trying to get followers), and learning Internet basics (for blog optimization and understanding of digital tools).

Now I understand that�?I can’t�?do everything at the same time, for my creativity is affected in the worst possible way, through all of these hopping here and there, giving my energy for nothing. Now that I know clearly about what empowers my creativity and writing productivity; I’ve decided that each time I have to create, I’ll sneak away inside of my creative den, as to focus all of my energy on whatever I need to produce.

I have enormously thought about all of this, and I am sure that in this gigantic ant hill, I am a producing ant — for all I want to do is write my imagination away, blog, take amateurish photos and make graphics to�?only post�?on my blog, social feeds, or elsewhere; spread my ideas or thoughts, share my writer’s lifestyle, and all of the inspiring things that I like . . . that’s all I wanna do. I don’t want to spam with URLs, scroll feeds as to search and analyze those that might connect with me, or else constantly trying to grab their attention . . . no, I just want the intended audience to organically find my feed, to naturally connect with me — those that my style, mind, ways of expressions, and works appeal to; and from there, connect and do all the follow ups needed.�?

For me, marketing is a very cacophonous-warlike-ungentle-guerillalike work, which surely pays off (if younger, unmarried, or was male, I would have rock this essential biZ part, believe me🤣), but it’s a very rough route that drains all of my energy and renders my brain completely dried out of its creative juice, while frustrations and dramas arise from deep thinking about how to attract social medias followers or readers to my blog. And at this stage of my life, I prefer channel my energy into thinking about what to create for my blog, or what to write, or even continue my learning . . . instead of focusing on running after readers or followers. And as this whole thing is too difficult to do all alone, I will have to mastermind a new plan to integrate to my new master plan . . . but what’s for sure, is that I am not quitting the WebSphere, for It’s too addictive and too futuristic, especially right now..

Well, about Amazon, it has not at all been fruitful for me . . . I’ve been completely wrong. Will have to search for new ways of selling my works.

My heart is very heavy, but its okay…

So, thank you very much to the only one that has bought my book . . . I’ve got only 40 cents (still retained), loll (strange, when I had signed for 30 percent of the money and not 20 percent), but again, its okay…

Narrative Essays

How The Completion Of Darcocyte Happened

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 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.
Narrative Essays

Science Fiction, The literature Of Ideas

I really don’t know how this all began in my head, I mean, how did I came up with the idea of writing a science-fiction novel — the most difficult genre to be writing, mainly because there needs to be lot of researches in order to be able to build a whole new world, system, as well as things that might work for the story. Have to say that I never intended writing a story on such a complicated genre, and yet, gradually as the story took shape, I had to acknowledge that it took the form of how it had been shaped in, that is, sentences mended together to form a science-fiction story.

I do love science-fiction, but I never envisioned myself writing one — where I was much more inclined to write an epic paranormal romance, due to my poetic mind and love of Romanticism. Till now, I still can’t seem to realize that I spent four and a half years writing and researching as for Darcocyte to become concrete.
Perhaps it was the ambiance of the web and all of these new technological ambitions that fascinate me so much, or the unleash from the depth of my subconscious of all the Christopher’s Pike and other weird tale magazines I was so much fond of in my teen and young adult days . . . does it matter now? . . . I think it does, because now that I have published Darcocyte, I have the etiquette ‘author of metaphysical science-fiction’ tagged right upfront all of my online accounts; and as someone with eclectic taste and a mind as organised as a colony of ants, I really don’t know where will all my pieces of multi-writing-genres, topics, and themes find their way among my social feeds. Guess that’s why I love blogging so much, simply because of the ability to organize within these pages my plural taste, and sharing them with a simple URL for like minders to find my posts.
Thus, I hope that through Darcocyte, I have honored the essence and background of what describes the best a science-fiction story, which is, a story about life in future, or what it might be like in an alternate world — a literature of ideas.
Now that it is over, I mean, finished with the story writing of my story, I clearly see that I’ve created a whole new world only through creatively mending words together, and to me, that’s all magical; saying to myself that I did it . . . I did it; I was able to make my dream come true, and that’s, that’s all that I needed, as to regain that, which I had long lost.
If you want to read my idea of an alternate future, head to Amazon to buy & read Darcocyte.
Narrative Essays

Darcocyte Has Been Published

“I’ve walked many miles as to find myself and finally be, crossed trillions of stars and experienced more than one existence as to finally learn, shed more than one tears and broke my heart more than once as to finally understand . . . that infinity and everything that is, simply stream through a pool of genes . . .”

This is the story of Eon Spencer — a normal Eaarthling who overnight learns from her dying grandmother that she descends from extraterrestrials that exiled on Eaarth to save their race from extinction. Her normal way of living is shattered and changed forever as violent deaths, heartbreaking revelations, and treason of the worst kind, blend within chapters of a melting love story, an unmatched friendship, strange and new encounters, odd discoveries, and rocambolesque surreal adventures.

Here we are, after four and a half years of researching, writing, honing skills, crying, alienation, and dramas of all types and sorts, where I’ve finally been able to self-publish Darcocyte.

I haven’t thought twice before making the ultimate decision of sending my metaphysical science-fiction novel of 71,000 words on Amazon’s shelves; because you see, after having written a whole novel, I am tired and too lazy to think properly about the whole aftermath of its life cycle into the world. And though I want what’s best for my baby novel, I am unable to think properly about the marketing strategies that would settle it high up in the sky with a crown and a throne, just like J.K.Rowling did for her captivating book.

I just needed to publish it now, because it was the right time, and that it needed to have a life of its own. Right now, all I wanna do is write, or create other things that pleases me as much as the writing process of Darcocyte.

My plan from the beginning was to finish the novel, and then publish it somewhere where I wouldn’t have to waste my energy publicize and all the rest, as to be able to do the next things on my list. And that’s why I’ve decided to test the waters of Amazon . . . after all, that’s where most readers flock to search for books . . . isn’t it!

Also I loved that the uploads of my manuscript went all very well, and that the procedures to do so were easily chunk down for non-tech-savvies to go through their procedures without a single stress. I can say that they are clearly the professional type, although that’s all very expensive in terms of Mauritian currency… loll.

But as I always say and think about — if I don’t try, how will I know. So, let’s try and see what adcomes of this whole new chapter of my new career as an independent author.

Right now Darcocyte is available on Kindle (you can download the kindle app and buy it from there), Kindle unlimited, and as well as in print.
I hope that you never abandon, I hope that you give everything you have to realize your dream, and that in the process of believing in yourself and the things you do, the universe unlock all of your potentials, and doors that might help you accomplish your dreams and goals.