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Personal Narratives

The Cure

A non-writing writer is a monster courting insanity – Franz Kafka

Today, while writing this post, the house is very calm. My mother’s-in-law radio is off, my husband has taken my sons to the barbershop, and only the chirps of different birds, the windy weather, the shuffling of the leaves of trees, and some muffled distant sounds enter my ears. I love to write within the embrace of that kind of intimate ambiance, for the things that I wanna say flow out more easily… my inspiration quadruples. The television playing loud all day, my mind that remains alert when my boys are alone in the other room, and all of these upheavals, have contributed to a drop in my energy level and inspiration. I have lost my writing cadence, thus write less, thus feel miserable and irritated, I feel that there’s something missing in my life. I guess that the very fact that I feel like suffocating when I am not writing, and that I need it just like I need to breathe, is a sign that writing is this one thing that I want to keep doing forever. After all, it’s writing that has taken me out of the depression that I was suffering from. It gave me a purpose that makes me happy, and I guess that’s why I don’t feel well when everyday I am not writing.

If I haven’t written a poem or a paragraph for more than two days, I feel diminished, tired, and I feel like I am regressing, while my mind is very agitated with all of these words, voices that are stuck inside of me – they hammer the door of my mind so as to be free, they give me nightmares of all sorts, they push my boundaries, they alienate me, they torment me like ghosts, and it all stops… only after that I’ve freed my mind, only when they’ve become concrete, only when I vomit what has been choking me. And afterwards I’m free. Indeed, suppressed feelings, ideas, or any other thoughts that want to bubble up bring their load of frustrations and alienations.

The ideas are there, that’s for sure, but the lack of time (for I write turtleishly), and my fear of constantly editing my writings badly are causing inside of me a warfare between my ego (for it’s always telling me to write-and-publish-no-matter-what-I’m-good) and reasoning (I need to write very well so that readers might get a good experience), and I am there, trying to reason and tame my ego, and trying to balance reasoning with a pint of self-importance. Bringing balance to my body and mind is indeed very exhausting. But still, I need to write, no matter how difficult it is to master the English language as a non-English speaker. I make so many embarrassing writing mistakes, that’s for sure, even though unintentionally, but you know what?… I’ll keep doing it, because writing simply makes me happy.

I know that I still have a long way to go. I need to practice more so that I can get better at writing; practice and learn from my mistakes so that I don’t make those same mistakes again; learn and practice until that my writing process becomes so easy that I am able to gain the necessary confidence that will help me naturally write more everyday, thus, relieve my mind and heart of all these worlds that haunt my imagination and cause my alienation.

Writing. Writing. Writing. In the end, this method of artistic expression has been the only medium through which I had been able to express myself when I was choking on destructive feelings, when my truth couldn’t flow towards your sea, or when the repressed words and my repressed thoughts were strangling me until I couldn’t breathe, until I was losing my mind. And then writing opened its benevolent arms so as to welcome me, and my life changed completely. It was my cure from hysteria. I have to take it out or else I accumulate a poison that slowly kills me from the inside. So yes, a non-writing writer is really a monster courting insanity, I confirm.

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Personal Narratives

A Period Of Intense Reflection

Last year I wrote this ‘essay’ to submit to a writing competition that was organised around the theme ‘personal Covid-19 lockdown experience’. Perhaps too flowery and too difficult to read and badly written; or even not at all prosaic, which is how an essay should be written — this piece was not chosen. Nevermind, I am posting it here on my blog, which is a personal ‘essay’ that describes the emotions that I went through during that tough and frightening time, where perhaps you’ll find it scarry how the feelings described seem vivid and palpable here.

A Period Of Intense Reflection

Perhaps I felt it since months ago — that strange feeling that something bad was about to happen. I felt disaster creeping through my veins, while my mind carried dreams of bad omens. Even the rain, the wind, and the chant of birds seemed then to me ferocious, ill at eased, with bruised voices whispering in my head that gloomy days were hungrily approaching. There was even a heavy weight weighing on my habitual feathery heart, but I just couldn’t put words on it. Now thinking about it all, I should have seen it coming . . . the tears, the blues, these emotional disasters, the fear, the paranoia, the lock down, and all these deaths — oh so many deaths. I should have learned to read the signs — all of these changes that operated in our field of aliveness, and perhaps, forced myself to conceive the inconceivable. But my mind couldn’t make sense of these augural molecules that fluttered around. But then, what could I have done, beside trying to survive amidst the hurts, the aches, and the paranoiac state of mind, which most of us went through at the news of Covid-19 extending its deathly shadow till our vibrant island.
During these first days of lockdown something in me started to shift, where I went through a radical change. Dark thoughts often took over, and I found myself drowning within a sea of stressful moments. You know, the mind endures so much, yet this heart of us tries its best to hold on to something that looks like hope. At least, that’s what helped me to keep going, to remain on track and not break down. I also tried to occupy my mind by continuing to make plans for the future, as I would have in normal time; to mold the future in my head so as to not be distracted by the tumbling down of it all, or even succumb to general panic.

In my head I kept preciously the imagery of a healthy tree with its colorful leaves clinging themselves tightly to their branches; though I knew that the leaves were infested and were infecting, and falling down to the ground, I resisted and fought with the gloomy ambiance that clouded my thoughts — with the death chambers and the catacombs, with the grim reaper and other angels of death, with the virulence of the virus and the fright, for in my head, I wanted it all to be beautiful. Beautiful like everything that I have ever known in my life.

Then, it was not the virus that I feared — not anymore. It was just the tension in me that aroused due to the fact that we were matchsticks stuck in a matchbox. Again, another issue that I needed to take care of. Again, another internal emotional disaster that I needed to overcome — those disagreements, those annoyances, my anxiousness everytime my husband had to go out to buy food, and everything else that got on my nerves like needles pricking my skin, my head, my whole body. And this time again, I was about to let the sickness, the ugliness, and the weariness take full control of my mind… however, my heart got in the way.

My habits changed during that lockdown period. It had to. Particularly in the areas of my life that demanded time and organizational management. All of my heartaches of yesterday were soon forgotten, leaving space to only the curiosity of knowing about what tomorrow would reveal, mainly after that destiny gave us such a harsh blow. And again, anxious questions began to trot their way in my head, such as, what about my children and their studies, and food and of other necessities; and how would our existence look like when it will all be over. I wanted my life back. I wished that everything returned back to normal, right before Covid-19 struck the world, before it all collapsed, before the awakening, before it all drowned under water, before it all cracked, before the fires, before the deaths, before angriness burst out, before the heartaches, before the confusion, before the fright. Before everything else went wrong . . . before everything else went oh so wrong. And I kept asking everyone around me why such horrible circumstances had to happen in our existing time-line. I couldn’t wrap my head around it all, and even made horrible nightmares where people were coming after me, extending their hands to reach my neck. These nightmares were so strange and horrific that once I even woke up screaming while in tears . . . I guess that our dreadful circumstances affected me more deeply than I thought.

However, I was able to overcome it. Always through doing those activities I like; indulging my mind into things I am most passionate about, like writing poems and stories, blogging, listening to music, watching movies, reading a lot — doing and thinking only about beautiful and aesthetic things. Always walking straight on that path, though how dark it is, and though how rocky it is; always walking straight, taking care to avoid looking in Medusa’s eyes, fearing that I might be turned into stone if ever I caught her gaze, or if ever hers caught mine; also, taking care of not looking back, fearing that I might remain frozen in the past. So I walked straight. And slowly, but surely, I regained self-control.
Fortunately, not everything about those days of lockdown had been about interior battles. It has also been a very enlightening period for me. I realised that I was running after impossible dreams, for the oasis I thought I saw was only a mirage. The moment I made peace with that truth, casting away those silly elusive thoughts, I started to move on to other things. New doors of possibilities unlocked and I started to dream again of paving my way through.
It seems crazy to have come to all of these realizations, and made all of these hasty decisions during these past two months of being under lockdown. Yet, I am happy with the choices I made, and even feel more relaxed than before.

Thus I wrote a short story to submit to the local collection of short stories — and while writing it, inspiration struck my mind with new ideas for my next book. During that period of time I was more than ever drawn towards the want to write poems too, and to explore the artistic world more deeply. Have to say that my wish to become an independent fictionist-poet-blogger has doubled — though I realised that the road will be a long and difficult one. But despite all of that I must trust that time is on my side. I need to.

I also had the time to learn some cooking and baking tricks with my co-sisters-in-law. We shared lots of cakes and other little pastries. I even baked a chocolate cake for my elder son’s birthday when in normal times we would have bought it. However, because I had put too much cocoa in the mix, the chocolate cake had a bitter flavor, while the buttercream icing was a total disaster. But I’ve learned about the importance of balancing the right ingredients for baking a delicious cake. Next time, I am sure that it will taste better.

As a consequence of the pandemic, and because we were all under lockdown, my co-sisters-in-law and I learned how to assist and take care of my 94 years old mother-in-law. Touched by our personal care, I guess, my mother-in-law then insisted that she didn’t want strangers to assist her. Thus, while still trying to pave my way as an autodidact writer — which proves to be difficult, with many hardships, errors and trials and the lot, I accepted the responsibility to assist my mother-in-law while still continuing trying to get there where I intend to be. And this time, I decided that I will be less pushy with myself, trusting much more my gut feelings, all the while learning to live in serenity and acceptance. Furthermore, I also took the decision to stop complicating things more than I should; trusting that everything is working out fine for me.

Thus, the Covid-19 experience has proved to be quite positive for me, a period of intense reflection where I’ve learned to accept these things that I can’t change. For sure, if that period of pause didn’t happen, I would have never taken a break — I would have continued to bang my head against the wall. My eternal frustrations, erratic behaviors, stress, and episodic paranoia then eased magically. I saw my life under a new daylight, and found myself again. And though I am starting all over, I am confident that I will do things differently, at least I’ll try my best to do so, for new beginnings have always been the main fuel behind my motivation and enthusiasm.

PS: So that I might improve my writing skills, practical criticism about this ‘essay’ is more than welcome here. Thank you in advance.

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Personal Narratives

Confinement – Day 11

I think that I have recently been able to synchronize with my intuitions; my exercises about listening to these personal information have finally paid off. I have been able to isolate the loud buzzing sounds of information that arise from the collective consciousness, so as to be able to access more easily, and to understand more clearly those personal informational guides (yep, writing these sentences as if the whole was a speculative story👽👾👻🔮). And you know what came through?… Well, since my last confinement log entry, I have been busy working on the technical side of my digital devices, reorganizing contents and files, reediting and recycling old, and badly written pieces, and finally, I have decided that I will try to stick with learning about how to organically optimize this site. Thus in the end, things are not as dramatic as I would have expected them to be, if I may say so… for my stress level was at its highest peak during last year’s lock down, where I was surely very tense, and frighteningly depressed. But I guess that this time I have been able to shoo away these anxieties, by finally accepting to trust the grand design of life, by stopping fighting with what I am unable to change, and to take it easy, to take it as it comes — and believe me, it feels more liberating than I would have ever thought. I now even wish that I had trained my mind earlier, for I know that I would have attained that level of understanding which surely would have saved me from all that mental stress and depression. 

Life goes on; existence is a permeable matter — and what to do more than to wait and see, to trust that life can resolve and repair the wrong that we’ve caused. To wait and see; to wait and occupy my mind with beautiful thoughts and ideas, while doing things that I am passionate about; to focus my attention on continuing to build the future I want, to simply continue existing, to continue living my life, to continue blooming out until I reach complete fulfillment… and perhaps… perhaps if ever the Reaper or any other negative types come peering through the keyhole of my door, perhaps… my too much light will chase away negativity, while the Lord of death will want to wait a little bit more, knowingly that I am trying to do my best to acquire the necessary knowledge, within the enclosure of a world that’s agonizing.

Anyway, I choose zenitude over anxieties, letting go over tension, all the while immersing myself in things like reorganizing, digital cleaning, learning basic optimization, practice edit-on-the-go, reformat the books and prepare the booklets. And that’s all what I’ve been doing recently, knowingly that I am now ready for the next level; for I think that I have attained a level of writing style that I like (exotic, reflection of my bilingualism, seeded with my own essence and wild heart, beautifully imperfect); I also think that I have been able to train my mind to come up rapidly with writing ideas, and to focus while writing; I am now certain that creative writing is my passion, and that I want to keep doing it forever… though what’s separating me from attaining excellence are those grammatical errors, bad syntaxes, my turtleish writing habits, and my limited English vocabulary — I still continue to practice and learn, with hope that someday I’ll overcome all of these writing weaknesses. 

I choose to continue; to trust that everything is being taken care of, and that everything is falling into place. Till then, I hope we all stay safe, and that our mental health and heart might endure the weight of this tentaculous crisis. 

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Personal Narratives

Confinement – Day 1

Some of them say that gloomy and destructive feelings breed the most fascinating creative work, but that’s not at all the case for me. When bad news or any other stressful factors pound on my heart and mind, I instantly creep towards my bed, to slip inside a cocoon where I feel safe from any type of anxieties and fright, while shutting tightly the door of my imagination… as at the same time the light bulb that’s over my head turns off. I am unable to think properly when chaos, disorder, bad news, stressful factors strike. I guess that I am a happy writer – a writer who feels more productive and inspired when things are going well around, when crazy humorous things and people make me laugh, or when I feel immersed, or surrounded by bountiful and mystical beauty that instantly arouse a feeling of epiphany in me. Simply put, I need to dwell inside that field of positive energy so as to be more creative and enthusiastic.

Since I heard the bad news that covid is again spreading its deadly spores all over our island, I can’t seem to get the necessary inspiration to write, or I have all the pain in the world to do so, for the words seem stuck somewhere in between my chaotic feelings, imprisoned tightly inside of that ribcage of mine. Mauritius is a small island, and hearing that more than ten people have already been infected by covid makes my anxiety peak. Hasn’t the reaper had enough? Haven’t we suffered enough? Haven’t we paid back enough for all the sins that have remained clogged in our blood since Pandora opened that box? How many more souls is to be devoured so as to heal earth? Why this automatic upgrade of our universe? Why did it have to happen in our lifetime?… All of these absurd questions that float in my mind instead of inspiration and creativity; while, closing my eyes so as to go deep to clear my head, only the spread of colour red appears and persists, instead of the usual dark of my emptied head. I don’t know if it’s a bad omen, or if it’s my anxieties that make pressure on my mind, but I know that’s not how I usually function.

I am trying to write a poem for the independence day of Mauritius… but the words won’t settle in my head; where all I want to do is lay on my bed to read or scroll through those social feeds that might summon the necessary inspiration and enthusiasm in me. A heavy weight glooms my heart right now, and if the thought of writing poems and fiction isn’t easing that feeling of uneasiness, if the very fact of putting myself in the creative mode so as to annihilate those destructive and negative feelings doesn’t work… then what other activity would? I don’t want to write this type of journal entry; I don’t want to release in blog posts these thoughts on which I am choking on. I don’t want my fear to transpire in my writings.

Today is our first day of lockdown. We entered confinement in the same month as last year. And on Friday and Saturday, Mauritian authors have been invited to a book festival – I would have signed autographs, I would have asked for autographs, I would have bought books I like, I would have finally connected with the other authors and the publishing world. Finally I would have got the necessary advice or help to finally get my books published, I would have finally stepped out of my comfort zone (for I want to believe the quote that says ‘change begins at the end of your comfort zone’), for I am unable to do it online, and I don’t want to try more than I ever have. Same as this World, the Internet will never unfurl for me… and yet, I know that I have a lot to give to this medium. But well, they’ll never know the immensity of my floating body and the power of my influencing mind… how the invisible world has unfurled for me. Yep, I am secretly megalomaniac😅😂🤣.

See, I guess there’s some hope that I might recover from writing block. It remains to see how long it will take for me to recover from this sudden eruption of anxieties, and from there, rush to writing again.

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Personal Narratives

Whimsies – womanly thoughts

In the night, over the ground, I dreamt that I flew over a nest of women who were drunk with happiness and insouciance, who spinned and danced wildly, singing and laughing joyfully, and I, I had a pen and paper in my hand, writing about what I saw during that womanhood festival. And when I remembered that strange dream the next day, I had to ask myself the question about why I write obsessively, but yet unconsciously about stories filled with women endowed with such power and strength, when I myself am prone to regular fits of anxieties.

Lately I’ve been answering through a written piece the question ‘from where precisely stem my interest for writing?’, and where recollecting all of these memories that stem from infancy, so as to compress them in a blog post, has automatically ungraved from my being some things that need thinking. And believe me or not, suddenly I was facing a personal crisis, as each minute of these recent past days plunged me in welcoming reflective moments that concerned my behaviours and attitudes. I now have to admit that I’ve been a pathetic-paranoid-stupid- ungrateful-fanciful-tocqé little whimsical whiner. I have been very immature all along the way. But don’t worry, I surely assume all of those facets that make up my individuality, and never ever feel an ounce of shame for being myself😂. Nevertheless, this little exercise of introspection has helped me to be aware of some of my behaviours, and to once and for all work on the unfounded fears and paranoia that I go through on a regular basis.

When I go through those introspections, I automatically disconnect from writing, from the world; I halfly function, because the work I do on myself at this point sends me into a whirlpool of doubts; and surely I wouldn’t have written this blog post if I had not healed some of my ongoing issues.

In that other dream, I was devouring grapes with Bacchus, all the while enchantresses and witches danced ecstatically, and gossiped loudly, as an opened laptop floated on the geyser of a water fountain. “Take it cool, take it slow, take it happily, take it wildly, take it magically,” I guess that’s the significance behind that dream; I guess that’s the message streaming through internal channels by the spectres of my ancestors – all of these strong women on whose shoulders I stand today. Have to say that I am very proud of the blood that runs through my veins, proud of my unbiased upbringing, proud that I was raised with such a degree of liberty, within a free space that was proper to the growth of my understanding and self-knowledge.

Recollecting all of these memories has shaken me up, and forcefully stirred my emotions upside down… it was the writing therapy that I needed right now, at this point in time where doubts about my writings, but also matters concerning my personal life have been torturing me. I think that I have reached the step of acceptance, I finally made peace with my choices. And I have even been able to find the right answer to the famous question often asked to authors about “why do I write?”, and where the answer to that question has helped me to overcome my sadness concerning my ineptitude and incompetence to publish Darcocyte, or my book of poems… anyway, they are just some random obscure books amidst a lit constellation of other much more interesting and gripping books. I made peace with the fact that I am not ready, that my books are not ready, that the world will never unfurl for me. But now, in spite of all, more than ever before I want to write, simply because after rewinding my mind, I now know exactly what attracts me to this medium. Thus I write because writing itself evokes in me that ocean of freedom in which I’ve always swam in. I feel like I embrace that same degree of liberty, of expansion, of fancy, and of happiness. This illusion of freedom disappears when I write fiction and poems. I feel like a feather that’s carried away by a breeze… will I fall on a lawn filled with dry leaves, or end up on your skin, on your head, your lips, on your desk, in your phone, on a shelf?… Who cares, I am something free that writes wholeheartedly, I am someone who escapes in self-created fictions and poems. I am a woman who equilibrates my days with writing, and fills up the cusp of my soul with the beauty of words.

“You are always birthing me out of that indescribable chasm, that womb floating in deep dark space, always putting me high up in your sky, I, woman of confused feelings and fragile state of mind”…Was that dream-made, self-made, or just some rambling poetic thoughts? Is the discovery of that little me person in a shadow concrete box disturbed me to the point that I had to make up that phantastical world – where I am woman clothed of an elastic skin that deteriorates with time…? But in that absurd dream… in that dreamworld filled of unknown faces and morphing spaces with ghosts, a womb without flowers births me out, a strong hand pulls me out from its belly.

So, women, I hope that through creative writing, or while doing any other type of creative activities, you’ll find that which you have always been searching for; that you find your answers, that you are able to break the illusion of freedom so as to be instantaneously free – free to roam the cosmos in red bed sheets and flowers blooming out of your head.

Happy women’s day in advance. I hope that you’ll visit tomorrow, for I’ll be posting a poem for women’s day. Thank you.

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Personal Narratives

Romantic Words Matter

Happy Valentine’s Day 

Human heart is an exquisite soft red organ that beats intrepidly when one reads romantic poems and stories. Instantly our brain is fired up thanks to the chemical reaction that automatically takes place when lovely words overwhelm our senses. Romantic words tickle our fancy, and other organs too, and our want to love and be loved passionately, to cherish and be cherished ardently becomes irresistible. 

I like to think that the world could be a more peaceful and understandable place if all of us read romantic pieces that make us feel thrilling and exciting emotions creeping throughout our body. Love is a kinetic energy, a feeling that can be transferred to the other so as to make them, but also the giver, feel better and happier, where reading romantic stuff can instantly put us in a better and positive state. 

I also think that healthy romance is something universal, that our cosmic nature is love, and that our higher-self radiates meta love. Each one of us is free to love whoever we want, free to express our love in every format and form that we like; love likely finds all of us in one way or the other, in this lifetime or another. 

I don’t think that reading love poems or books of romance turn you into a stupid person, or is a waste of time, nor that it induce us in error by plunging our mind in a world of confabulation and phantasm; instead, I think that reading romance mellow the heart to transform you into a softer person – you wait for it patiently knowingly that the romance you’ll experience shall make your heart race and set your feeling ablaze, same as when you read these romantic poems and stories.

Flowers, box of chocolates, coffret❤️

Romantic words is a necessity in this particular time where loveless degrading brutal sex, drowns significant passionate love making in a sea of barbarism. Yes, loveless act of copulation lower your vibration, to afterwards leave you in the gutter of despair and darkness and addiction. The pure electrical orgasmic energy that goes from the tip of your toes till the crown of your head when selfless love abounds can’t be compared to any other type of emotional experience, as you are positively energized by the love frequency which makes you vibrate higher, that restructure your whole body. And wetting your pillow every night or crying forever over the partner that left you is a sign that you haven’t really learned to love yourself first. And all this heartache and anger you feel attracts negative entities that suck your life and energy, your health, leaving you in a gloomy and deprival state. What if I told you that sadness, anger, jealousy, and all these other negative feelings turn you into a magnet that attracts bad times, experiences, and things to you… would you learn to let go, to accept that this person was only one of the many that you’ve met on your path of life, while everyday people are grieving someone that they will never see again in this lifetime. You let the other go, knowingly that you’ve loved them as you’ve loved yourself, and the love they give to another is like a chain letter that started with you, and you’re ready to love again and again and again, until your high positive energy naturally attracts your soulmate. See, you’ve read these loving words, hasn’t it somehow changed your feelings about love? Haven’t you felt a shift in your level of energy? Haven’t you vibrated a little bit higher than that in whichever negative state you were? 

In a world where many of us are unable to communicate clearly our feelings of love, romantic words matter, for the writer pours all the love they have in their heart in these poems and stories, and this love-wave transforms into a kinetic positive energy that reach the reader’s eyes and mind, so that instantly they might vibrate higher to the frequency of love, which is the most positive of all feelings that exist. To read love poems or books of romance is a blissful act that entertains the mind and inspires our own being to be more caring, soft, and loveable to the other, but also to our own self. 

The act of writing love poems is in itself an act of beauty. It comes so naturally when you are in love, or when you simply love. You feel the heat of positivity, the warmth in your heart, and you are amazed by all the love that your heart contains, and to which degree it beats each time you write the word love and romance. I myself when I wrote these love notes made for romantics, meant to be used as you wish, I felt a great deal of joy, something that’s close to what’s ethereal. I’ve also wrote twenty new mini love notes, but I was unable to upload the PDF version I made…

Romantic writings are soul soothers, a bridge that connects two hearts and mind, a link towards that infinite vessel that contains the light of love, and all you have to do, is just grab the warmness of the language of love, its softness, and this dreamful cotton candy feeling.  

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Personal Narratives

My Desertion From The Webhosphere

But nothing remains stable or sustaining in life; and after lockdown everything changed for me

2020 has been very challenging for me, I guess it has been the case for many of you. Before the outbreak of the pandemic or whatever else, I was always stuck on my PC and smartphone; always hunting down for ideas online, while trying to improve my writing skills; always going through the necessary learnings of leveling up my knowledge of the internet and its devices, of the technology-based services that I use. Have to say that before Covid-19, every morning I had enough time to write poems, fiction, think about what to blog, think about what to write; read books I borrow at the library and as well read e-books online, learn more about the services I use, learn about online marketing, be present on social media, have the time to daydream, take naps when too tired, and watch one hour of television. I guess that I’ve been quite productive during these years; I feel that I’ve been able to reach my main goals, I am satisfied with myself.

But nothing remains stable or sustaining in life; and after lockdown everything changed for me. I am now a carer, and my time is very limited. I have to juggle between many things, but I am learning about how to effectively organize my life and time. And though my writings have not been able to spread their wings as to fly away, or even if I haven’t been able to turn this passionate creative activity into a career, I realized that I need to write everyday as to equilibrate my life, to do an activity that is self-satisfactory and where I feel free, something that’s good for my soul. Perhaps I’ll be drawn to another activity that’s more rewarding, work on projects that will stir my passion so much that I’ll consider doing it for a very long time – that’s all I hope for, to get caught up in an interesting activity, something to really focus on, something that will make my life more beautiful than it is.

That’s why I need to focus deeply and in silence on what I’ll be doing, desert the web for it is too noisy for my empathic mind.

Writing, blogging, or even social media aren’t getting me anywhere, and I guess that the economic crisis we are facing because of Covid-19 makes it worse for an amateur writer like me. I am trying not to look pessimistic here, but I need to be realistic, I need to clear my mind of all the lies I tell to myself. I tried, but I can’t try harder. I don’t want to lose my mind again over matters that keep frustrating me. I need to accept the fact that I did my best. Yes, I am doing my best.

I realized that I need to practice more of my writing skills; I badly need an editor to edit my writings. Perhaps I’ve self-published too soon, thinking about all those grammatical mistakes I’ve made… I made a fool of myself somehow. All of these lies I tell to myself.

Thus I am considering another publishing route, seeking help to publish my books. I think it’s more realistic to do so than suffering from trying to self-publish, suffering from trying to understand it all, suffering from all these frustrations. Perhaps the pandemic was a whirlwind that came to adjust my sail, to push me into another direction, perhaps a better one. That’s why I need to focus deeply and in silence on what I’ll be doing, desert the web for it is too noisy for my empathic mind.

I’ve been thinking about the movie cast away lately, mainly about the end of the movie – that part where he stands in the middle of that crossroad, a metaphor for the choice that we need to make every single minute and every single day of our life, and of those signs or guides that some of us can’t ignore. And again, I had an existential crisis because of a movie😂. Again, I questioned free will, and what if… what if I was wrong again, what if writing is not for me anymore. What I need to do then? That’s what I am focusing about everyday, and yet, I keep returning to writing. Then what? THEN WHAT?😡 Silly me, cast away.

I have decided to lighten the rules of my game, to start a new writing, thinking, and creative process, with a new time schedule and new ways of doing things

While trying to replicate my writing process and online presence, I discovered that I had been doing it all wrong since the beginning; I realized that I didn’t manage my time well and balanced my life during the course of practicing writing and learning online marketing. Of course I’ve been able to write blog articles, stories, poems, or books, but unfortunately to the detriment of neglecting my house chores, which accumulated a lot, which meant more time spent on catching up with my chores, exhaustion and stress added to the mix, need of long rest, writings and learning were delayed. I am sure that I could have done more, better, I could have been more healthier. I was way too obsessed, too deep in it; I poured my energy into too many things at the same time, I thought that I was rushing towards a greater future for me, some type of freedom, a reward, to get noticed by people of the literary circle or a potential employer, or that even I could have made a living online. But it’s difficult, mainly for someone like me that is not at all tech savvy, one who does not well understand informatics. Thus, as soon as an idea spurred in my mind I had to write it down or type it, go straight on the web to research the subject, log-in my social accounts to check other feeds and comment or like on what interests me – I was all in it for organic traffic. But there was no balance, no time routine, I hadn’t imposed on myself a time to start and a time to finish. I have taken all of that too seriously, and in the end, though I worked towards my goals with a professional mindset and an entrepreneurial work ethic, I ended up with deceptions, being unhealthy, unbalanced, alienated, unenthusiastic.

That’s why after nine years (I think!) of being on-line everyday, I have decided to lighten the rules of my game, to start a new writing, thinking, and creative process, with a new time schedule and new ways of doing things. Of course, I still need the web to do research for my stories, to learn, to write, to read; I will also continue to post on my blog and post on my social feeds, but I don’t think that I’ll be able to be present everyday on the internet to read like and comment on other people’s posts, just like I did before.

My priority right now is writing, reading, and doing research about scientific, conspiracy, and pseudoscientific theories for Darcocyte II. It was not at all on my plan, especially after all the difficulties and obstacles I met, and that I am still meeting; but there’s something more personal and ethereal to it. It’s too late, I am inhabited by something that needs feeding. I also want to know what happens next in the story of Darcocyte; to write a book that I want to read. I just hope that it won’t take me four long years to finish this one too, and I also hope to write a little bit better than I did before😅.

Also there are those quotes about stepping out of my comfort zone that keeps appearing in front of my eyes. And where I have been thinking that perhaps I’ve given too much of my time and energy to the Webhosphere, where my activities were remaining too constant. It’s like I have to restart everything with learning how to get help, and to accept the fact that I do need help to get published. As I said, I think that I’ve made up things in my mind that only led me astray. That’s why I am taking it all back, recollecting all of my energy and pieces that have been taken out of me, as for me to start anew. Well, it already happened😤😅, that means I didn’t made it up🤔.

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Personal Narratives

The abandonment of a piece of writing is inconceivable to me

The abandonment of a draft is inconceivable to me, for it’s like abandoning a piece of myself; where this fear can even lead me towards obsessiveness. I don’t want to tuck away an idea that birthed out of my mind under piles of sheets and notebooks, to forget it in a dark corner, or even for that piece to remain untouched or unopened in the word processor. I want it to have a life, to have a chance to become concrete, to be touched by the heart and mind of others. Isn’t existence filled with objects, things, creatures, and beings that had the chance to exist, a chance to form part of reality? I know that I might seem too fanciful here while describing my fear of abandoning a piece of writing; but you know, creatively speaking about something isn’t at all superlative. 

Thus, I try as much as possible to not let unfinished writings sit for too long in my notebooks and word processor; I always try my best to finish them, to give them a life, to embellish them with the needed words so as for them to exist in the dimension of books and blogs. I think that’s why my mind is constantly busy with thinking and imagining, always trying to envision how the story unwinds. My head is a busy corner, an ant hill. 

Due to my fear of putting away an idea, a draft, or a piece of unfinished writing, I take time to create content, for I am unable to move on to another piece, to come up with the next story, poem, or blog post, not until I have finished the writing at hand. 

I made it a rule of thumb to finish what I have started, and this even though another idea arises in my mind, tempting me to abandon the work at hand. I try as much as possible to resist the urge to move on to the next writing project, because that next idea might as well remain in an unfinished state, and in the end, everything that I would ever get, is, an accumulation of unfinished drafts. 

I won’t tell you that my notebooks and online documents aren’t filled with unfinished writings, of scribbles scattered here and there, of jotted down words that beg to become sentences, of writings that I am too lazy to edit – nope, but most of them will form part of a bigger writing project, or will end up on this blog, or even as pieces added to my stories and poems. They are all mapped in my head and online files, and when needed, all that I will have to do is retrieve them. 

I prefer let something die in me instead of birthing it out from my mind to then afterwards let it in a state of abandonment; to toss it away and and let it die, to forget it, for, they come to haunt my dreams, insert themselves in my daydreams, and I just can’t stop thinking about them; they constantly arise in my mind. Thus the principle I’ve imposed on myself: to always finish what I have started, and this, no matter how hard it might be, or even, how much I want to work on another writing project. 

I have to constantly remind myself that it’s easy to imagine things and stories; but that to be able to concretize an abstract idea that only me can envision, and to unwind stories, poems, and my thoughts logically, in the universal language that most of us understand, I have to do the hard work of weaving my words together in a comprehensive and beautiful way. And it’s the fact that I have to go through the pain of all these re-writings that makes me want to abandon a draft that I have enthusiastically written; but then, it always happen that during the process of re-writings and re-edits, which I always think will be boring and not at all exciting for my mind, something else happens – that piece of writing always take a new shape, there is always a new passage that unfolds, which is always different from what I’ve imagined it to be. That’s how I always convince myself to finish the work, knowingly that I will end up with a different copy than that of my first draft, which in itself is a great reward for the reader that I am. 

If I had abandoned my writings, today I wouldn’t have written two books (well, though one is still at the unpublished state and the other had to be unpublished because it was filled with errors… but soon I’ll rectify everything), one of my short stories wouldn’t have been published in an anthology, and this blog would have been empty. To me, every single word, thought, sentence that comes out from my mind are worthy of being concretized and seen and read by other minds than mine – that is to say, to expand the field of this reality, while making it a little bit understandable, a little bit less boring, saved from the hands of abandonment. 

PS: as I am still learning the skill of editing effectively my own writings, all constructive criticism about this post are welcomed.

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Personal Narratives

My 2021 Motto

Every year I chose a word (theme) or a sentence (motto) that I will be able to apply in my life for one whole year, as to be able to become a better person. For example, I had chosen ‘people only understand from their own level of perception, so stop stressing over what they might think’ as my 2020 motto. ‘Do the things that make you happy; disregard everything that frustrates you’ was my motto for 2019, while ‘happiness’ was my 2018 theme. These little reminders help me to remain positive, and to live with less stress and frustrations; they help me to remember that staying happy is a powerful remedy against despair and the vacuumness of life.

I don’t want to use pills and potions, I only need to silently affirm those words everyday as to remember these affirmations each time I face stressful situations, or even when I feel these negative emotions creeping in.

My 2021 motto came easily to me for I kept hearing and seeing the same word over and over again; but it’s only while writing this post that I finalize the whole sentence of it. I guess that this word wants to exist more, and wants its definition to be spread out in the wild. But thing is, I have a very conflictual relationship with this word, for I blame it for everything that went wrong in my life. Till now I haven’t been able to find the right formula, or to make better analysis that might lead me towards making better choices.

Yes, ‘choice’, this main deterministic factor, which, I am sure determines our whole life – because certainly everything is a matter of choice. Every second of our life is shaped by a choice, whether it’s by us, or a choice made by another. We give power to other people by making a choice, or even by deciding not to chose; happiness, sadness, freedom, death, life, health, and everything else, every outcome, the whole future, are shaped by the choice we make.

Well… we won’t enter a philosophical debate about my thoughts on free will and determinism, mainly not after I’ve watched the TV series Devs, which challenged my mind on the concept of a deterministic and quantum universe (digging up SF stories here), where now I go with the moment you make a choice the mastermind instantly calculates the pathway; but I cannot decide whether all pathways have already been calculated, or whether new roads align as soon as there is input of choice, for, it is our choices that determine our path… but what about the choice? Why did I chose at first😂. Too complicated, need to leave it to the big thinkers🧐.

Anyways, I have chosen as my 2021 motto, ‘the choice I make determines the outcome; your future depends on your choice’. I’ve started to use this motto, thing that I badly need right now, or ever since I’ve lost my daily writing rhythm and daily internet routine, since I have a new occupation on my everyday schedule and where I haven’t been able to effectively balance my time since then.

I am still off-course and disoriented; I think that I have burnout symptoms. I don’t know how much time it will take for my mind and body to recover from all the forcing I’ve imposed on myself; I don’t even know if I’ll be able to get back to what I used to be doing before. I still don’t know what awaits me.

I just hope that as soon as we enter 2021, I’ll be able to make the right choices that will help me stay organized, find the right balance, make some extra time to be online, and of course to write and exercise my mind everyday. Thus my cure for the coming days, the choice I make: to write, read, watch TV, listen to music, and lots of rest.

Also, since this morning the stoicism philosophical word ‘memento mori’ (Latin for ‘remember that you [have to] die’) has been playing in my head… I guess it’s the answer to my inquiry about what might be the world’s theme… I don’t know, perhaps it’s the actual state of the world that’s been hammering inside of my mind, thus my thoughts about the inevability of death. Now should it be a reminder to me that we are all mere mortals that anyways are going to die, and that remembering that fact could help me make better choices in 2021… I still don’t know… for wouldn’t that be too morbid? Well, I need to think more about that!

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Personal Narratives

New Goal Achieved

An invitation to the launch of the 27th title of Collection Maurice

It’s the 15th of December, at 5.50 pm we enter the Hennessy Park Hotel parking. “Let’s go back home. I don’t want to go inside. I am not in my element,” I then said to my husband, with a stirring sensation in my gut. I was simply emotional, overawed, not quite sure what was going on. Is it a dream, perhaps a prank, or am I hallucinating, I then thought, with those butterflies still swarming in my tummy. Suddenly I was overwhelmed with the type of feeling that made me want to run away, because that thing seemed too grand for me, too impressive, and I, I have felt so little for all of these years, practically invisible, paving that way all alone, trying to prove to myself that I can, again, and that my mental fragility can’t rob me of the person that I have always been before my fall in the pit of depression; and now, this, now, my name alongside the greatest name of the Mauritian literary circle… I just couldn’t believe that I was there, and that I was writing a new positive chapter of my life.

After that my husband reassured me, we went inside, and a lady welcomed me to the author’s table; there she gave me the book in which my story has been published for the 27th title of Collection Maurice, a trilingual book (French-English-Creole) that has as English title ‘undercover’. Now I can… can I you think? Be at ease with calling myself an author; would they now understand what I really do, what is my passion, and how writing saved me from the obscurity so as to lead me towards the light… can you now understand?

A trilingual book (French-English-Creole) of short stories written by Mauritian authors

I was sitting there amongst the great, those enlightening minds of the literary community, and I just couldn’t believe that I was in the same room, as well as in the same book anthology as those whom I often see on television, read in newspapers or magazines, hear on the radio – those respected authors whose writings are wonderful and enlightening.

I was so awestruck that I completely forgot that I am a creative writer’s lifestyle blogger, and that taking photos for this blog is a must for me; to record and share my journey as a self-taught writer is my mission. I’ve completely forgotten to capture that important day of my writer’s life, so much I was in a dumbstruck catatonic state, paralyzed with a high dose of wonderment, but also, of fulfillment. Sadly I haven’t been able to make the most out of this opportunity; on the other hand I kept worrying about whether I’ll look good on their photos or video cameras😅.

Nothing is won yet, but I can add this experience and accomplishment to my bio and curriculum vitae. Somehow I feel that I have upgraded to the next level of my journey as a self-taught writer, which was on my plan all along the way.

It boosted my writing confidence

Lately, since going through the nightmare of re-editing Darcocyte, I had lost all confidence in my writing abilities. I was stuck with thoughts that I was a mediocre writer, and that my blog was only fake pages written by a clown. I was unable to get myself out of this failure, and my mind was again a horrible place filled with angst, where destruction was taking over because I felt that I was not good enough to create fiction and poems. My morale was very low.

I had challenged myself to build organic SEO based on Google Search Quality Evaluator Guidelines E-A-T (Expertise, Authoritativeness, Trustworthiness), but when this all happened, when my grammatical errors and bad syntaxes unraveled in front of my eyes, deep inside I felt that I had compromised my own trustworthiness. I just couldn’t take it.

But then my story has been chosen for the publication of Collection Maurice, after I have taken part in the writing competition organized by immedia. I am amongst three other new authors whose story has been chosen, and where we were all invited for the launch of the book collection. I listened happily and emotionally as summaries of the short stories written by ‘new authors’, including mine, was being read; and I was overwhelmed with joy when I took the group photo alongside the other authors, though I didn’t know which camera I needed to face😂; but I was also stunned and a little bit panic when I was asked for my first autograph🤗.

Though it all seemed impressive to me, I love that game for it has boosted my writing confidence. I want to continue submitting to the various Mauritian writing competition; and I hope that next time I will be more at ease, more present, and more active to take photos for the blog, or even to connect with others.

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Personal Narratives

My Two Manuscripts

In the night-time, I dreamed that I was at a wedding ceremony on the celestial plane. The bride was beautiful; she had a wreath of flowers on her head, and she wore an ivory lace dress. On the other hand, the bridegroom was a gigantic energy being, same as the others that were present. During the whole ceremony, I held my two manuscripts tightly against my heart. And after it was over, they all surrounded the blue planet, and they showered blessings, hearts, fruits and vegetables, money, flowers, and lots of petals; as for the mortal bride, she threw some very big roasted meat😂… but the celestial beings didn’t seem to care at all. And I, I was still holding against my chest the manuscript of Darcocyte and my book of poems, all the while good vibrations beamed out from the hands of these celestial beings. Afterwards, they all receded into darkness, perhaps, so as to obscure their presence.

Seven years later – two books

Last night, right before going to bed, I watched the end of a movie, and as well as a mini documentary, which had for main theme spirituality – and I did this all the while tightly holding my two manuscripts against my heart. And I guess that’s from where stems this very weird dream. The strangeness of this ongoing peculiar time, I guess.

Thing is, yesterday I received the manuscript of both Darcocyte and my book of poems, and I couldn’t stop myself from being exhilarated, from expressing loads of happiness. And I held these manuscripts as if they were real babies, kissing them, and even having them on my bedside for the night… yes, I know, that’s a bit too extreme and crazy😂 but I tend to get very eccentric when I am overly happy.

I know that nothing is won yet, but I just couldn’t stop admiring, and thinking about these last seven years of hard work; of neglecting so many things, to the point of not wanting to go out, as to be able to finish these books. I poured all my heart, and what remains of my love in these two books, just to be able to find myself once more. I have shed so many tears, made so many mistakes, been so dramatic, and alienated, but I think that I did it, I think that I was able to find a purpose that passionate me enough to be again.

I feel that I am a little bit more emotionally prepared for whatever comes in my way. I am so excited that I am unable to focus properly while writing – my mind is stirring up, my thoughts are fuzzing in all directions. I am thinking a thousand things at the same time, and I guess that it’s making me physically and mentally tired. I need some good rest, and perhaps go out more.

Now that I know that it takes so much time and efforts to understand and to learn this whole digital thing, I want to focus more my efforts and energy towards making the necessary offline connections, for as an anonymous quote says: “The comfort zone is nothing else but a graveyard for your dreams & ideas,” where it might be true or not; for me it is somehow true, thus I guess that if these doors are closed for me, whether intentionally or not, it means that they are closed for a specific reason.

Darcocyte & Book of poems

P.S: I’ve written this post on the go, so if ever you find any type of grammatical errors or any other type of mistakes, please do comment below. Thank you.

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Personal Narratives

Let’s talk about Airplanes and shooting stars

Yesterday, while closing the window of my bedroom at night, I saw a bright star in the dark sky – well, that’s what I thought at first glance. But then, it moved, and suddenly I realized that it was an aircraft in the night sky, and instantly the lines: can we pretend that airplanes in the night sky are like shooting stars, I could really use a wish right now, sung by Hayley Williams (from the group Paramore) and B.O.B were playing in my head. And believe me or not, I made a wish, while pretending that it was a shooting star. I wanted to take a photo of it, to capture this moment, but I was suddenly called elsewhere. I know that I should have taken this photo so as to accompany that blogpost, but well!

Nevertheless, I continued to think about the lyrics of this song, which by the way is titled airplanes (not, aeroplanes😅), and I told to myself, wowww! The one who wrote these lines has certainly once watched a bright object moving in the sky, at night, and instantly compared it to a shooting star, and afterwards, wrote it down, and where yesterday, these same words came to my mind when I saw a bright thing moving in the sky… isn’t that great to remember the poetry of things like that? To dwell in the beauty of the moment by remembering the lines of a beautiful song; isn’t it how life should be? Opening or closing your window, or doing whatever else, and find beauty randomly, and feel appeased in a strange kind of way. Isn’t it how serendipity looks like? Having a wonderful experience by chance.

Comparing a shiny moving object to a shooting star is such a subliminal metaphor

Comparing a shiny moving object to a shooting star is such a subliminal metaphor. That’s why I love metaphor that much, because I remember the symbolic terms and their representations much more than I remember their literal form. Well, that’s why I find figurative arts and writings interesting. They bring me those thrilling moments that I miss in my life.

This writer’s mind is surely fueled by wonders; a happy place filled with beautiful poetic words, for, as to compare an airplane to a shooting star, one’s head is, and without any doubts, a fertile land of imagination.

As for me, what I wished for when I saw that bright light which really looked like a shooting star, was, to have the same interesting and vivid imagination as the one, or the ones who wrote these creative and catchy lines; but I also wished that I could write better, and skilled enough to spot right away all of my grammatical errors.

And you, will you make wishes out of airplanes?

This is the link to The official video for “Airplanes” by B.o.B featuring Hayley Williams of Paramore.

P.S as always, if you find any type of errors that I did not catch while writing, please do comment below. Don’t hesitate to be my personal critique😅

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Personal Narratives

Writing to slow down time

Time stands still when I do the things that I am passionate about

I want to be able to write more short stories, book reviews, and tips; convey more of my thoughts, feelings, and ideas. But unfortunately, my daily length of time is insufficient, ephemeral, limited.

Poems are more present on this blog because they are short forms of writings, thus I had the ability to practice the craft of writing poetry everyday, and in that way, I was able to improve my poetry skills little by little. But as far as I know, it is through writing long-forms that an aspiring writer can over time really become good at writing all types of formats, ranging from flash-fiction to essays and to the weirdest type of poems… well, at least for the autodidact, the self-learner.

Look what happened with Darcocyte. I thought that I had finished polishing the story; I personally found it good enough to sit on book shelves… but here I am, after one year that I’ve self-published it, re-editing all the grammatical errors that I now see mysteriously.

I don’t think that I would have skilled up my writing techniques if I hadn’t written Darcocyte. I am still on the phase of learning the techniques of creative writing, of conveying my thoughts properly, of writing as I wish to. But to write as I wish to, I need to know the rules as to be able to break them down properly, so as to acquire my own style of writing in English, for the reader’s mind hasn’t been trained to make sense of the nonsense. Thus my wish to be more exotic, but always working hand in hand with grammar rules and syntaxes.

But you have to practice a lot, and also read a lot; write and read, read and write, write and edit, edit and write, re-read revise and re-write, and my time is limited. I have to keep up with so many things.

As my children are on holidays, I am able, for only this whole month of December, to elope for some hours, to steal bits of my precious time so as to be able to write and practice more, and to get better at editing my own writings (until, I hope, one day I might be able to afford one).

Before the outbreak of the pandemic, I had enough time to write books, blog, be present on social media, learn, and in between manage my house chores; but after the pandemic everything changed. I lack time.

It’s hard for me to keep up with a daily writing routine, just as I did before – but I feel so low and without purpose on days where I haven’t been able to write, that I have decided despite everything to continue writing everyday, even if it’s one sentence, or even one little word, something, for time seems to slow down for me, as I have found my passion, my purpose, my happy place. And no matter how long it takes to get there, I know that in this space of mine, time stands still when I do the things that I am passionate about.

P.S: if you have any type of critic concerning this post – whether it concerns my writing style, grammar errors, or word mistakes, please don’t hesitate to comment about it. Thank you, and have a beautiful Sunday.

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Personal Narratives

Let’s talk about the weather

Drops of rain on a white flower
Drops of rain on wild flower (Thunbergia Fragrans). Picture taken in my backyard

Perhaps by writing this post I’ll summon a heavy rainfall that will replenish our reservoirs and cool down the summer heat

Today I don’t feel like sitting down as to think about what to write next, or even to concentrate while re-editing Darcocyte. I just want to lay here, on my bed, and blog about anything that comes into my mind; but I don’t want to write about what hurts. I want to write about the weather. Yes. Let’s talk about the weather.

Right now it’s cloudy outside, but the heat is still unbearable. My house is like a sauna, and the sprinkle of intermittent rain makes it worst. They told us to save water; they have even set up a big fine for whoever is found guilty of wasting the precious liquid, for our reservoirs are completely dry. Drastic measures for drastic time, that’s how it goes, I guess.

I always feel lethargic and very tired when it is too hot. Heat seems to put me to sleep. My mind, too, gets heated up, and I am unable to concentrate, to work. I just want to lay there, under the shade of a tree, and sip lemonade while reading a book, or even while watching a good movie. Even while writing this, I feel like it’s a bit of hassle for me, and I don’t even know if I’ll be able to publish it. I went to read a column on Paris Review after I wrote only two paragraphs here, and I just came back, inspired to write down my own thoughts.

Perhaps by writing this post I’ll summon a heavy rainfall that will replenish our reservoirs and cool down the summer heat😅 . . . who knows! After all some people execute the rain dance, and it seems to work.

The heat wave was troubling me so much this morning that I even came up with a conspiracy theory, which for sure will end up in one of my science fiction stories. Clue: satellites and sun. Like what! You can find inspiration everywhere, extracting it from every type of experience and moments, even when you are suffering from heat.

Have to say that my plan for this month of December was to blog regularly, and as well as to upload everyday on social media, so as to challenge and motivate myself to write and create again, to practice more my grammar skills and writing techniques, to force myself to come up with something, and to take myself out of this gloomy ambiance am in since I wrote bits of thoughts from a shattered heart. But yesterday the pressure of the heat was way too strong, and I felt tired, and I ended up doing nothing.

Thus, my new challenge starts now, that is to edit as I write, and to make the less grammatical mistakes and bad syntaxes errors as I can.

I know that when you are self-editing, it is important to forget the work for some time, to put it aside. But I need to challenge myself upon this matter, which is the only way I know that can help me level up my writing skills, but also my editing skills.

So, dear readers, if ever your keen eyes find errors in any of my posts, or even if my writings seem non-sensical, please, don’t hesitate to give me feedback in the comment section. I am open to every type of criticism, but not to the hate type😅. Thank you in advance.

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Personal Narratives

Bits of thoughts from a shattered heart

Its 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.

Its 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.

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Personal Narratives

Nightmare on editing street

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.

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Personal Narratives

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.

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Personal Narratives

I won’t lower down my expectations

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.

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Personal Narratives

Writing abates the storm in my heart

On a wooden table, a pen on an opened notebook, a hat, a mug, and flower
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.”

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Personal Narratives

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.