it's just a TV show

            I hate it when my husband tells me “It’s just a story” or “it’s just a movie” or “it’s just a show, it isn’t real” or he asks me “Why do you care so much? It’s not real?”

            I can’t help it. It makes me flame. I’ve lost count of the number of times his off-handed aforementioned comments have left me more pissed off than I should have been (I’ll admit that much), stomping my way down the hall and into my office, where I once again take solace in my books, my music, my movies, my computer.

            Such is life for way too overly imaginative, creatively minded me.

            Oh yeah, did I forget to mention the fact that I’m a writer?

            Oh shit. Probably should have mentioned that earlier.

            I tried to explain it to him tonight.

            That as a writer, over 95% of what whirls around like a maelstrom in my brain every minute of every hour of every day (when it isn’t song lyrics), is those characters that “aren’t real” to most people. And plot lines, random name and story ideas, movies I loved, books I loved, random things that inspire me along the way.

            I’m a writer. If not for things that “didn’t exist”, my brain would be almost entirely silent almost all of every day.

            But it isn’t, as those of you out there who are fellow writers, fellow movie buffs, fellow fanboys and fangirls and music buffs—fellow imaginative and creatively-minded people will attest.

            Life is what you make it. And what the hell kind of life can we ever hope to live without passion in it, without love—love of life, love of loved ones, love of what we do, love of the things we find joy in—the things that we’re passionate about, the things that drive and inspire and move us—to do, to partake in, to create for ourselves?

            I’m a writer, and a lifelong self-admitting bibliophile. I’ve been in love with the written, spoken, and sung word for my entire life. Since I was four, I can’t remember a time I wasn’t madly in love with a book—with the worlds that lie in wait between the covers, in the movies, on the TV screen, and more often than I’m comfortable admitting, in my head, in the worlds that exist there, and the characters that live and breathe within each and every one of them.

            I have been writing stories, poetry, and songs of my own since I was 8 years old, which means that I have of my own free will, sat down to homework of my own assigning each and every night (most nights for 8-12 hours at a sitting without blinking), spinning out tales and creating characters and dialogue and situations and creating worlds that “aren’t real.”

            When it comes to the work of others—books, poetry, songs, movies, TV shows—I’ve always paid more attention than most of the people I know in my day to day life.

            I don’t know why.

            Is it because I’m a bibliophile? Is it because I’m a writer? Because I understand how much work and thought and effort and time they pour into their work, as I always have?

Maybe it’s just because I’m overly imaginative, or my empathetic nature?

            I’ve always had this uncanny way of being able to feel the feelings of others very deeply, the same as I’ve always felt things in general very deeply—when I love, when I hate, when I despair, when I rage, when I yearn, or desire, or despise, or loathe, I do so with every single fiber of my being. Down into the depths of my deepest heart and soul.

            I always felt that it was my empathetic and strongly passionate and feeling nature that helped me dive into my work as hard and deeply as I do—that it added to the realism and the depth of my work—that it made it easier for me to convey the feelings of what I was trying to put across to possible readers, and what my characters felt.

            After all, what good is a story, if you can’t move others to feel? If you can’t touch them through your work? If you can’t share stories with them that haunt them, or inspire them, hurt them, or heal them?

            What good is a story, a movie, a book, a song, a poem, a painting, a portrait, a work of art at ALL, if it doesn’t affect those who see/hear/feel/taste/touch it?

            This is why it pisses me off when he tells me it’s “Just a show”… it’s “Just characters, they’re not real.”

            No shit, Sherlock. (no offense to Sherlock in any of his incarnations, be they movie, book, TV show (hell yes I’m a fan. Bring it on BBC. And hell no, I still haven’t forgiven you for the end of Merlin. That one seriously hurt.)

            I know they’re figments of someone’s imagination.

            But you know what? Those figments are put forth into the world meant to inspire…

…to teach.

…to touch

…to move.

…to hurt.

To heal.

To convey human emotion, in all its sometimes painful, generally messy, sometimes ugly, sometimes beautiful, passionate, and sometimes horrendous glory.   

It was created by emotion-feeling people, for emotion-feeling people.

It was one person’s way of opening their heart and soul, laying it bare before our feet and saying “Here, come crawl into my brain and give me a moment of your time, and I share with you the endless galaxies that exist within my innermost heart and soul.”

            But don’t ask my husband.

            After all.

            “It’s only a TV show.”

avsongbird vlog #27- just being candid, talking about writing and where...

the runner - an original poem by avsongbird

All the Ages- (a love story) by avsongbird as read aloud on my youtube channel

All the Ages (a love story)- by avsongbird

"All the ages"- a love story by avsongbird

All the ages- a love story by avsongbird

Going back- a drabble from my blog by avsongbird

avsongbird vlog#18- the big project

avsongbird vlog # 17- date night! archives! challenged! Camping!

Different types of writing-- and an epiphany, read audiobook style on my youtube

Scars

Scars

It's not that I don't mind your scars.
I love you for them.
For knowing that whatever left those mars on your flesh
Wasn't stronger than you were.
You shy away whenever they're mentioned,
Whenever they're bared before the eyes of others,
Unaware that I stand there, fighting the urge to bend and to press my lips softly against them,
To visit them with tender affection for the way they remind me of the fact
That I'm blessed to still have you with me.
That I haven't lost you, even as they continually remind me that I very easily could have.

I love your scars, as I love each and every incredible part of unforgettable you.
And I anxiously await the day you stop shying away whenever my fingertips brush across them,
Knowing as you watch me anoint them with tender kisses,
That with each and every press of my lips,
I'm thanking them for granting me the unforgettable pleasure
Of such tender and merciful moments with you.

In those Pages

In Those Pages

By Jen K.-- 2015

I'm there, in those pages,

If you look hard enough.

Can you find me there?

Do you want to?

When you pull back the cover on my notebook,

When you click on that link,

You're foregoing the guardrails, and the safety nets.

You're leaving your world behind you, shedding it like a discarded skin.

You're crossing over into a world entirely of my making.

And the rules of your old world-- your old life-- don't necessarily apply to mine.

So consider yourself warned, and welcome aboard.

Don't keep your hands and arms inside the car at all times,

But I sincerely hope you enjoy the ride. 

Sounding Boards and Audio-books

               Every writer-- whether you're a poet, lyricist, novelist, short story writer, napkin scribbler, blogger, or any combination of the above-- needs a reliable sounding board-- someone you can read your work to who will listen with an open mind, and give you their opinion. Someone who will ask the questions that need to be asked, and give you a fresh view of your work, so that you can then head back into your writing nook and correct whatever mistakes you've made.

               For me, that person has always been my mother. And ironically, it's been especially true for the last six years. Since she and I now find ourselves living over 1000 miles apart, that means a lot of late night Skype and cell phone calls (apparently being a night owl runs in my family). 

               I can't stress enough the need for a good sounding board. It's one thing for you to think your work is half-way decent or for you to be pleased with yourself-- that will only take you so far. To push yourself to keep reaching, to keep improving, you really need someone else to give you a different viewpoint. I've lost count of the number of times I've read something to her and had her come back with a viewpoint I hadn't thought of-- some of them changed the story completely.

               I just got off the phone with her a little while ago-- went into the kitchen to pop myself a massive bowl of popcorn and pour myself a bathtub-sized cup of coffee before I came into my room to curl up with my laptop, ready to get to work for the night.

               My mother is an incredibly intelligent woman, but in the household I grew up in, where my step-dad is a hardcore reader, my younger brother is a reader, I'm an even harder-core reader, my mother (though a speed-reader like you wouldn't believe) has never counted herself as much of a reader.

               Granted, when she does pick up a story that catches her interest, she can speed through it like nobody's business. I always counted myself lucky that I'm much the same way in that respect.

               A few weeks back, we were in the middle of me reading something or other to her (as many projects as I've got in the works at the moment, I can't remember which one it was at the time), she told me that my writing is one of the few exceptions to that rule. I only knew that there's times she'll call me out of the blue, always asking first if I'm busy (I always say I'm not, whether I am or not. She's my mom, after all.).

               Then, she asks me to read to her. When I ask her what she'd like to hear, she always answers "Whatever you're working on."

               So I read to her. My poetry, my lyrics, my one-shot drabbles, my epics, and she listens, sometimes asking questions, sometimes offering an opinion on my work, sharing memories and stories of her life that whatever I'm working on might have brought to mind.

               I called her up today and I asked her if she'd seen the video I made for her last night (technically I think it was sometime around 5 this morning when I finally finished editing and posting it), and she pulled it up and watched it.

               She asked me if I'd send her a copy of the video, so I did, just as I sent the mp3 of me singing "Amazing Grace" to her a few days before (I played my singing as the background music for the video I made for her).

               Then, she asked me if I wouldn't mind sending her other recordings-- if I wouldn't mind recording me reading my writing and sending it to her in audio format, and I have to admit, I'd never thought of doing such a thing before. Then again, I've been doing a lot of things lately I never thought of doing, so I thought about it, and I figured sure, why not?  

               I was nervous about making the blog, and now it's starting to feel more comfortable, I was nervous about making vlogs, and now I'm looking forward to it, same with singing in public, and now, I've got two vids on my channel of me doing just that.

               I guess what I'm wanting to ask you guys is-- is that something you guys would be interested in? I know people read audio-books when they're busy, or don't feel like reading, that some people find it more soothing and relaxing to hear the words spoken instead. Are my works something you guys would like to hear in an audio format, if I find a way to post them in such a format, or do you find the idea of my voice akin to something like nails on a chalkboard?

               If this ends up being an idea that people are interested in, I can start looking into it. But if you'd rather just read my words, or if you don't find my voice suitable for the task, then at least I can say I made the effort to try something different, which is something I'm trying to do more and more in my everyday life.

               As always, thank you for taking the time out of your day to read my blog. I appreciate each and every one of you who let me into your lives for a moment at a time, and I hope you have a great night/morning.

--Jen K. 

Different types of writing-- and an epiphany

               I do different types of writing, depending on my mood. There's writing for my stepsons, writing for my family, friends...

               There's writing I do for public viewing...

               ...and then there's the writing I do for myself.

               Sometimes, those lines cross.

               The most prevalent form of this occurrence actually involves a project that began as a simple "this is for me" story that I began when I was in my late teens/early twenties.

               It was a story I started with no intention of ever making it public, just a way to pass the time and dabble around in my head, to see what came of it.

               Over the course of the last ten years (give or take), that short story/idea drabble stuck at the back of my mind, waiting for its time to come around again.

               Earlier this year, I had an epiphany, while I was working on another story (supposedly having nothing to do with the first). This was a story I'd been working on (off and on) for about five years, and like the first, it was a "just for me" story-- one of those I write and fall into and read over and over again for my own enjoyment (I've always thought of it as my personal version of a housewife novel).

               The wheels in my head began to turn as I took a step back to look at the parallels underlying those two stories, and as I began to connect the dots, more possible ideas began to unfold.

               The nights that followed that epiphany were a blur as I fell headlong into the brainstorm that came up as the ideas collided, and out of it came an idea for a new story-- not just the first story I began all those years ago, not the one I've been tinkering on for five years-- but something altogether new, transformed by the colliding and merging of one story with another.

               The lead in both, of course, is a strong female sort, a reluctant participant in the unfolding events of her life. And I won't drop spoilers here, because I'm having way too much fun brainstorming and working out all of the details and putting the events down onto paper to cheapen them by dropping spoilers.

               What I can tell you is that it is a fantasy story, one with epic battle scenes, epic character development, and yes, unfortunately there may be some epic deaths.

               I can tell you that it will involve science fiction, fantasy, romance, angst, heartbreak, love, hate, and betrayal. That it will span not just one lifetime, on one world, but a few lifetimes in a few worlds, and that there will be one central link between each of the lives shown, and each of the worlds.

               I can tell you that the story may turn out to involve even more than a few lifetimes, or a few worlds-- that this may be just the tip of a very large iceberg.

               I can tell you that I make my characters as human as possible-- they make mistakes, they screw up, they have obvious flaws. I set out to make them as real as I can possibly make them, because I want you to feel not just for them, but with them-- I want you to see their world through their eyes. If I haven't done that, then I haven't done enough.

               As I work on these stories-- poring through piles of notes and word documents of notes and ideas and try to make sense of it all, to transform it into the story that's dying to come out, I hope more than anything that the love I've come to feel for these stories, that the passion I have for the lives and the people and the events I put onto paper comes through in the work, and I hope I do it enough justice that when it's finished, you, my readers, will come to love the stories and the characters as much as I do.

Alone

Alone

I can hear the wind howling
Over the snow.
Where sheer cliffs drop off
Into caverns below.
A lone soul lost bends against the wind,
And wonders if he'll ever see home again.

One set of prints lost in the deepening snow,
If he stumbles and falls
Will they ever know?
Drops to his knees beneath silent trees,
How he misses his loved ones
In moments like these.

But he's alone out there now, beneath the moon and the pines,
It's been weeks since he left it all behind.
Alone with the snow, with the wind, and the cold,
If he stumbles, if he falls,
Will they ever know?

Can I Borrow You for a Second?

Can I borrow you for a second?
Take your heart and make you feel?
Can I open your eyes to a story,
And convince you that it's real?

Though you may feel your heart is breaking,
I promise I'm going to make it better.
No matter how good or bad things get
I'll be with you, letter by letter.

Story of A Life

Story of a life

Too young memories of screaming,

fighting,

divorce,

Hamburger helper dinners,

just the three of us, enjoying the peace, the quiet.

Caring mother, loving, devoted.

Two years, just the three of us,

military man, second chance.

haunted by the past,

desperate for love, for peace.

Near constant moving,

Schools blurring together,

Faceless classmates in clichés that pass by.

Discovered passions, purpose, direction,

Whirlwind of classes,

Farewell, big brother.

Buried in schoolwork, 4.0, first job,

diploma.

Trusting girl, played for a fool,

Distrustful but not without reason.

Nanny, Caregiver, Personal Aide.

Grocery clerk, injured,

Starting over for the second time.

Passion and pain unavoidably linked together,

Refusal to give up the passion despite the pain.

Boyfriend to fiance, fiance to husband.

Apartment to house.

Nice house, quiet nights, echoing nights in a silent house.

Years pass.

Loneliness forgotten, lost in the worlds within.

Reawakening hunger, passion, drive,

Reaching for others,

Understanding, community,

still searching for understanding,

for peace.