creativelycryptid

[creativelycryptid]

Adulthood

I am untethered in the strangest way. There is no one to stay close to, no place I am bound to return to. I should be free, instead I sit very still. I feel fragile.

[creativelycryptid]

Well done Enka McEvoy! This is a great way to get writing and develop our own respective worlds! Cheers and salute to you!

[creativelycryptid]

Reality is Fuckin Wild

We’re always underwater. Because water is in the clouds, which are above us. Except on very high mountains, but even then, there’s humidity and stuff.

Science is real, but it’s also really weird. Things are true that seem like they shouldn’t be. We’re all astronauts, in space constantly, even though we’re also not in space, because we’re on a planet.

Sometimes it feels like we’re just a cosmic ping pong ball, and God’s doing a really cool trick shot in a game of celestial beer pong. We’re just circling the rim a few hundred million times, before we slide into the black hole cup, and Satan has to drink.

[creativelycryptid]

Dear internet,

Please give me all the advice you have on writing cover letters. Like, the closer you can get to literally just writing a cover letter for me, the better. Ok bye.

[creativelycryptid]

Find happiness where you are as a writer. Not where you're going.

Meet Aaron Benham – a family man, professor, and writer. He loves motorcycles (and women). Faces writer’s block. Struggles with unhappiness. He’s also the main character of Thomas Williams’ 1974 novel The Hair of Harold Roux, one of Stephen Kings’ favorite books on what it means to be a writer.

In the story, Aaron Benham reflects upon his unhappiness. He recalls his days as a student, tirelessly working toward a dream of becoming a successful writer – but now that he’s achieved that dream, he ironically longs to be as he once was: a student in pursuit of a goal.

I read The Hair of Harold Roux toward the end of my MFA while racing to finish my thesis (Ann Joslin Williams, the author’s daughter, was my advisor). Aaron’s reflections, however, made me pause, because they resonated with a question whispered from the back of my mind.

What happens after I achieve my goals?

I dreamed of graduating, and I dream of publishing novels. I dream of success. But what happens when (if) I get there?

Will I be dissatisfied?

And if I’m dissatisfied by success, as well as the years leading up to it, then when the hell will I ever find satisfaction as a writer?

The trap of dissatisfaction

We all began writing with simple motives. We wrote because there was something exciting inside us that wanted out, and we kept writing because we loved it.

But early on there came visions of success. We imagined our stories in print, winning awards, being adapted for film, etc., etc. Shimmering and alluring dreams, all exciting, so much more exciting, in fact, than the present, that we started to live with our heads in the future.

The future became the answer to our dissatisfaction, and our present efforts in turn became a means for achieving it.

No wonder we struggle to be satisfied, when all our present efforts are treated like a passage to somewhere else. It’s even worse when we do reach success, only to realize the joy we’ve been working toward is quick to fade: a phenomenon called the “hedonic treadmill.”

That’s the trap of dissatisfaction.

Remembering why you write

How do we break free from dissatisfaction?

By refocusing on the little things.

There’s joy to be had in every stage of your writing life – the excitement of finishing your first story, the comradery of a student workshop, the affirmation of publication, and onward. All of these experiences are worth savoring on the road to success.

And even when those joys pass, the craft itself will always offer humble, everyday rewards, like the triumph of finishing a difficult chapter, the excitement of new insights, or the simple satisfaction of growth and progress. These are the joys that never run dry.

So write for these present-day joys. For the fulfillment and love of the craft. 

Still dream big and set goals – but let “success” be a consequence of your earnest pursuit of writing, rather than its driving purpose.

That way you can savor your writing today. You can enjoy success tomorrow. And when the thrill of success fades, rather than feeling empty, you’ll feel ready and excited to start your next story.

— — —

Hey there! My name’s Mike, and I’m a writer and copywriter with an MFA in fiction. For more tips on how to hone your craft and nurture meaningful stories, follow my blog.

[creativelycryptid]

Gradients

We divide things neatly. Day and night, seasons, months.

One ends, then another begins. But life doesn’t work in straight lines. There’s no difference between day and night, not like the ones we make ourselves.

[creativelycryptid]

Water is just Like That

Water is so strange. The way it drips and drops. On its own, it has a small voice. Combined, it is very loud.

There is more water on Earth than land, depending on how you measure it. Not surface area, because everyone forgets there is land underwater, too. Not volume, exactly, because the earth stretches down very deep. More water than dry land, then.

Water doesn’t speak in human languages, but sometimes I think if I knew morse code, I would know what the leaky faucet is trying to tell me.

Probably to hire a plumber.

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You can always blow sideways instead

The wind is driving the clouds uphill, but the water still flows downhill. It makes perfect sense, but visually it’s a conundrum.

Sometimes, no matter how hard you blow, the water is still going to go the opposite way. That’s okay, though. It means gravity is working.

[creativelycryptid]

Eulogy for a Storm

Dark clouds aren’t angry. Heavy with rain, they’re made of droplets.

They give of themselves,  bits of blood and bone to feed the rivers, let the flowers bloom.

Tall trees sway, jostling like a crowd, each leaf a person, waving and screaming for a few drops from the crying clouds.

The clouds yell as they fade away, thunder and lightning, shrieking as all the water, every drop of them, falls to the earth.

Does it hurt, when a cloud dies?

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Buzzard Weather

After the rain the buzzards come perching on the school roof, wings spread, curved and wet, like umbrellas.

Sun strikes the highest point first, and the older, bigger buzzards claim there, the white spots at the end of their wings shine bright in the sunlight.

Their wings dry, they leave, and the next  biggest and oldest take their place. But the last buzzard gets just as much sun as the first, and he has the pleasure of watching the mockingbirds fight.

[creativelycryptid]

Time is a Circle and also Fake

The mist hanging over the street after a summer afternoon storm blankets the world and it feels just like an early morning.

The birds sing wake up songs, the cars drive slower it seems, and every drifting, passing, cloud, whispers “just go to sleep.”

[creativelycryptid]

Dinner

Life has torn asunder What was meant to be whole. People sold as stew meat, Because the butcher cut them wrong. This cheap bowl resents the baby carrots within, And dreams of being fillet mignon.

[creativelycryptid]

This is the first couple of pages of a much longer work which is also still being written, so let me know if you like it and I’ll keep posting updates~

The Unmaking of Bird (part 1)

 I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Time doesn’t exist here, nothing does, not even darkness. Soon not even I will. I can feel myself unraveling, blurring at where my edges should be. I cling to my thoughts, to my story, repeating it in the hopes of keeping myself from vanishing. Sometimes I stop thinking and just drift until a jolt of fear calls me back. Then I repeat my story, from the beginning until the trial that condemned me here, to remind myself of who I am, and why I am afraid to be something else.

My name is Bird, and I am Real, but I wasn’t always. When I first came to be, I was called Sally Doll. I don’t remember being made, no one ever does, I suppose, but I remember looking down into Nancy’s face. She was so tiny back then, a sweet looking girl with blonde pigtails and pink overalls. She took my hand and led me to her tea party. The table was covered in an old checkered tablecloth and set with plastic glittery purple cups. I sat, I lifted an empty cup, and I took a sip. Nancy nodded approvingly.

That first day was mostly a fog. I trailed Nancy and quietly did everything she asked of me. I think we played dolls, but I don’t really know. It felt like I wasn’t all there, which I suppose I wasn’t. I must have been able to talk, but I didn’t. 

I remember a little more about the first night. Nancy went to bed and I was left standing in the darkness of her room. I stood there for what felt like forever, which, in a way, it was. I had been standing for half of my life, and I started to feel a dull ache in my legs. It never occurred to me to sit down.

Morning came slowly. I stood watching the haze of reds and yellows bleed over the sky and trickle into the room, across the floor. I watched it slide over where I thought my feet should be, and when I turned to continue watching it, there was no shadow where I was standing. I was dimly aware that this should frighten me, but it didn’t occur to me what exactly that meant until much later.

Keep reading

[creativelycryptid]

The Unmaking of Bird (part 1)

 I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Time doesn’t exist here, nothing does, not even darkness. Soon not even I will. I can feel myself unraveling, blurring at where my edges should be. I cling to my thoughts, to my story, repeating it in the hopes of keeping myself from vanishing. Sometimes I stop thinking and just drift until a jolt of fear calls me back. Then I repeat my story, from the beginning until the trial that condemned me here, to remind myself of who I am, and why I am afraid to be something else.

My name is Bird, and I am Real, but I wasn’t always. When I first came to be, I was called Sally Doll. I don’t remember being made, no one ever does, I suppose, but I remember looking down into Nancy’s face. She was so tiny back then, a sweet looking girl with blonde pigtails and pink overalls. She took my hand and led me to her tea party. The table was covered in an old checkered tablecloth and set with plastic glittery purple cups. I sat, I lifted an empty cup, and I took a sip. Nancy nodded approvingly.

That first day was mostly a fog. I trailed Nancy and quietly did everything she asked of me. I think we played dolls, but I don’t really know. It felt like I wasn’t all there, which I suppose I wasn’t. I must have been able to talk, but I didn’t. 

I remember a little more about the first night. Nancy went to bed and I was left standing in the darkness of her room. I stood there for what felt like forever, which, in a way, it was. I had been standing for half of my life, and I started to feel a dull ache in my legs. It never occurred to me to sit down.

Morning came slowly. I stood watching the haze of reds and yellows bleed over the sky and trickle into the room, across the floor. I watched it slide over where I thought my feet should be, and when I turned to continue watching it, there was no shadow where I was standing. I was dimly aware that this should frighten me, but it didn’t occur to me what exactly that meant until much later.

After a while, the light coated the whole room and Nancy woke. She grumbled and rolled over, away from the light, mumbling for me to close the curtains. I crossed the floor and did so, feeling a dull disappointment. I noticed, for the first time, a small chair next to the window, and sat. Some time later, Nancy awoke more fully. She smiled at me, took my hand, and pulled me downstairs. The stairs fascinated me. The floor in Nancy’s room was covered in a thick, cream colored carpet, but the stairs were hardwood, dark, smooth, and immaculately polished. I toed the edges of each step, and Nancy tugged impatiently on my hand.

Eventually, we made it to the living room. It was a soft green color with plush carpeting and a few wooden shelves with books and bronzeish knick-knacks. Nancy’s mother was sitting on the couch, not a single auburn hair out of place, reading a magazine. Her father was on the other side of the couch, reading a different magazine. Neither of them looked up as we entered. 

“Momma, Daddy. Will you tell me about your Imaginary Friends?” Nancy looked from one end of the couch to the other. Her father turned a page, sighed, and reached over to pat her on the head.

“Another time kiddo. I’ve got to go.” And he walked away. I don’t know where he went.

Her mother looked up, not at her husband and not quite at Nancy, and smiled. Her eyes were honey-glazed with nostalgia.

“Oh, she was lovely. The same color and feel as my favorite dark green velvet dress. She had button eyes - or, has, I guess. I don’t think about her much anymore, where she is, what she’s doing. Her name is Princess Flora. We used to ride horses together, right up until she left. That was nice.” She didn’t seem to notice Nancy eyeing me critically, and of course she still couldn’t see me, staring blankly back. When she did look over, Nancy smiled at her and dashed off. I followed at a slower pace.

Back in her room, Nancy went briskly about her business, pushing a pile of dolls out to the middle of the floor to sort through them. I stood, looming over her, and for the first time used my voice.

“Weren’t you going to introduce me?” It felt awkward to form the words, but my voice sounded as smooth as ocean glass. Nancy glanced up, looking impassive.

“No. Not yet. I like having you just to myself.”

I accepted that answer, since of course I was only hers. I was still invisible to everyone else for the moment, and I was her friend, made by her and for her. I smiled down at her, and Nancy smiled back.

[creativelycryptid]

Knot Today, Thanks

My mind is full of badly tied knots. Some too tight, others too loose. The strings fray in illogical places. I know I’m not the only one, Though some pretend I am. They say “you don’t make any sense.” That say “why would you fray there?” As if they’re entitled to know what rubbed me raw.

[creativelycryptid]

Little Bird

A mockingbird will fight anything with a pulse. She swoops and dives, Shrieking like a cat. Even a bird 3 times her size will hop away When the mockingbird comes to call.

You aren’t supposed to kill a mockingbird, A pretty bird with useless meat. But a mockingbird has no such qualms, And won’t hesitate in the slightest.

[creativelycryptid]

Here’s part 2 of The Mysterious Order of Pupper McDoggo!