Archives for posts with tag: Creative Writing

Fragments of Life

March 25, 2024 //
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Today I started reading Maktub by Paulo Coelho. I am sure I am not alone when I say I LOVE his books. I’ve read most (if not all of them) and I’m fairly certain I’ve read The Alchemist a dozen times. I had crazy vivid dreams the first time I read it and every subsequent reading has prompted new ideas, memories and warm fuzzy feelings. I simply love that book.

Maktub is a series of short writings from a time Coelho wrote a daily column. So far I’ve read one – the first one – and I am already inspired. He illustrates a lovely story and speaks about “fragments of life.” BAM! As soon as I finished the two-page story I had to jump up and grab my computer. I am currently writing a piece (hopefully a book) about a time in my life when I hopped onto an airplane and went to London, England for the first time. Part of my struggle writing it is that memories are not always reliable. Is that when this happened? Is that who was there? Is it in the right order? For someone does not want to offend anybody, who loves to “get things right” and who is very precise by nature, I find this a huge struggle. I didn’t keep a daily journal. I wrote sporadically and made attempts to capture everything. But I didn’t.

So I write from memory, with the aid of my limited journal and photos and hope I get things right – and try not to stress too much over it.

When I read Coelho’s words today – about a traveller looking at papers and referring to them as fragments of his life, the lightbulb went off. This piece I am writing = fragments of my life. Fragments from a period of time I look back at with a lot of love and gratitude (and a fair amount of nostalgia). And that freed my mind. I am piecing together these fragments as best I can and hope I do everyone justice. If and when anyone reads it I hope they will feel that love and gratitude.

Maktub. It is written. And so I shall keep writing.

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Categories Random Thoughts, Uncategorized

I Am Not you…

April 14, 2021 //
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Who knew this was hiding deep down?

I’ve never been one to write poetry. As someone who always loved English classes in school, poetry was the worst part. It just never came to me. Imagine my surprise when this little piece fell onto the page. It was very much an “emotional vomit”. For years it has sat in the dark. I’ve reread it a number of times, but never, ever, wanted to share it.

Until recently. In a discussion with a group of writers, poetry came up. If I was ever going to share, this was the time. My heart pounded so strongly, I could barely hear the sound of my voice. Admittedly though, I nearly crapped out. I came very close to not reading it.

It was interesting to see the reactions. I know what this poem means to me. It’s personal, which is why I hadn’t wanted to share. Would people know what it was really about? Seems not. Everyone brought meaning to it based on their experiences, their lives, their points of view. It was surprising and awesome.

These words are not a window into my thoughts and feelings. Right. And even if they were, so what?

In the spirit of sharing, in the spirit of releasing whatever meaning is still attached to this piece…. Here’s the first poem I wrote – many years ago.

Let it mean what you want it to mean. If that’s nothing, well, I’m a-okay with that too.

I Am Not You

You came to me in a time of need
Settled in so I would not bleed
The comfort was great
But is it too late?

It’s time to move on
Stifling me is wrong
Your intentions are honourable
But the result is frustration

I feel like I’m stuck
Too deep in this rut
I want to move on
I need to live life full on

Thanks for all that you did
For keeping me safe
For allowing me to breath
I’m ready now to be
So please set me free

I am not you

I am me

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Categories Creative Writing, Poetry, Random Thoughts

Anton and his Accordian

November 17, 2020 //
6

And now time for something a little different….

I have been playing around with some creative writing recently. As part of this, I picked an image and made up a little story about it. Here it is.

Nobody understands why I sit here and play the accordion all day. I see you walk by and look at me with pity. A pity I neither deserve nor need. If only you knew. If only you knew.

The flurry of people calms me.  This is what gets me out of bed every day. It has been years since I felt the warmth of a woman beside me. Our actions have consequences, and I know I deserve no more than I have. I haven’t always been the quiet man sitting at the corner, with a perpetual smile, a hello to passers-by, and a song to share.

Sometimes it feels like it was someone else’s life. The dark secrets, the travel in the night, the lies and half-truths, the deceptions. All in the name of “a greater cause”, the security of my country and my people. The things I was asked to do….the things I did do….would anyone understand? It was a younger man’s game, a younger man’s fight. A younger man’s delusion. 

A delusion. Were my actions for the greater good? Are people safer now because of them? I am not convinced. And yet, most days I wake up with adrenaline coursing through my veins, eager for the fight. Some days I even wake up in a full sweat, in the midst of a flash-back to times I slipped away from the knife at my throat or the gun pointed in my direction. It’s an odd thing to both want and not want to be that man again, and to see the faces of those whose lives I cut short every time I close my eyes.

My greatest delusion was that I could be that man and keep you safe, keep you away from the dangers I danced through daily. Blinded by arrogance, I did not see that they would to get to me by finding the one I cherished above all others. Anastasia, can you forgive me for the lies and the way in which you left this world? Do you know that my greatest truth was the amount to which I loved you, and still do? I wish I could regret having stepped into your world and thereby ensuring you would never live to be old and grey. My selfishness prevents me from doing so. I never deserved you and for that you paid the price. Forgive me.

So I come here every day. To the place I first saw your smile. To where we shared our first kiss. And I play the songs to which we spent many evenings dancing under moonlit skies. I try to hold onto those moments where time stood still and I knew I was the luckiest man in the world.

And I pray for a salvation I know will never come.

******

I hope you enjoyed that. I know I enjoyed writing it.

A special thank you to A Simple Sketchbook for reinterpreting the photo into a lovely sketch so I could have an image to accompany this post.

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Categories Creative Writing