on writing

Yesterday Wil Wheaton wrote the following in a blogpost: "I want to be a writer with a capital W, though, and it drives me crazy that I can't just make something up and take a reader on a journey through someone else's life the way I do with my own."

That reminded me of something: I want to write fiction, but I can't. I can make a story out of anything. Something remotely amusing that happened to me - I can tell it to you in a way that can make you roll on the floor laughing. Seriously. I just seem to be unable to invent stories, characters. I've occasionally been so lucky to have a fleeting idea, but if I actually sit down to write, create - nothing comes. The muses don't exactly knock on my door on a daily basis.

I've spent a lot of time writing poetry, even good poetry, and a couple of short stories. I know I can write. I know my way with words. Really well, as a matter of fact. But what use is it to me if I can't create anything longer than a page for lack of content?

My perfect year / Ode to a season

work is being really slow and boring today, and I have a lot of time on my hands to spend on the internet. so I finally went to 101cookbooks.com to check out a couple of recipes. It took about only two or three somewhat autumn themed recipes to make me yearn for the best of all seasons. basically it had me at caramel apples...

I love autumn. fall. call it what you will. it's just my all time favourite season. if I were to have it my way, the whole year would consist mostly of autumnish times. indian summer followed by a couple of golden gleaming months of autumn. leaves falling, pumpkin soup, lots of warm spices and teas, loads of slow food, fireplaces (if only we had one) and long walks in woods and parks and gardens, rooky skies. I really like wearing light jackets. I look good in jackets, but you can't wear those in summer and in winter you'll just freeze your ass of.
maybe top it all of with a wee bit of winter. But a proper one like we don't get them anymore, with enough snow to go for a sleigh-ride and a proper week of skiing maybe, ice skating, lots more of evenings with tea and fireplaces. No slushy, muddy snow (fuck global warming) and warm weather in which you actually feel stupid wearing your winter's coat or jacket. I want to freeze my ass of for a couple of weeks around christmas. But a couple of weeks is all I need. Then a bit of spring should be fine, but while at it may I ask for a lot of rain, please? or not. just keep summer to a minimum, will you? after that we can go back to the indian summer and start anew. Is it too much to ask?

Today the weather is very autumn-like (after all we're approaching September), and I've been hearing crows for a couple of weeks now (no, not just in my head, they're really there, outside my window) but I fear it might not last very long. It doesn't usually, not the last couple of years. I worry that there won't be enough autumn-time for me to annoy my sweetheart with every pumpkin dish possible (mostly because she won't let me), make caramel apples, spiced tea and all other autumn recipes I may find and take a liking to. Enough time and place for cosy evenings on the couch and warm lighting in the living room, time to use the melancholy to write, be creative. Oh my, I really love this season.

the essence of writing

thanks to the gf I came here and discovered this:

Po-em, po-em, I'm not going
to say it like that, or flit
about in faux boho clothes.
I'm not going to smoke pot or
pretend some supposedly Buddhist retreat
has enlightened me, arranged my chi,
or whatever.

May I still be a poet?

she said everything I feel about poetry. damned be I for not finding the words myself.