The Beauty of Blinders: Taking Sight of Your Own Creativity #CreativeEncouragement #Creativity #Individuality

BLINDERS:

  1. something that obscures vision: something that prevents clear vision or understanding
  2. eye covers for horse: a pair of flaps attached to a horse’s bridle, one beside each eye, to keep the horse looking straight ahead.Microsoft® Encarta® Reference Library 2003. © 1993-2002 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved.

In terms of art and creativity, the first definition of the word for Blinders is very negative. Art, after all, is about giving vision and making the obscure more understandable.

But as an artist and as creative people, there are times where Blinders are a necessary tool that we should employ within our journeys.

Real art is not about competition it is about the newness of authenticity. Authentic creativity speaks not only for the artist, but to the artist as well as the audience, and comes from a place within.

Blinders that cover our eyes from distractions, things that keep us from our vision, and looking ahead, staying on the path, are very beautiful and worthwhile.

When you start creating, developing your motion, the thing that you do not want to do is to think, “How can I be different from the person next to me?” When you start your creative process with that mindset being your base or foundation, (and many of us have) you keep yourself from tapping into your true creativity.

What you are essentially doing is looking ‘outwardly’ at what the person next to you is doing, and you are taking what they have created, and have made that your foundation or base. You are putting icing on an already iced cake.

Your individuality begins from within it doesn’t take root from without…”

Digression. Spring-boarding off of the work of others, using their vision as a tool or muse, is one thing. It’s a means of learning. This is not what I am talking about here. I am talking about creative competition and anxiety which is the knife that cuts the throat of many of fantastically creative people.

People who run their creative race with the eyes on the competition never reach their fullest potential. They begin the race with a goal in mind and never reach the finish line because their eyes stayed on the ‘horse’ in the other lane. Ultimately, they ended up crashing and burning, trying to be like the one next to them but never becoming the best expression of themselves.

Real art is not about competition it is about the newness of authenticity. Authentic creativity speaks not only for the artist, but to the artist as well as the audience, and comes from a place within.

When you look ‘inwardly,’ which is a revelation (even if someone else’s work has led you to do so) and you get a new creative revelation that is authentic that speaks from the core of who you are, then at that point you can really  begin to glean from the creative wisdom of others.

From there you can take aspects and concepts of what others have created and from there say, “How can I use this expression and make it my own?” while still holding on to your own individuality.

You create your own lane and forge a new path of inspiration.

Your individuality begins from within, it doesn’t take root from without…if that makes sense. It requires taking an introspective glance into the dark places deep within ourselves and learning our own true voice and song.

Many do not dare dive that deep for fear of what they will find.

We as creatives shouldn’t look around and think “How can I be different?” Instead ask yourself “How can I continue to be me, learn who I am as an artist,  and continue to climb each rung of this ladder of creative enlightenment. How can I rise higher by getting a hand up by other artists and creatives by gleaning the wisdom that they have already produced?”

I hope my words were understood and have given a bit of encouragement to help you soar even higher.

Thanks for reading! And keep it Creative!

~Dream. Imagine. Believe. Do. CONQUER!

The Right Time: Writing Prompt 1 Results

Writing Prompt: “3rds” Song: The Right Time, by Warren Barfield (Click the song title to read lyrics and hear the song.) Album:“Red Bird” 3rd line in 3rd verse of 3rd song: “We were barely getting by” Note: From my view, I have chosen to count the chorus as a verse. To view the original Prompt & Rules, click HERE.

The Right Time

“We were barely getting by. Carlos liked to believe that everything was just fine, but me, I knew better. Seven days straight drinking cold water and wearing underclothes that were so filthy they could stand up straight on their own was not fine.

“Life’s too short to be gripping all the time.” Carlos managed to throw that line at me every time I looked like I was going to wage a complaint. In all honesty, there wasn’t anything that Carlos could do that he wasn’t already doing to make things any better. We had a roof over our heads, really it was a tent he had managed to pinch from some local store a few months back. He hated stealing, but he hated being cold more than that.

More than just being dirty, finding our stomachs growling louder than any conversation we could seem to have, what seemed to bother me the most was his optimism. I suppose one of us had to be the optimist. One of us had a whole long life to live and the other…well the other of us was on precious borrowed time, time that should never be spent with complaints, no matter how much clay gets caught underneath your fingernails.

Apart from the stealing, we did other things that weren’t always on the shining side of the law. All of it was harmless. Just two kids out pocking a joke or two with no cares in the world besides seeking a good laugh and make believing we were a pair of lost boys on Neverland.

That was mostly true.

There wasn’t much to care about besides living in that moment. At least I let Carlos believe that I believed that. That is what friends are for, to laugh with, cry with, and run away with when it seems there is no hope.

Homes for the un-adoptables. What is it that makes a kid unwanted, unable to be placed? What does being unadoptable even mean? Did it mean that Carlos and I, and a slew of others, were broken, mistakes, unfit for love?

Carlos somehow managed to not think so. He said it meant we were born free. It meant we were created without confines and made to live in the dreams that others would never get to live.

I had always been the realist, not so much a pessimist, but a guy willing to look at the facts and call a spade a spade. We weren’t wanted because we were too old. Thirteen isn’t cute and cuddly. Carlos said if age had anything to do with it then what made us not cute when we were babies in the system?

I kept the hard truth to myself. One of us wasn’t wanted because of sickness and a quick expiration date on life. Parents didn’t want that. They wanted to be grandparents. That meant their kid had to grow up. If they wanted to watch the beginning and end of a life in less than twenty years they would get a puppy, not a thirteen-year-old old boy.

That is why we ran away. That is why I ran away and I am so glad that I did because if I hadn’t done so, ten years ago, I would have never gotten to see Carlos reach the height of his life. I would have never come out of my shell and anger. I would have never been able to tell his grandmother, seven months after he passed, what a great kid he was. I would have never been adopted by her and become the man I am today if it wasn’t for Carlos.

THE END.

I really enjoyed writing this and seeing how the story unfolded around that first line, “We were barely getting by.” I felt like I was taking a risk, hitting on a subject that is so sensitive to many, being an “unwanted” child, lost in the system. I hope I was able to bring the short tale full circle and create a tale that is uniquely its own apart from the song that lent its inspiration.  Thanks for reading, and I will be posting my BONUS round next week!

~Dream. Imagine. Believe. Do. CONQUER!

Miss Madelyn Haze: Flash Fiction #Monday’sMuse #AmWriting #Suspense

She scribbled down the memory so quickly that her fingers began to cramp. It didn’t matter that the thought stretched across days of her day planner. It was the closest thing she could find.

Her recollection of years passed had become congealed and foggy the day of her accident. Flashes of herself, her true self, would come and go like strokes of lightning–there one minute and gone the next.

But this memory, these moments were clear, concise, solid. She could even remember the words of the conversation, no, argument, she was having with … a man? The timber of his voice modulated in and out of focus, the pitch twisting as if someone was messing with the sound system of her mind.

Still, she wrote down the memory and the conversation, word for word, until the cramps in her fingers spread into her forearm.

June, July, August, all of the days nearly eaten away by this specific moment. Besides the date and year on the calendar she was remembering, April, 2014, most of what she jotted down was useless. She might as well have been writing down a recipe for chicken soup it was so mundane.

She would have cried for the time she’d spent in that moment of recollection, chocked it up as a simple exercise, another stone of hope to throw at the glass tower of amnesia, had it not been for the last thing the person she argued with said.

They had called her Madelyn, Miss. Madelyn Haze.

She let out a shout of triumph and even did the cliche fist pump in the air. Her fingers squeezing so tightly against her pen she nearly snapped it in two.

This was a victory, but it only caused a greater level of fear, one that overshadowed the doubts and worry of not knowing who she was.

The person in the memory had not only called her by a name that was different than the one she’d been convinced was her own, but they had also called her ‘Miss,’ which meant she was not married, which left no explanation for the man in the other room who’d sworn that he’d been her husband for the last seven years.

THE BEGINNING…MAYBE

*Oh, I love when a writing prompt goes down a road like this. For me, this is like a delightful bread crumb, a trail that could lead to a great full-length novel. Only time and the completion of other projects will tell. These are my results for Monday’s Muse Writing Prompt June 12th, 2017.

~Dream. Imagine. Believe. Do. CONQUER!

Monday’s Muse Writing Prompt: June 12th 2017 #Monday’sMuse #AmWriting #CreativeWriting

OPENING LINE (S): “She scribbled down the memory so quickly that her fingers began to cramp. It didn’t matter that the thought stretched across days of her day planner. It was the closest thing she could find.”

RULES: 

  • Using the above line and the picture provided, (Or a line of your own choosing) create a story (or even a poem) within up to 20 minutes.
  • Once you have finished your super awesome masterpiece, add a link in the comments section of THIS POST to your story for others to read, as well as a link on your page back to this original post for others to follow along and write with as well. In your “tags” section, add the tag “Monday’s Muse.”
  • To get the Above Image follow this LINK

If you do not have a blog of your own, leave me a comment and send me an email to icameforthesoup@gmail.com and I will post your lovely words here on my blog.

(PLEASE KEEP ENTRIES THAT NEED TO BE POSTED ON THIS SITE WITHIN A PG13 RANGE. THANK YOU)

My results will be posted by Friday.

~Dream. Imagine. Believe. Do. CONQUER!

Web of Flowers: Micro Fiction #Monday’sMuse #AmWriting #Drama

She rode her bike as far into the pasture as the tall plants would allow. Taking a breath, and putting up the kickstand, she let out a scream, praying that she’d gone far enough.

She’d gone far enough in other ways, said too much, allowed her heart to get entangled in webs that no spider would dare dance upon let alone spin. Now she was stuck, just as stuck as the tangle of wildflowers that clogged the spokes of her bicycle wheels.

Panting from the tension that stretched her chest, she knelt down and tore away plug after plug of busted flowers. The scent of their sap saturated her fingers promising to leave a faint reminder of where she’d been and what she’d done.

It would be no different than with the rest of her life; the scent of her actions, the evidence of her trying to pull herself free would always trace her existence.

THE END

*I know, you are probably wondering what is that she has done. The feelers of my mental muse are still seeking answers to that and may have actually found them. But on the other hand, I am not even sure the answer matters. These are my results for Monday’s Muse Writing Prompt June 5th, 2017. Follow the link to give it a try yourself!

~Dream. Imagine. Believe. Do. CONQUER!

Monday’s Muse Writing Prompt: May 29th 2017 #Monday’sMuse #AmWriting #CreativeWriting

OPENING LINE (S): “He kissed her. Her mouth tasted like licorice, the cherry kind. It was far more tolerable than the black. The kiss was beyond tolerable.”

RULES: 

  • Using the above line and the picture provided, (Or a line of your own choosing) create a story (or even a poem) within up to 20 minutes.
  • Once you have finished your super awesome masterpiece, add a link in the comments section of THIS POST to your story for others to read, as well as a link on your page back to this original post for others to follow along and write with as well. In your “tags” section, add the tag “Monday’s Muse.”
  • To get the Above Image follow this LINK

If you do not have a blog of your own, leave me a comment and send me an email to icameforthesoup@gmail.com and I will post your lovely words here on my blog.

(PLEASE KEEP ENTRIES THAT NEED TO BE POSTED ON THIS SITE WITHIN A PG13 RANGE. THANK YOU)

My results will be posted by Friday.

~Dream. Imagine. Believe. Do. CONQUER!

A Costly Crown: A Short Story #AmWriting #Monday’sMuse #Writing

He sat at the ready, bow string drawn tight, pressing against the weight of his fingers. He had them in his sights, all three of them, still he couldn’t bring himself to release the arrows.

They had fled, left the country, abandoned their kingdom in guises worse than poppers. They had transformed themselves into scavengers.

It was the worst of shame.

There was still the evidence of pride among them. The queen wore her antlers as high as she wore her crown, regal, majestic, invoking awe. It seemed she had not changed much even though she had shifted her form.

Merris watched them from his hiding place, his fingers growing numb, even as dread crept up the walls of his belly. He only had one mission, one task. Hunt the vile Queen, remove her from the land of the living and send her children with her.

But they were innocent. They had not done the wicked deeds their mother had done. They did not deserve her fate. Merris remembered her daughter’s pleas, the way the eldest especially begged her mother before the court of peers for mercy for a man and his family.

The Queen had struck the young woman, drawing blood that stained her honey skin. Her heart was not like her mother’s, nor was her sister’s. They were her prisoners in the palace even as they were now her prisoners in flight.

And how little the woman thought of them, even now, even though Merris knew they had been the ones to save her life. And how had she repaid them for their treason? She’d turned them into wild pigs. She hadn’t even given them the dignity to be her caves.

One of the boar heads turned his direction, stopping in her tracks. Her obsidian eyes landed upon him even in the lengthening darkness. Merris lowered his bow.

Because of his gift, he could see the sorrow in her gaze. Misery and hell lay ahead of her and her sister, its current form that of a reindeer. There was no telling what it would become once they found a hole to hide in. The Queen’s wrath would truly take on many forms and the retribution owed it would be paid in her daughter’s tears.

Without another thought his bow regained its position, his fingers loosed a single arrow. The reindeer Queen let out a shriek that was the sound of a woman before bucking into a short-lived run.

The boar did not move.

Merris work was done. His arrow had surely ruined her heart. He’d find the Queen’s body near the stream she’d ran toward. He’d take her crown from upon her then.

Loosening his purse, doing so loudly enough that he knew the sisters could hear, he hung it just in reach of their snouts. The charm their mother had put upon them would fade by dawn. They would be young women again. They would need money. What he was leaving them would hold them over for at least three months if they spent the purse shrewdly.

Three months would be enough for him to make things right in the kingdom, take his place upon his uncle’s throne.

Then, and only then, would he find the young women. Three months would bless him with the wisdom to know what to do with them once he did.

THE BEGINNING?

*I enjoyed writing this. I do hope you enjoyed reading it. These were my results for Monday’s Muse May 22nd, 2017. To see the original prompt, follow the link.

~Dream. Imagine. Believe. Do. CONQUER!