Let Worm-God help with your writer’s block

Note: Don’t tell her you don’t believe. She hates it when creativity is stifled.

She started out as a mere, mealy book worm.

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She has read ALL of your work and she waits for more. She lives in her heaven beneath the earth surrounded by tunnels and tunnels of shelves filled with writings from authors, books of all genres from every year. When the others around her noticed this magnitude, they had declared her Worm-God.

At night, she listens. She hears the crumpling of paper, the slam of a laptop, the author’s piercing whine.

She ascends. She is careful. She waits until you nod off, then wiggles imperceptibly between your fingers and leaves a residue of inspiration. When she is finished, she returns below.

The next morning, you rise, pour a cup of coffee or tea, check emails. You pop your knuckles and begin.

Deep below, Worm-God makes room for your new book. As she waits, she smiles.

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By the way, she will also nudge you into sending off your manuscript.

animated image credit

Four Quills of a Tale- as scribed by Elias Kent (Entry 6)

(Four Quills of a Tale is a folktale about losing one’s creativity and the struggle to regain it)

Entry 1

Entry 2

Entry 3

Entry 4

Entry 5

Where was she, my precious girl who stood by my side village after village? Who filled me with such light!? Such color!? Now, my trustworthy companion, my leader, had left my side.

Hours, perhaps days later, I heard the distinct and distant sound of her honk. It lifted me from the cold ground and my feet followed where my ears lead.

A swirling fog of color engulfed me as if I were trapped inside a tube of colored glass. My arms flailed and, clearing the fog from my vision, I happened upon an old wooden bridge. I hesitated, but only for a brief moment. Goose’s honk continued calling me forward.

On the other side of the bridge, my body became heavy and light at the same time. My eyes were drawn to a beautifully welded lamppost reaching toward the stars and alive with a small, enticing flame.

At the post’s base stood a bald man of abbreviated stature. How curious he was! With one eye, he stared in his hand-held mirror’s reflection and seemed to look behind him with one eye, while staring forward at me with the other.

“Name?” he asked, rudely.

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Katarina by CDW

 

Four Quills of a Tale- as scribed by Elias Kent (Entry 5)

(Four Quills of a Tale is a folktale about losing one’s creativity and the struggle to regain it)

Entry 1

Entry 2

Entry 3

Entry 4

 

My hand cramps and I must stop. Not from fatigue, but sadness. How can a great storyteller lose her voice, her color, her light, her purpose in life? Because I, like the rest of you, are fools. Although we would like to believe otherwise, she is not immortal.

The goose-feathered quill quivers on my desk and pleads for me to continue. I pick it up and point the nib to the fine parchment and allow it to take control.

I had been walking both old and new countryside for so many years that, whenever I chanced upon a pond’s reflection, I scarcely recognized myself. The lines in my face became more abundant. My once beautiful auburn hair was laced with coarse gray. Even my thoughts became barren as if poured out of a once beautiful and ornate decanter.

            And, my sweet Goose. Her feathers were also withering as if in sorrowful response to my countenance. Or, perhaps, I withered in response to her feather’s atrophy. Who is to say? And which answer matters?

            Remorsefully, feeling I had little if nothing left to give, I finished a brief story then left the crowd of villagers awaiting more.

            I am unsure as to whether Goose followed me, or I her. But my heart says it was the later. We continued to wander and the further we traveled, the more my footsteps played a sorrowful tune. Needing rest, I discovered a large rock to serve as my pillow. I laid my weary body and soul on the crisp, dying grass and watched as Goose pecked around for silverweed and clover roots before she settled beside me.

            Hours, perhaps day later, I awakened to find the empty space beside me where Goose  had last been.

Four Quills of a Tale (as scribed by Elias Kent) – Entry 4

(Four Quills of a Tale is a folktale about losing one’s creativity and the struggle to regain it)

Entry 1

Entry 2

Entry 3

I stroke the feathered quills between my calloused fingers with care, unsure what to expect. Katrina the Great Storyteller has been my shining star atop the tallest pyramid and, if the old woman is correct, Katrina will soon be revealed. But what if my grandiose impression of her becomes one of  disillusionment? As a General orders the march forward, my duty calls. I inhale a breath of courage and place the first goose feather quill between my fingers. I insert the quill into the ink.

What is this? The quill refuses the ebony ink, repelling it like water on a duck. My hand trembles, but calms when the nib forces my press upon the parchment.

It is because of Goose, my muse, that this is, my final story, will be written and subsequently told. I trust that you, Mr. Kent, will not become tiresome or burdened with this charge, but instead, ultimately enlightened and fulfilled.

            I drop the quill. Yes, I am scribing. But these thoughts, these words, this handwriting, is not my own!

The quill rolls decisively toward my trembling hand. I have no recourse but to, again, place the first goose-feathered quill between my fingers.

I never abandoned you, my listening friends. Not with intention. I once was a soul of brilliant color. Sometimes, my hues of imagination were bountiful and my flowers bloomed from gardens sweet. I tilled the soil, deep in exploration of dreams, and stirred fertile ideas in the rich black earth.            

            Once discovered, I took the gems to flowing rivers, cleaned them, and analyzed them with curious and appreciate eyes. Oh, how I loved those times—when Goose and I traveled the countryside sharing tales of imagination with you! Even now, I smile remembering how Goose fluffed her tail feathers with bravado when amongst the listeners.

            And then the colors of my imagination began to fade. Weeds in my gardens multiplied like diseased cells. I yanked and pulled, discarding the bad, hoping the good would conquer. Sometimes, the scarce treasures bled around my hand and trembled with frustration like a blank canvas waiting for paint. Particles of uncertainty coursed through my veins. I tried to find the voice within my stories and the stories within my voice. But they had vanished, as if stolen by thieves in the darkest of night.

            What could I offer if not my stories?

to be continued ….

THIS MAY BE MY FAVORITE POST YET!

It was a major undertaking but worth it considering what I found as I marched back into the 1960’s! I couldn’t stand the clutter in my office, so I began. First, I had to clean out cabinets and drawers and throw away a bunch of trash. I also have old decorative trunks so, I cleaned them out. Oh, and …

…I just can’t understand why I never used the rain and wind visor (FEATURED IMAGE) handed down from my mother. Who wouldn’t want to look like a dork while smashing your hairspray-ed hair into fine pulp. It’s still unopened so, of course I couldn’t throw it away! What WERE you thinking?

Next, I found this.img_0314

Anybody who’s anybody knows this is the original SKIPPER, Barbie’s little sister!

Here’s a hint to see if you know what this is. A treasure, I assure you! Ponder before you scroll down.

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Any clue?

Maybe this helps:

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Right! The original Beatles’ wig!

Okay next. Do you remember this cartoon?

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Hanna-Barbera cartoon critters! I know one is Peter Potamus. Anyone who knows the name of the mouse, I’ll send a copy of one of my books.

Did I throw these things away? Hell, no!

Have I told you yet that I’m a pack rat? (or did you figure that out on your own?)

Three or so computers ago, I didn’t save to dropbox or that cloud thing. But I found the original hard copy of this:

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Reading through it, I found myself liking it all over again. It has flaws and needs reworking. It’s a folk tale about a young woman who, long ago, traveled from village to village sharing her magnificent stories. Then, when her Goose muse ran off, and her words and creativity dried up, she began her search. (Sound familiar, bloggers and writers?)

Thanks for sharing this moment with me!