My tan index finger, fat and clumby, fumbles alone…
…on my cell phone. The phone is hot, like when my kids play video games…
My wife, wants my attention, hot woman vs. cold blog, or is it that sip of ice water..
Our conversation is lukewarm… my fault, I look into her Sunday chocolate eyes, the blog can wait, I put down my phone on the cold beakfast table, and turn up the heat…
A woman, in the forrest, of loves journey.
Her bare feet, become calloused, in a needled fury.
He must become aware of her, a storm darkens the sky in a hurry.
She, knows the path, he wanders away, she, begins to worry.
She calls for him, he falls, like a fallen tree, his rotten roots drip, wet brown ground.
She cries, “Don’t you still love me?” His remains, lost in the forrest, love is unfound.
Love dies, two souls torn apart, a splinter’ed wooden cracking sound.
His tears, streak his muddy face, he calls for her, hoping, she is still around.
The place I call home is right next to the Rocky Mountains 1.6 km (1 mile) above sea level. A semi-arid desert, with thin air. Many people visit and find it difficult to breath. I was born way up here so it is my normal. I take my whole crew on dog walks at the local park. 3 young kids, my wife, and our little brown dog Charlie. The park is green in the summer, thanks to our ‘desert oasis’ sprinkler system buried in the ground. At night little plastic shafts rise from the ground, cough and hiss, and water for 30 minutes or so.
Many people go to the park and walk their dogs. Some people are social, with happy fun dogs. Others, seem to be walking a guard dog, and patrolling ‘the compound’. In either case, we enjoy the sun, the people, and the dogs.
Blogs are like dogs. Everyday, I take my ‘blog’ for a walk. I try and read 10 posts. Titles always sell my choices. Some, I only make it though the first sentence, or perhaps the first paragraph. The blog growls at me, or ignores my heart, and I move on to the next. I have a goal to like at least 5 and comment on at least 2. Someday’s I go over 10 reads, most days, I drop 10 likes on all 10 visits! I feel inspired, touched, and moved. I have walked in a lush garden of your writing. An ocean of ideas sloshes, and caresses wet sandy shores. I love that moment, when I pause in the virtual park, walking my blog, and meet someone who has a beautiful story to share, their story of being human. I think blogging 90% reading and listening. In the end, my posts become better from interacting with the community.
There are times, when I need to delicately pick up my post with a little green bag, but its alright, because I came to the ‘blog’ park to meet you.
Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert
Dear Writer,
A story may fall from a leaky mind, turn to ink, then trickle and tickle its way to dry paper. Consider for a moment, dear writer, that the pipeline from imagination, to final draft is clogged. Debris, trash, and sloppy slush impedes ideas from taking shape into sacred words. Writing emerges flawed, and saturated with muck. The triage of story is full. But, you are writing! You are in the fight! Don’t give up!
Soon, writing is strong enough to conquer the hearts of the readers. Eventually the battle to tell your tale, is won!
Critisism, dear writer, may be your friend. There are 318.9 million people in the United States alone. Billions in the world. If your writing, becomes an etched monument in the town square, shouldn’t it be as good as it can be? If it has 1 million readers, that enjoyed the experience, isn’t all the criticism worth it? If the seventh book written is the one that makes it, then the heavily criticized and wreckage of the first six, becomes, worth it? Yes!
Dear writer, there good criticism. Beta readers that are story inspectors. They point at flaws, and reveal concerns. You, dear writer, are the Engineer, Architect, and Mechanic of your tale. Will you allow criticism to be your flashlight to see the necessary repairs needed?
Remember, dear writer, there is dark criticism. Avoid it. If you believe your topic, then write about it. If someone attacks your topic, then ignore it. Pay attention to those who would criticize the format and nature of the delivery truck, not the product it carries. Remember, there are those who attack writers, simply just to attack. You are in motion, you are in the fight. You are writing, dear writer. There will always be more people in the crowd shouting insults, then will be warriors in the arena willing to swing the sword (or pens and keyboards in your case). Insults of topic and beliefs are not criticism.
When the reader is given a experience and a journey, though a clean and unclogged pipe of finished writing, you dear writer, with good criticism, have won!
Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert
You begin to speak, your words, like water, leap out of a fire hose.
I try to listen, your words, like water, a flowing attack, up my nose.
My hair is ruined, your words, like water, continue to sting.
I am silent, your words, like water, my heart is slowly drowning.
One who is only hungry for ears,
because they have none of their own,
is one day likely, not to be heard,
because eventually, they are alone.
Copyright © 2017 Zachary W Gilbert
Zachary W Gilbert, Author 