Don’t Forget to Walk the Blog

by ZacharyWGilbertFebruary 10, 2017February 10, 2017

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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.

Dear Writer… (Thought 2)

by ZacharyWGilbertFebruary 9, 2017

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!

Draft 1: Severely wounded, ideas are weak and dying!
Draft 2: Grammar Transplant, terminal wounds!
Draft 3: Character Blender, Blood Bath!
Draft 4: Beta Readers, are not impressed…
Draft 5: Draft is breathing on its own… more bandages.
Draft 6: Plot Surgery, the story crawls…
Draft 7: The real editing begins… Limb grafts…

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!

Spraying Words

by ZacharyWGilbertFebruary 8, 2017February 8, 2017

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.

I wounded my Pony, helping my girls

by ZacharyWGilbertFebruary 7, 2017February 8, 2017

Rocks rattled and clacked under a big black plastic square attached to a mobile basketball hoop that I was dragging. February in Colorado offers varied weather on a whim. Today, there was no need for coats, and the air was still. My oldest daughter joined her first basketball team this year. She and her third grade buddies seem to be enjoying it. They are 1-1. At the last game you would have thought it was a NBA playoff. 8-9 final score, it was one of the best games I have ever been to. Yeah, I am that dad. I have a voice loud as thunder, I am 6’4″ (194 cm) tall, and love my daughters with a vibrant energy. I love them so much, daily, it makes my heart tremble.

Since I do shift work, I get weekends and weekdays mixed up. I say things like, “This is my Saturday,” even though for the rest of the world it is Monday. I made the mistake of telling my middle daughter that we would hit the local gym to shoot some hoops on Monday night, because I thought it was Saturday. I drive into Denver on Monday’s for college. My middle daughter wants to play basketball too, and she was heart broken. She was about to cry and I saw her face crumple and her lips tremble.

I sat her down, and told her I was sorry, and that I would set up our hoop at home, in the garage so that they could shoot around even if its cold outside. When I drug the basketball stand from the back yard to the garage, it didn’t fit by a matter of inches (many cm’s). So I decided I would put it out at the end of the driveway. I had pulled my beautiful black pony (Mustang) out of the garage and I had it parked on the street. I drug the basketball goal out of the garage, and set it at the base of our sloped driveway, to survey some rocks I would have to move to anchor the goal. In that moment, the mountain air picked up, and the mast of the top heavy basketball goal, began to tremble.

Many years of my adult life has been spent working in industry. Safety is drilled into my brain. The statement of “If it falls, don’t try and catch it!” This applies to “T” heads on industrial printers, carts of glass sheets, motors on hoists, and super sacs on forklifts. The basketball goal began to fall right behind me. Like a mighty tree, whose roots has let loose their tight grip of the earth. I saw it out of the corner of my eye. It was headed right for my mustang. All I could do was, say, “No, no…” It hit my hood in a crash, and slid off the front of the car. My fists began to tremble.

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I went into the house, feeling angry and stupid. I knew, I just knew, if I made a big deal about this, I would sour my girls hearts about anything and everything basketball. I love my girls more, much more than my car. I went to find my wife, she helps a lot in these moments. When I found her, I said, “Guess what the basketball goal fell on?” She quickly responded, “Are you ok!?!” I said, “No, not me, it fell on my car.” More fear gripped her face, as if to imply, ‘if it hits my husband, he can take a hit. If it hit his car, there is going to be trouble’. She quickly said, “Oh no!” I said, “Don’t worry, I really want the girls to have fun ‘Hoopin’ it up’. Everything will be ok. Her warm smile began to tremble.

When my girls got home from school, they dropped their backpacks and ran outside to start shooting around in the street. New girls sized basketballs, one with pink stripes and the other with blue stripes. A new net, and an anchored basketball hoop. I looked at the scarred hood of my sports car. I felt like Mad Max, with a chewed up black V8 interceptor. I was the conquering daddy. The wasteland of disappointment and anger, was conquered. I watched my girls laughing and shooting baskets, my dark mood lost its hold of my heart. The trembling of the day, was gone.

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Lovingly, Lovingly, gently down the stream…

by ZacharyWGilbertFebruary 6, 2017

Love, shaped like a red heart pillow, lovingly rolls down the staircase of life,

It bounces and twists, gets dirty, tears on carpet tacks, and is stained by strife.

Love, encased in fragile shimmering silk, is a drying river, flowing in time.

The clock cryptically marches, eroding hearts warm red hue, into dull gray slime.

When love, is lovingly encased in a tender moment, and offered, wrapped in joy.

A girl, whose world is vast, and heavy with burdens, may, just may, love a boy.

Time, lovingly honored, steady clock hands, carve lovers initials, deep in the tree.

Relationships, lovingly loved, though stitches and faded patches, another year, may see.

Marriage, a fragile creature, that fewer and fewer, lovingly fight for, may die in history.

Love, a fish on dry sand, suffocates under a blanket of mist, trapped in realities mystery.

Forgiveness’s waters, sacrificed in cold splashes, and drinks up the dry sandy ground.

Lovers fight, against, what will be lost, and for, what will be kept. Love, lovingly found.

Zachary W Gilbert, Author

Encouragement Perhaps

Daily Prompt