An Eighth Shot of Espresso: Coffee and Creativity on Mum's Third Shift

Many times  blistered by harsh  criticism  the words raise  invisible welts  of shame  on my skin  and in my mind even all these years later a soul parched in the heat of indignation  and the scars  remain

cup of coffee  gone cold  forgotten  in the bustle  of life  and then  when it is  drunk  it sits bitter  in your mouth pastry half-eaten sits on a tiny plate crumbs  on the desk where the screen glows brightly and words refuse to flow.

whimsical humor  suppressed for years  I was too frivolous too loud and too obnoxious way too much for such a quiet and retiring personality there was too much to do bills to pay children to raise jobs to perform I learned not to laugh so loud or stand out in a crowd because that made him uncomfortable but now that more  than five decades have passed I've decided that  I am too old  to not enjoy life  and become  the person I was  meant to be

Sometimes I wonder: does anyone read what I put on the page? do my words ever make a difference? Am I wasting my time as I tap on my keyboard my fingers cramp up every hour, every day? I have a voice  that must be heard my characters have stories but what if the audience is Just me? Will I be one of those  whose words make an impact only after I am dead? At that point, I wouldn't give a damn. Should I scream louder Defy the algorithm Be bold and obnoxious Scatter my energy? Or should I just write let my ideas tell the tale And my truth ring true even if no one cares? My writer's heart wonders.  

Tell the editor to be quiet hold that red pen until the last word is written and the last thought is completed They won't have a job unless the letters are on the page And they can't complain if they're the ones in the way of progress.

 My stories take me away from here transport me to a place unbound by the chains of practicality If my horses fly and my wizards powerful I write it and it becomes true. A position of strength where I make the rules and I speak my truth dressed in fantastic clothes. They cannot muffle the voice that sings about adventure passion romance justice a world that makes sense where chaos and evil exist but my characters fight the good fight and even if they do not  claim complete victory at least their journey is worth the undertaking.

I am tired of screaming into the void. Words branded red hot as I write them then burn to ashes. The only one who reads them is me. Write for yourself they say  that's all that matters. But when crickets chirp when I tell others the silence is loud. Perhaps my voice your worlds, your characters really don't exist. And so for a while all my pen will write is windswept ash. 

Sometimes words dry up and get stuck in my throat I cannot speak or describe the images I see within my mind cannot form the sounds I am not heard though I wave my arms in desperation no one sees me at all. It would be so easy to put down my pen stare at the ink in complete blankness. Who cares if no one sees Just do it for yourself But words by themselves just echo in my mind. I can write them down and shut them up in a drawer or I can bare my soul to an unseeing, uncaring world. Perhaps it is better for them to read them long after the fact but at that point... will I be around to care? 

Strive for inner peace those slices of time minutes while the laundry and the dishes scream for attention. The seconds between crises squabbling children relationship trouble mum just calls to make sure you're breathing and little else. Step out the back door feel the sun on your face the wind in your hair the neighborhood is quiet no sounds of lawn mowers Those deep breaths the snatches of sanity to cleanse the palate and steady the mind for the chaos that lies ahead.

The stones at the bottom of the well feel brittle and dry the water long gone the soil is so parched. Wind carries haunting voices of those who come before murmur of their fate dark and long forgotten Light does not exist here the weight of stale air frozen by unyielding time smothers any change. Cracks in the mortar between handholds crumble at the touch a long climb back to the light and the view of all in the day. But the sun still rises and sets the world goes from spring to winter Eyes have wandered to greener pastures and voices ask, "Do I know you?"

when life throws an unexpected loop what do you do? rail against the injustice so loud that everyone hears and maybe it will be fixed? That's fine, but... what if it takes a long time or it never gets solved at all? have a plan B get stuck in traffic know more than one way to get there. change gears make the most of what you have maybe it's a blessing in disguise do those changes that you've been thinking about no time but the present it does not mean put up and shut up make your feelings heard but it does mean be resourceful you might surprise yourself

A fall can really hurt and you lie stunned for what seems a few moments that can last for eternity. It's amazing how long it seems. The seconds tick away that turns into minutes then into hours and into days It's amazing how much you lose. By the time you finally come back to yourself the sounds of the crowd has long faded into silence. It's amazing how loud the silence gets. It's too late to call it back. You are too far behind can never catch up even if you try. It's amazing how you can be forgotten. The only thing to do is to dust yourself off and start again with your words. It's amazing how different times change.

A star brightens and flares out its brilliance just for a second and then it fades into nothing. The embers remain yet they cannot be extinguished forever. Glows in the shadows a comfortable warmth that still lives in the soul. Stir the coals rearrange the priorities put pieces in better places. A flare of an idea it catches again not a roaring flame. Damp green wood clouds open and dump rain so many setbacks. Restart with flint and steel strip out the wet and useless the fire stutters until it catches. A new star is born not as brilliant or as high but give it time.

Words that flow hit rocks in the rapids and are lost in the swirl of mental chaos. I try to capture them but they slip through the cracks of my mind and I no longer recall. Where do they go when they are in the ether and will they return when I least expect them? Inspirations comes and goes like eddies in the current and are shaped by  a certain time and place. What is fanciful then can become a unmistakable truth and what is important now can become irrelevant later. Be patient and wait if it is lost, it will come back and if it is unheard one day it will be shouted over the river's roar. 

A new normal it feels surreal when I take up the pen or my fingers hover over the keyboard it feels different not awful, but the air around me holds its breath almost in anticipation or in judgment and I hesitate for a brief moment then proceed to put down my thoughts it feels different in a way that I cannot describe. The words just sit there perhaps it they just need time to mature and marinate before it goes into full bloom.

 I love to write no ifs, ands, or buts. Not for clout or for attention I wrote words long before  there was such thing as an algorithm. Those crafted tales in my head long before I had a pen to record them. My characters are their own  with thoughts and dreams hardships and tragedies they need a muse. Call me a medium between ideas and reality I give a voice to the silent and form to the ethereal.

Words don't come effortlessly though it may seem like it. There are days when they beckon and days when they stay away. Sometimes ink runs like blood sometimes it is frozen like stone I have to chip away at it and write with the pieces. If I wait until the mood strikes it might not come at all so I have to pound on the door and wake it from slumber. My muse is a cranky fairy that must be bribed with coffee and sweets but once she is settled I can finally get to work.

I write because while my body is in chains my mind is not. In a world of little hope the candle still burns bright of wonder and adventure to new times and places. The universe is the limit painting pictures bright and colorful or dark and insidious roads into the psyche of mankind A sane pen in an insane world or is the ink a sign of the times? I suppose we shall see which one it shall be.

Should I be silent? The urge to write is too strong it is a part of me has been, will be My pen will not stop my words will not falter They might control the means but they cannot chain the thoughts in my head the love in my heart the song in my soul.

Wait for an opportunity the right chance You have to be patient you have to work hard But opportunity does not appear at the most convenient time or the most convenient place It often shows while the rest of life happens and perhaps in the middle of your other plans. So when I come to you to tell you the news: "This isn't the right time for the rest of us."