creative writing
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I woke with a hymnhalf-formed on my tongue—Stricken, smitten, and afflicted—the kind of song that burrowsinto the folds of a child’s memory,etched deeper by dim lights and heavy ritualsin a Lutheran church that never smiled on Good Friday. We sang it every year,never once on any other day.And though it sounded like mourning,we were expected
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“Winners quit fast, quit often, and quit without guilt”― Seth Godin, The Dip Knowing when to quit. I’ll never forget stumbling across Seth Godin’s book, The Dip, and hitting a line that stopped me cold: “Some of the most successful people are the best quitters.” My brain did a double-take. Growing up with immigrant parents who
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“We are not the same persons this year as last; nor are those we love. It is a happy chance if we, changing, continue to love a changed person.”— W. Somerset Maugham Your silence cuts like glass,a delayed reply, a shrug that stings.I wrote you truth, raw and jagged,to mend the cracks where our story
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Billie Holiday cries softly, somewhere between here and the past—her melody warms the corners of the roomlike the heater humming in time with my breath.A cappuccino cozies the center of me,and I write—to life,to you,across this ethereal threadspun of digits and light. I weave thoughts and feelingslike a tapestry—yarns pulled from memory and moment:scratchy and
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Music prompt mind, Six months in a leaky boat. Cruising down the freeway—feeling that fleeting “free” way vibe—I had Split Enz’s “Six Months in a Leaky Boat” blasting through my speakers. The wind was whipping, the lyrics were hitting, but as usual, my brain played its favorite game: swapping out half-heard words for whatever nonsense
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gulped gravel gargled spit out sand, fists pound folly idol weight in hand ***word playing Haiku, simplicity to complex, breaking made up rules
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on YouTube—“Hosanna in the highest!”echoes through streaming speakersas a path is paved for a manlater to die. the crowd cheers—a sporting event,the prizefight of the ages.they wave palmslike foam fingers. it’s finishedbefore it begins.a Dawn King, promoted.a cross—at least not upside down.that would hurt more, I think. I pause.get a cup of joe.press play,skip the
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*a response to a reader on one of my posts asking how much of my story line was taken from past experiences and how much was made up… All writing is autobiography, just as every dream is memory in disguise. That girl in yellow? She exists between the pages of my life like a pressed
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The desert doesn’t care about your plans. This was the first lesson Jack Write learned when he traded his graduate thesis on Kierkegaard’s concept of despair for a tool belt and a 1998 Ford F-150 with questionable AC. The second lesson: heat warps everything—glass, metal, morals. Palm Springs at 3:17 PM was a study in
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1. WritingThe act of pressing words onto a page is akin to listening to one’s own pulse. It is confession without penance, conversation without interruption. Sometimes the words echo back, sometimes they dissolve into silence—but the page never judges, only receives. A therapist who never bills by the hour. 2. ReadingBooks are the only form
BB Grey--musings 