To be a good writer, you have to know how to pretend. You have to be willing to talk to yourself, to act out a scene, to think abstractly, and to experience things that cannot be experienced. You have to be an expert in the world that you create. You have to be its God.
For the most part, life isn't very concrete, if you think about it. Certainty is, itself, a fantasy. It is the illusion of certainty that keeps us comfortable, but every so often something comes along and jars that comfortability. I think good writing taps into this uncertain aspect of life. That meager "What if?" that persists is played upon in the act of reading, and a good writer can make it feel real. Indeed, sometimes, the more abstract something is, the more concrete it feels. We can impart onto it any meaning we want and make it a part of ourselves. The more ludicrous the premises, the more attractive the conclusion.
A good story gives us the gift of flight. It gives us the ability to fly to someplace beyond our everyday existence. It is a vacation taken between two flyleaves; page trekking, if you will. And the writer is your tour guide. No one should be punished for daydreaming a little - That's how writers workout! The mind is a xanadu, if you furnish it well. We need fantasy to set goals. Our ideas of the future are constructions of something that doesn't yet exist. And I strongly believe that to reach for the stars, you have to put your head in the clouds.
Concrete Balloon
When you fall into my eyes
I feel like I can fly,
As if awakening a sleeping dream
Inside a concrete balloon.
Beestings hold my soul together,
But I've been pruned.
You plucked my final feather
And how my wings will carry me now,
I can only assume.
My shoes are coming loose,
While these fragile wings flicker,
To be harvested from my back
And chewed.
I curl my limbs in
To stretch the skin over my eyes.
As gravity absconds me
And leaves the ambiance to hang like a noose,
I drag my concrete balloon.
Drowsy eyes you tumble through,
Shattering and smattering
My mind with you.
Shards of glass protrude
Through perfect skin,
Through blood and bruise.
Outstretch your hands to catch
The ground and drown in the swoon.
Let the sky dilute
All of you.
You and I
We fly like concrete balloons.
Cloud Cover
There is an endless sea
That lies beyond the sky
Where every little mistake
And hurting
Are cast aside
Where the wooden hulls of happiness
Never crack
Where the heart-shaped waves
Never break
Where the shores of pain and longing
Are never met
And where the highflying sun
On the wings of love
Never sets
For the most part, life isn't very concrete, if you think about it. Certainty is, itself, a fantasy. It is the illusion of certainty that keeps us comfortable, but every so often something comes along and jars that comfortability. I think good writing taps into this uncertain aspect of life. That meager "What if?" that persists is played upon in the act of reading, and a good writer can make it feel real. Indeed, sometimes, the more abstract something is, the more concrete it feels. We can impart onto it any meaning we want and make it a part of ourselves. The more ludicrous the premises, the more attractive the conclusion.
Concrete Balloon
When you fall into my eyes
I feel like I can fly,
As if awakening a sleeping dream
Inside a concrete balloon.
Beestings hold my soul together,
But I've been pruned.
You plucked my final feather
And how my wings will carry me now,
I can only assume.
My shoes are coming loose,
While these fragile wings flicker,
To be harvested from my back
And chewed.
I curl my limbs in
To stretch the skin over my eyes.
As gravity absconds me
And leaves the ambiance to hang like a noose,
I drag my concrete balloon.
Drowsy eyes you tumble through,
Shattering and smattering
My mind with you.
Shards of glass protrude
Through perfect skin,
Through blood and bruise.
Outstretch your hands to catch
The ground and drown in the swoon.
Let the sky dilute
All of you.
You and I
We fly like concrete balloons.
Cloud Cover
There is an endless sea
That lies beyond the sky
Where every little mistake
And hurting
Are cast aside
Where the wooden hulls of happiness
Never crack
Where the heart-shaped waves
Never break
Where the shores of pain and longing
Are never met
And where the highflying sun
On the wings of love
Never sets
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