Expressions of a Writer

Life changes. Confidence falters, yet the strong remain. To endure, to grow, to exist. To be a better writer, I must not only practice my technical skills, but dabble in all sorts of ways of expression. Feel free to check out my blog, ask me  questions, explore my writings, learnings, and ramblings.


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Brilliant Star

Brilliant Star

Beautiful star how far have you fallen?

Far through and below the Heavens,

past an infinite number of worlds,

some older than the first drums of life.

What stories, dear star, would you tell if you had the capacity?


true love and heartbreak?

Death and rebirth,

an endless and eternal cycle of decay?

Hope, faith, disbelief,

gods, science, magic?

Still falling, little star,

past windows to see the unseen, unknown, or forgotten.

Tumble, sweet star, through,

ghost meadows existing to contain the seeds of agony and doubt,

grey sanded deserts filled with the shards of shattered hourglasses of time,

that carry you, brave star, onward,

onward and onward,

years, days, seconds, centuries, mere moments, eons,

into the abyss and beyond the known.

What, darling star, do you know of all the souls who look to you in awe?

They place their hope and fears in you,

declare you as witness to all they have done.

Silent, blessed star, you carry their sins,

beyond life, death, madness, torment, sacrifices,

mankind and divinity.

As fate demands, you will diminish,


it is only your memory, once brilliant star, that remains.


I swore to myself that I wouldn’t write another blog entry until I had caught up my notes in The Second Son, which I did, obviously, since you are reading this.

I wrote a blog entry a while back railing against the common writer advice ‘write what you know’, and since then I have gained some perspective about what it really means. I have also decided to embrace my wheelchair, in my head, anointing it as the coolest thing about me.

I mean, I have always tried to put on this front to the people around me, this fake confidence, that my disability didn’t bother me. I cringed when people would compliment my strength and lightheartedness when it came to my disability – I knew it was a lie.

I might have mentioned this before, but I feel like I am going through this spiritual odyssey, of sorts. My attitudes towards the world and myself are changing. The things I once valued are changing – it is no longer a compliment to be viewed as a teenager. Instead, I want to be 25. I want to own my maturity, I want to gain my independence, and forge a future. The things I used to find interesting seem less so. I also am fighting a growing hatred towards people who are drunk and what to be reckless. As a teen, it would have been the coolest thing in the world to party and hang out.

Now, I want to hang with people who share my interests. I want to talk to people who have more than ‘popcorn’ knowledge (this is what I am calling people who read a little one thing about something and those something make up a lot of somethings, but that person can’t hold an actual conversation about the same thing.)

I want to get away from the people who value drugs and alcohol over their own lives. The people who remain on welfare and food stamps because they won’t do for themselves, the people who lead this day to day life with no goals or ambitions for their futures.

I realize that I need an equal, a peer who can challenge me, motivate me.

All that bounces around in my head, and I write it. I read a little while ago that Stephen King wrote Misery to be the battle for his sobriety – Annie was the drugs he meant to quit.

That is what I feel like The Second Son is becoming. Despite what it is on the surface, it really represents my entrapment and isolation on the farm. I realized that I haven’t been anywhere but a store or doctor in three years (since my car broke down). I have a car, but it needs stuff to be done to it that I can’t do alone, or on my own, and no one has helped so it sits collecting pine needles.

The isolation has progressed to a point that I see everything in shades of grey. I don’t have a life, I am just an object.

The Second Son represents that in many ways – though some how they will escape and I doubt I ever will.

Also, I thought it would be easier, somehow, to write about someone in a wheelchair since I am in one, but it is almost harder. I had to write a scene where Luke (disabled) and Amy fight and I spent two days drawing a blank of the most hurtful things you could say to someone in a wheelchair. I still, more than halfway through, do not know why he is in a wheelchair. I am pretty sure it is linked to the witch or demon, so I am not supposed to know at this point.