Category: personal growth

Adjective Addict

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I love adjectives, too much.  Somebody stop me.  Seriously.  I have a problem with over description.  I describe the descriptors more than I describe the narration of the story.  It is a corn maze of details that easily lead the reader away from the main point, and into a labyrinth of imagery.

Is it getting in the way too much?  All this cluster fuck of descriptions?  Is my meaning getting lost in my choked up amount of modifiers, prepositions, determiners, qualifiers, parenthesis?  Too many attributive, predicative, and nominal examples of adjective use in my stories? Is it like that thrift store on half off day?  It is too much to handle?

I can’t help it, my adjective addition problem.  I love trivial details…. I love trivial details on people’s lives.  Tell me a story.  A story about nothing. Or that is about something.  It’s not mundane, by any means. It is the description. It is  what happened.  It is an entertaining list of adjectives and I want to hear it.

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The Writer’s Conundrum

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I am the worlds worst speller.  I joke that the only word I know how to spell is my first name.  (Although my first name is 8 letters long, it did take me a while to master it in elementary school.)  I would loose at the word loose in a spelling bee.  At first I said thank the Good God for spell check.  Now I say that the Good God for Google.

It is pathetic, my inability to spell.  Not only am I a full-fledged adult who learned cursive in grade school, I  did not have the use of computers throughout high school (everything was hand written, can you imagine!), I went on major in English in college.  I have a BA from a top ten university in a field of study in which I lack a key concept.

The extent to how much spelling affects my life is embarrassingly amazing. My personal conundrum is far beyond my power to control it.  I construct sentences around the spelling of words.  I am writer who cannot spell, I am a poet who must choose words wisely.

There is a good chance that I am dyslexic.  A very good chance that I am very dyslexic.  I read words starting with the end and then ending with the beginning. Then I have to remember to flip it in my head before I read that word. It gets exhausting.  When I write, I have to concentrate on every word to make sure that is comes out properly.  The only way I know how to spell anything is via memorization.  The order, the proper placement of algorithm of letters, are lined up in my memory stacks.

I am hoping that writing more will help me with spelling, and give my the confidence to not let the written word hold me back.  Most of the time it is the hesitation that holds me back.  Marigold is to help me cool my sensitivity and memorize more word blueprints.

Remember Me?

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Sometimes I get so distracted and excited and sidetracked that I get overwhelmed and confused and forget who I am.  Those little details the describe oneself, that you take for granted if you don’t work at keeping them trim and proper.  When you work too much it’s easy to forget what types of things you like to do in your spare time, what are the songs that consistently make you dance, that favorite scented shampoo, how and why to paint your toenails, how to find enjoyment in whatever it is you choose to do.  When you spend too much of your spare time chasing beer or boys, the battery in your camera dies, all your good drawing pens get lost, you don’t have a good book to read, and you have no idea what is going on in politics.

I joined a dating website and you have to sell yourself to strangers, make yourself seem cool, intelligent, good looking but not fucking hot, charming, nonchalant.  It’s about nit picking trivial details to try and describe the entirely of your strange and stretching personality in a few words to an invisible room full mostly of ugly men.  But hell, there might be a cute one out there looking for a weird, but kinda cute, extremely witty, sorta young lady.

Its making me feel introspective that I cannot round out in a few sentences what I am about.  I am not sure myself.  I mean I sorta forgot.  With chasing a career goal and filling in the free time with matters of the physical and the heart, I squeezed out that slice of pie that is devoted to self-experimentation.  When I hustle and bustle too much, the adornments are kept very simple; I travel light.  Anything can get reacquired, remembered, reconceived, but sometimes I forget where I left the notes.

Struggling with self-doubt and simultaneously anger at not trusting my abilities.  You have to remain humble, but why am I so god damn scared?  Confidence is the key, hesitation under bakes the cake.  I used to trust myself, but keep disappointing myself  because I set my standards to the moon high.  Where did that trust go?  Its should be around here somewhere.

I am working on becoming my self again.  Doing the things that I feel like doing, not letting the outside world sway me quite so much.  I am constantly inspired, but I need to remember to stay focused on matters that directly relate to the health and welfare of the personal empire.

butterfingers

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You cut yourself short. All the time. Snip snip. Doubtful. So full of everything negative.  Why lady do you give up so easily? Why do you assume that you are wrong, and where do you put all the anger? How do you place passion in space when the method is so unforgiving?   The ideas are like sparks and they come and they go, come and go with me.  I want to remember everything but in turn that makes me forget so much.  If I think too much about the details it makes me mess up and go slower.  But if I just keep dancing I might just keep up.  Giddy up everyone.  Its a fucking rodeo.