"But What Will They Think?"

I’m a purple-haired rebel. In my mind, that is. The person inside me has plenty of visible tats, a couple of piercings, and an in-your-face attitude. With a name that has both an X and a Z. Oh yeah, the Tori D. no one sees is a real badass. But the “me” that folks actually interact with is quite the opposite, at least to their knowledge. People really only see the quiet, agreeable side. I think it’s easier for others to accept the reserved, so that’s what I give them. However, this poses a problem when it comes to expressing myself creatively.

Supposedly, I've been working on a book of poetry for several years now. I say supposedly because even though I have been writing and have plenty of pieces to choose from, I haven't done much toward getting the book started. The same is true for several of my short stories and ideas for novels. The premise is there, in all its raw, original glory. But not much has been put towards it. Do I want this? Of course I do. So what is the problem?

Well, the issue is how much of myself I expose in my work. What I write is drawn mostly from my own experiences, interests and imagination. Sharing that is a very naked experience. And while I don’t have a problem with that when it comes to strangers (aside from the usual anticipation of critiques) it is not something that I’m sure I want to let those who “know” me in on. My relatives, church members, classmates, coworkers, sorors… The question pops up in my head with every dark detail that I write: “But what will they think?”

It’s the reason I haven’t told many of those that actually know me about my blog. Or my past. Or some of my more prurient proclivities. The dread of being rejected or rebuked for simply being who I am has been a barrier for me. As comfortable as I have become (or at least say I have) with who I am I don’t know if I am ready to handle that kind of judgment. My circle is already very small as it is. Can I deal with people walking away because I’m not who or what they think I am? And perhaps they wouldn’t walk away at all; however, I’ve heard their condemning words for folks they didn’t know who were more like me in ways they would never imagine. So what else should I expect?

Eventually I either have to say, “This is who I am. Love me or leave me alone,” or I have to stifle my own creativity to keep up the façade. I don’t see the latter happening. The real Tori D. needs a release somewhere! And I think the time for that is approaching faster than I thought.

Originally posted on skirt.com

"The Waiting Game"

It's been a long time since I posted some poetry, huh? Well this poem is still very rough, very new... But I felt the need to get it out there since it's relevant now. By the time it appears in a book (it is coming... one day....) it'll be polished.

my least favorite game is the waiting game,
mainly because i'm impatient
so i always lose.
but also because i don't know the rules...
how long do i wait?
what to do til then?
and if i wait too long do i lose or do i win?
i think of a hundred things
that could have been done better,
that could have been said sweeter
or not at all.
while sitting there, waiting for that call
i'm a nervous wreck
so sure that he's already moved on to the next
and i've only played myself.
during the waiting game it feels like he has
the upper hand
since i leave it to the man to make the move.
but what if i do?
if i make a move instead
i lose the waiting game
but may get closer to my prize...
still, i stay paralyzed
mostly out of fear
and somewhat out of pride.
i check the phone again
but i refuse to dial;
i'm playing the waiting game,
and i'll win,
or lose,
after a while.

NaNoWriMo 2011 is Almost Here!

For the uninitiated, NaNoWriMois short for National Novel Writing Month. It has been held every November since 1999 and hosted by the Office of Letters and Lights. The goal? Writing one 50,000-word novel from scratch in a month’s time. It sounds a bit daunting, but doable. Last year, 30,000 of the 200,000 participants completed the task. This year, I plan to be one of them!

I have had several ideas for novels come and go, but one in particular has stuck with me. It's been tempting to simply write it as a short story, since that is what I am most comfortable with. However, I don't feel that I can do it justice as a short story, so here I am, ready to dive into NaNoWriMo to get this thing started! Now my thing is figuring out how to go about writing this. With short stories, I have a general idea in mind and write (and re-write) as I feel the need. It's really just a freestyle thing for me. I cannot do that with this novel. The problem is figuring out just how to plan for this. I don't want to go into this completely unprepared (after all, I want to use those 50,00 words!) so I'm looking into novel outlines and such. Writer's Digest had an article a few days ago about preparing for NaNoWriMo, in which they suggested asking yourself the following questions:

What’s going to happen in the story?
What does the character want?
What will the turning points be?

If you can nail these down, you will set yourself up in a much better position to write something meaningful and (potentially) publishable.

Sounds easy enough... But is it easier said than done? We will see in a few days!

NaNoWriMo starts November 1, so you still have 4 days to register if you want to step up to the challenge. And if you do, connect with me on Twitter! I want to start a list of NaNoWriMo writers so we can touch base, help each other out and keep one another focused and encouraged.

My Biggest Fears as a Writer

I think no matter what you do, or how good you are at it, there is always a level of fear associated with it. Hopefully not enough to completely paralyze you, but enough to prevent you from just doing any old thing with the hopes that people accept it. When it comes to writing, I have a few fears. 3. Loss of inspiration/being a "one-hit wonder"
I don't want to have one great stand out among a shelf full of flops. Nor do I want to have only one solitary contribution to the literary world. Instead, I hope that once I make that first offering, readers will be eager for more. But we all know that's not always the case.  Of course, being a one-hit wonder is better than never having a hit at all. And in the words of OneChele, "Maybe some people have just one blast of perfection in them." I just hope I'm not one of those people.

2. Not having an interesting story to tell
This is somewhat tied to the last fear. Yanno those people who can go on and on with a story, oblivious to the fact that you just don't care? Or those folks who, no matter how you try to follow them, lose you to random thoughts and passing puppies? (Oh, am I the only one that easily distracted?) Yeah, I can't stand that. So of course I don't want to be guilty of being a bore! After reading books that I struggled to get through--and some that I unfortunately could not--the idea that my stories may not hold people and have them on the edge of their seat is a frightening one. Understandably, everyone won't be into the tales I tell. After all, people's literary tastes are different. Yet, for me, success means being able to pull people into the story, even if it is one to which they would not normally be drawn.

1. Being pigeon-holed into a particular genre
This may not be a bad thing necessarily, but I'm not comfortable with the idea. I'm currently working on an action/thriller novel, but then want to venture into romance (not likely), fantasy or sci-fi? I have a wide range of interests and I'd like my writing to reflect that. I don't want to be seen as just an author of a particular genre; I want to be recognized as a truly talented writer across all lines.

So those are my biggest fears about being a writer. The job now is to overcome them and use them as fuel to be great. For my fellow writers, what fears do you face? Have you been able to overcome them, or do you still deal with them? What advice would you give a novice like me in regards to the concerns I've expressed?

"PSA"

[embed]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zCIjP3RMnMk&feature=player_embedded[/embed]

(I assume PSA is the title of the poem; I haven't been able to find it)
This young man brought tears to my eyes! I love seeing young black kids find their voice and use it for something worthwhile. He is going places.

Afternoon Quickie: So about the open mic...

I said I would share some of my poetry this Sunday at the open mic. I was excited when I made my declaration, sure that whatever piece I picked would be a crowd pleaser and create a little buzz about me. But as the days went on, that confidence slipped... Actually, it nose-dived. Now here I am, a few days until Sunday, without having chosen a poem because of the "what ifs" that pop up each time I read one. Not sure if I'm still going to go through with it or not...

Usually I am my own biggest critic, as most people are. Everything I do needs to blow people away, make them want more, be perfect. (That's one reason why I don't post as often as I'd like.) But the pursuit of perfection often leads to procrastination and eventually complete inactivity. I can't let that happen, so I have to suck it up and just do it, right?*sigh* Okay, well let's see what happens...


 

On Inspiration

I find that inspiration comes at the most inopportune time. In the middle of the sermon at church. While showering. When I'm supposed to be taking notes during staff meetings. During that limbo between being awake and being asleep. It's crazy... but not really. After all, that's usually when my mind isn't racing with 1001 things I should be doing, wish I was doing, wish I wasn't doing, refuse to do, etc. Instead I'm just kinda there, and the thoughts start flowing freely.

The other time when inspiration comes on strong is when I'm down. Let my relationship be on the rocks, or my job working my nerves. Suddenly my muse goes into overdrive. I assume it's because, in the back of my mind, I know that creating makes me feel better. Even when all I'm creating is an outlet for the messed up emotions that I'm experiencing.

Since my inspiration works on its own terms, I've learned to keep a notepad (or my phone) with me at all times, and to never be so busy that I can't stop to scribble my thoughts. My memory isn't the greatest, and those little burst of creativity are the most fleeting thoughts of all. I have to grab them when I can, and hopefully, when I get to sit down and make something of them I can make something that everyone will enjoy.

"All In" (a partial poem)

Since I haven't shared any poetry in a minute, I figured I'd give y'all a little bit of what I've been working on.

part of a poem inspired months ago by a conversation with HWHadNT

I wanna be all in.
I want to love you like my first love
When I wasn't afraid of being hurt
And I gave my all.
Now memories of the past
Have me holding back
But baby believe me when I say
I wanna be all in.
I want that completely exhilarated emotion again
Without fear
Without doubt
I admit, I've been holding out
But trust, I want to change that.
I want that giddy love again,
The so-happy-it's-silly love
The I'm good long as you're with me love.
I wanna be all in...

New poem... "Addict," I guess

love addict
always looking for the next high
searching for the best connect
need another hit to get by
got a new supplier every time i turn around
thought i was a loyal customer
but no one seems to stay down
or maybe one just ain't enough for me
maybe one just can't fulfill my needs
i need powder stimulation
sensuality in a pill
liquid comfort
and "we can chill" weed
but fuck it
i'm tryin to quit
cuz coming down?
coming down is a bitch.

In my head this is finished. In my heart... I got more ish I wanna say but maybe this isn't the one to say it through... I dunno...

"The Song I Sing"

I found out that someone I was once really close with has passed. He was really good people. We were never actually in a relationship, but I could count on him if I needed anything. He was the inspiration for one of my more, ummm, colorful poems. Laughed when I finally let him read it, said I wasn't really writing about him but he'd do all he could to make it apply. He was really good people. We drifted apart, hadn't talked in months. I kinda hate that now. Our last convo was one of those "let me hit you right back" things. I never did. I meant to... just never did. Always said I would, but since we weren't "like that" anymore I kinda let our friendship fall away.

I'm kinda rambling so I guess I should stop. Anyway, here is the poem he inspired. RIP friend.

There's so much i want to tell him

That i can never seem to put into words.

No matter how i scribble or sing or say them

But this is the song i sing for him

Lyricless love, a wordless hymn

Whenever he makes my body obey him

This is the song i sing for him

The song he never hears, will never recognize

Because he only hears it as uncontrolled moans and muffled cries

His pulse, his beat

Enough inspiration for me

To sing him the sweetest melody ever.

His highs and his lows are like a spiritual journey

I wanna thank God for blessing him so

Thank the ancestors for the infinite rhythm in his soul

Hell, i wanna thank his momma for having him

And his daddy for that stroke.

This is the song that i sing for him

In my head when he's whispering things in my ear

When he can't see my lips moving, saying nothing

But he feels me, he knows i'm calling his name

This is the song i sing

When he makes me have visions

In colors that i never even knew existed

This is the song i sing

When he's on top of me

Behind me

Inside me

This is the song i sing for him

When he leaves me breathless

Defenseless

Wide-eyed and senseless

When i'm speechless and can't say anything but

"Oh...

my...

God...."

"Superwoman"

It's a lil rough, I'll admit, but I think I kinda like it's roughness. That's how I feel right now. A but rough around the edges.

Today
Just for today
I’ll be superwoman
I’ll carry the load on my shoulders
Bear the weight of the world
Along with my burdens I’ll take on yours
As you so often ask me to do
I struggle under my own pressures and work
But don’t worry
Since you need me I’ll handle yours too
Without thanks or consideration
Or offer of reciprocity
When it comes to my own burdens
The load squarely falls on me
But that’s okay, right?
I mean, it’s only for today, right?
But I wake up every morning having to repeat this motto
I go as far as I can go
And then I have to go some more
And all the time I’m going
Dayum if I know what I’m going for
I push
And push
Until finally I stall
Stagger under the weight of it all
And who is there to save me?
I look around , I see no one
Of course!
Why should I need saving?
I am the Strong Black Woman of mythological fame
Epic proportions
The lens that I’m viewed through is full of distortions
I’m weak if I seek assistance
Spoiled if I need attention
Self-centered if I want my works appreciated or mentioned
And then if I can’t take it
It’s just “that bitch is crazy”
And maybe I am a little off balance
But I’m only what you made me
By carrying your weights and my weights
Without assistance,
Daily
But that realization pains me
So I pull it together so that no one else sees
I suffer in silence
Cry when it’s just me
I have no super powers
Just the strength of a girl trying to carry her world in her hands
But today
Just for today
I’ll be superwoman.

poem with no title

i'm in love with the past
a figment of a man that couldn't last
despite my desire.
he said he'd always be there
but he wasn't.
he changed.
his personality morphed
while i counted on him staying the same.
he was still growing up,
and the man that he grew into,
well i didn't know him.
and the man that he was
i still can't let go of him.
my present no longer fits
the plans we made for the future... 

i started on this poem a few weeks ago & got stuck here. it seems like it's not complete, but i guess it is. since i never could figure out how to express the rest of what i was feeling, i guess the poem was meant to end here.

"I'm Twisted"

a poem i wrote several weeks back. i wasn't sure about posting it then, but i'm in a sharing mood... LOL really i wouldn't mind getting feedback; i'm about to start focusing on my writing (poetry/music/short stories) again. here's one of my latest finished pieces.

I'm twisted.
Your love is wonderful and delicious
And I miss it,
But I need something different.
I need something instant;
Right now love
Or a right now fuck,
I need something now!
But you're not around...
You're a thousand miles away
And I'm alone in this little town
And I feel bad for wanting it,
Even thinking it.
I feel like I shouldn't be needing it like I do.
I really want you
But someone is here.
Someone is close.
Someone wants to stand as your substitute.
Now I know he's no you
But something deep inside is saying "Maybe he'll do..."
Damn, I feel bad again.
No, I don't want no other man,
I just want something instant.
'Cause I miss it.
I know, I know...
I'm twisted.

-Sept. 16, 2009

a non-poem poem

i gotta love me first
i gotta love me most
i'm the only one so i gotta do it well
depending on someone else is asking for hell
sounds sad, but i'm not
i gotta love me cuz i'm all i got

crumbling

I usually don't post my poetry on here... Most of that is intensely personal. This piece is no different, but I felt like it needed to be shared. Wrote this a couple days ago when I was deep in my funk.


i wonder if other people feel themselves
going crazy

guess everything crumbles over time
just like the great ancient structures succumb
so, apparently, has my mind

that's what happens when shit crumbles
a fragment here,
fragment there
you may glue them back
but there are still cracks
still holes
still tiny bits of me that will never be complete

sanity isnt finite

i laugh to keep from crying
but i end up doing both
and looking crazier than i really am

damn.

i am a jagged edge of emotion
ready to jab, cut, kill
someone
anyone
me

i'm something like crazy
crazy bitch
and perhaps i deserve it
i've done some trifling shit

guilt is a heavy weight
i'm weak.
i can't handle it
not when i have other shit to deal with
other burdens to carry
i can only take so much before i.....

escape!
i just want to escape
myself.

i am full of venom...
bitter
potent
i consume others as it paralyzes me

i am falling apart
pieces are everywhere
no one cares
enough to pick them up

i've come undone,
irreparably

i'm cr
u
m
bl i
n

g

untitled poem

written back in April; dunno why it never made its way here before today.

your grasp
used to be much tighter,
secure.
but now i feel it
slipping
gradually...
the more i try to hold on
the less of a grip i have
so my options now:
pull away
or wait
for you
to let

me



fall.

E-xhibitionist

A lil something I wrote a few months ago... I'm sure I was supposed to be doing some homework or something...

I’m an e-xhibitionist
But i need my privacy
Got my whole life on the internet
But good luck finding me
I’m on Facebook, Myspace, Twitter
Message boards and Blogspot
And I’ve registered for various sites
That I easily forgot
But everything’s set to private
What’s behind the screen name is just a guess
You’ll only see the pseudonym
Unless I get a friend request
You gotta tell me my real name, favorite color,
How old I was when my dog died,
And even after all that
You still may get denied.
I want to share my world with everyone
“Everyone” being just a few
I’m an e-xhibitionist
But who the hell are you?