Day 2 Thinking About a Box

The only good thing about boxes is what they hold inside. You never know what's in a box until you take it out. Keeping it in the box is no fun. What's the point of all this?

If you embrace your creativity, always think outside the box fearlessly. Staying within the box is no fun. Getting outside the box is where the real fun begins.

I'm new to this blog thing and I actually never even posted a comment to someone else's blog until about five days ago. It was a comment that was directed towards the blogger's role in the development of many writing voices in our community. It was poetic (or at least the attempt was there). Some other reader/poster took offence to a grammatical error in my post. Affronted (not really, just wanting to have some fun) I suggested that the rules of grammar wasn't (see what I mean) something that I was overly concerned with and that sentence fragments were my friends. My comment was completely self-deprecating. The reader/poster felt obligated to comment again adding that the failure to utilize the rules of grammar was a reason he didn't read blogs regularly. Good grief, Charlie Brown.  This Fella lives his life in the box. Obey the rules. I before E except after C type of guy. Where would writing be if everyone followed the same rules? Would we all write in the style of Dickens, Tolstoy, or Bronte. Where would be without Hemingway? Could Hemingway even write like Dickens? Would The Picture of Dorian Gray even be a hit ( in today's world it could be written in three or four chapters.)?

My point is simple. Next time you're in the box, step outside it. Turn your creative juices to the spaces outside the walls of your box and see what you come up with. At least you'll have fun trying to find ways to say the same old things we've been writing about or storytelling about since the cavemen days.

Here's a poem I might revisit from time to time. Its a draft in the jelling phase:

My Medusa

My Medusa

How I pity your being

Alone, you have turned your gaze within

And looked upon your own heart

Cold, Hard, silent

Your stone weeps no blood

Only the bitter tears of anger ooze

From the hardness of your soul

With my love forgotten

And my compassion my shield

I am immune from your stare

I am fluid eternal

I am soft ever-lasting

Blood weeps from my soul

My blood weeps for you

Let me know what you think. Until tomorrow. David