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Happy National Grammar Day!

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Some of us geek out when it comes to grammar, some of us don’t care, and a few of us are asshats about it. Unfortunately, for grammar nerds, our love (fascination, obsession), in regard to the proper use of language has in some ways ostracized us from mainstream society.

We are called names, shunned, ridiculed. It’s quite sad, really.

Not all grammar groupies are the same. Sometimes, we even break the rules. We are human, after all.

In honor of National Grammar Day, take this grammar nerd test and see where you fall on the grammar geek scale.

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Click HERE to take the quiz

My resultThe Pedant’s Grammarian

You may drive your friends and family nuts, but you would make Strunk and White proud. You love enforcing rules just about as much as you love the rules themselves. For you, grammar truly is one of life’s greatest joys.

Disclaimer – I’m NOT now, nor have I ever been a member of the Grammar Nazi party, nor have I any association with the Grammar Police. 

Take the quiz and tell me just what kind of grammar nerd you are!

Bleeding Ink

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Artwork by Loui Jover

I’m bleeding ink
with each beat
of my heart.
With every pulse
the words flow faster
than my fingers can
can guide them
to a page.
These words,
unlike so many others,
are mine,
mine alone.
I fear they will be
skewed,
twisted,
misused,
misunderstood.
Wasted on eyes
only looking
between the lines
for something
conveyed
without my intent.
Used to wage war
without my consent.
These words I spill,
I fear
will not be
what you hear.
You’re listening
for something
I’m not trying
to say.
I’m bleeding ink.
It pours out wounds
from words
you shot
like arrows
without aim.
Spoken daggers
flung in the dark
without regard
or reason.
Misplaced outrage
felling the innocent,
breaking their hearts.
I’m bleeding ink
upon pages
no one can see.
I’m bleeding ink,
and it’s killing me.

CRC

The Words

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The words, the words – they scream, begging for release, clamoring, vying for attention, pieces of poems and paragraphs of prose push and pile one upon the other until I hear nothing more than noise, until they become nothing more than sound without substance, until I’m forced to lock them away, somewhere so deep within I’m afraid they’ll be lost.

The words, the words – my constant companions, my friends, my sometime foes. Tonight, there are too many, so many I cannot pluck them out and pen them to a page so I doodle and scribble my angst. I write random words and scratch them out. My frustration fills the page.

Perhaps tomorrow they will settle, tomorrow they will whisper. Maybe then I will breathe again.

Palette of words . . .

I’d no intention to write today, poetic was certainly not the mood I was in, but I clicked on WordPalette instead of Solitaire this afternoon to wile away the time between loads of laundry and lost myself in wordplay.

Seriously, if you haven’t tried this app, you should. Every time I play around with it, I’m left happily surprised with the results.

Sometimes I only use words from the palette, sometimes the choices simply serve to inspire and spark a little creative fire. I’ve always liked playing with fire . . .

Click here to read a little more about this fun app –> My Favorite, Fun New App

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Raging against ourselves,
abandoned from within.
Felled by foolish pride
and ignorance,
we search for meaning
amongst the ashes
of truths we long ago burned.
We buried the path
to a better future
beneath layers
of forgotten yesterdays,
of lessons we were meant to learn.
Miles made of years
stretch before us,
in the space between now
and someday,
there lay a vast
and barren desert
littered with remnants
of things we once valued.
Mammoth mountains
of prejudice and disdain
and things we should have
long since buried
impede those
who seek refuge beyond them.
Those willing to forge a new path
and embark upon a journey
toward a new future,
willing to face fears
and fight against what is,
will one day rise,
lifted by winds of change
until they soar high enough
to glimpse the dawn
of a new day.

It’s not personal . . .

img_0877Killing for them or tearing one of their worlds to pieces is the easy part. It’s not personal, for me at least. I’m not personally or emotionally invested in them. I know, what’s wrong with me, right? I’m not like a lot of other people, and I’m not just talking about the killing and dissembling of someone else’s world stuff.

Really, I think the killings are probably the most normal thing about me. People just have very different ideas of what constitutes normality. I’m only trying to help.

So, like I was saying, the killing part I do for them is easy for me. Okay, it’s sometimes a little tough. I wouldn’t do it if I didn’t have to, but it’s kind of a job requirement.

The thing I have a harder time with is dealing with the ones who came to me and asked me to do the job to begin with. I mean, c’mon, they know what I’m going do, it’s on the business card for crying out loud. Well, if I had business cards it would be. The point is, they know.

Sometimes I just want to scream. I’m listening to these grieving creatures and thinking, umm . . . you came to me, remember? You read the terms and conditions, you signed here, initialed there, so really, dry it up and move on. That sounds cold hearted, I know. Especially since I am so much like them and would likely feel the same way.

Besides, it’s not like they can’t fricking bring them back to life. It voids my services of course, I stand behind my work and my refund policy clearly states in no uncertain terms that there aren’t any refunds. Heck, a majority of the time I do it for free anyway. I probably shouldn’t but, and reserve judgement here, I enjoy it. I often derive a great sense of satisfaction and sometimes even inspiration from it.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had plenty of satisfied clients, most of them as a matter of fact, but some seem to have a harder time letting go once the deed is done. They wonder if they made the right decision, I suppose that’s normal. It’s a process. They know they did what had to be done, or they wouldn’t have sought out my help, but still, they grieve. They don’t always agree with my methods, even though they came to me based on my previous work.

That’s the thing, they trusted me to get the job done, then they second guess the way I did it. After some time has passed and they’ve worked through their emotions they almost always come to thank me, I get a lot of repeat customers actually.

It’s a rollercoaster, what I do, I like to think I’m pretty darn good at it too. Sure, I make judgment calls maybe someone else in my position may have made a little differently, aside from the basic mechanics, we all have our own little bit of flair we add to our work.

You know, I don’t always do the actual deed myself, I offer advice to folks who want to see it through themselves. Every now and then I just tweak their ideas a bit, give an overall opinion of the direction they want to go and they get it done.

I have a job right now actually, so I gotta get to it. This one is for img_0878me, it’s a little harder when you make the work personal. Words to cut, characters to kill, paragraphs to shorten, others to lengthen . . .

I’m not a monster. Editing and critiquing the words penned to a page can be brutal work, especially when you’re doing it for someone else, or yourself. Just brutal.

I didn’t bother to check for grammar, typos, or any other of pesky things that plagues writers in the above rambling, it’s just rambling. Something to keep my mind from going mad with the muddied mood I happen to be in. It was either plot murder or write about what to some constitutes a demise of sorts – editing.

I once tried to give them life

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Upon these wrinkled pages
there are traces of me
left scribbled in ink.
My soul marks the margins
and the middles,
from left to right and sideways.
Pieces of paper painted
with half formed thoughts
I’d hoped would breathe
once they were penned
lay lifeless,
scattered corpses
of inspirations abandoned.
Wasted words, lost,
tossed in a box,
never discarded,
left to the worse fate
of being ignored
by the one who promised
to make them dance
for the world to see.
If I smoothed these pages
enough to set them free,
would they turn their backs
on me or be thankful,
grateful for my company?
I’m afraid to look upon them,
I don’t know what I’ll see
looking back at me.

~ CRC ~

30 Days was just a suggestion . . . Ciceros, Sherlock, & Me

img_0792So I’ve finally made it to day four of the thirty-day writing challenge I began on March 16, which was just over 39 weeks ago, and technically, I’m really on day three for which the prompt asks what my favorite quote is. I’ll come back to that one. It’ll take me a moment to narrow it down to a list of even 50. Besides, most of them are inspirational and I’m in small mood and do not wish to be encouraged and uplifted at the moment. Maybe later.

Day 1 – Story behind The Qwiet Muse name. 

Day 2 – 20 facts about you, really – they are about you, not me.

Anyway, since I’m not completely a quitter, even though I failed the challenge I challenged myself with, now, 275 days later, I’m going to write about my dream job, the prompt for day four.

I’m pretty sure, if you know me or have read more than a post or two here at The Qwiet Muse, my dream job will have something to do with books and words and silence.

Basically, I want to be a writer who runs a library.

Not just any library though. Mine is epic, and a little odd, and entirely awesome. My library is a mind palace, think of the Greek poet Simonides of Ceos or Ciceros, if you’re not familiar with the method of loci, it’s quite interesting, something to look up sometime. If Greek myth and history isn’t your thing, think Sherlock Holmes, I think he called his a mind attic, where he stored information and memories. Doyle used this idea a little differently. Again, something interesting to look up.

This library in my mind is where I remember everything, or where I try to. I remember who I am and seek out what I’ve forgotten, which is unfortunately something I too often do these days, but that’s a tale for another time. In my library the thoughts and names and words I cannot access in my reality await me.

Now, I realize this doesn’t sound like a job so much, but if I could create my library with mortar and brick and wood, I might consider opening the doors to the public. It’s a magical place. Beautiful. I think you’d like it there. Of course, it wouldn’t be open to just anyone, there would have to be some sort of application process to gain entry and perhaps a trial membership type of thing. I guess my job would just be to be there and read and write and remember.

I suppose it would have to be housed in something similar to a Tardis, you know, bigger on the inside since things on the outside are often so very wibbly wobbly, I think it’s safe to say our minds are certainly bigger in the inside, just think of all they hold! It would have to be somewhat of a well kept secret, exclusivity and all, so Tardis technology would come in handy. Perhaps an unassuming garden shed or an old school bus, I’ve not yet given it much thought.

I can try to tell you a small bit about what would be inside though, the way I see it when I lose myself in there.

Close your eyes and imagine . . . Yeah, don’t do that. Duh.

As you read, imagine yourself within a circular room, the ceiling so tall it seems to reach straight into the heavens. Rich mahogany shelves line the entirety of the protective circle of wall surrounding you, each delicately carved with images and scenes from literature and history, stories etched upon every surface.

Staircases spiral between level after level, each one leading to row atop row of books, manuscripts, journals, and notes. Histories written and bound, musical scores dancing along pages, all protected and preserved and waiting to be held in someone’s hands, to be remembered and cherished.

Wrought iron railings swirl upward, suspending works of art above velveteen settees perfectly placed and lit. Below sit writing desks, reference materials fill cabinets, and showcases featuring artifacts and treasured items from literary history glimmer in the glow of the grand fireplace ringing perfect warmth to the entire structure.

It’s not entirely possible for me to accurately describe the atmosphere within this library of mine, you’ll have to imagine that for yourself. Sometimes, I enter into a brightly lit and invigorating space, other times, I find myself in a darkened den of solace and silence. Sometimes there are giant windows overlooking a glorious garden, other times, the walls keep hidden what lay beyond them.

Since it’s mainly my mind palace, I suppose I will tell you . . . sometimes there are fainting goats outside in the garden, and sometimes I ring a bell and giggle as I watch their little legs stiffen. I know. Don’t judge me. Have you seen fainting goats? Oh, and sloths. There will be sloths somewhere as well.

I wish I really could put to page how my mind sees my library, I suppose if you were to join me there, it might look different to you, when you came to visit it would transform to a space that suited you, your personality, your needs. Your memories.

Yeah. It would definitely have to be like a Tardis. I think I’ll hire Tennant to look after the place.

Basically, my dream job is just that, a dream. Real enough to me, but for everything else, words upon a page. Real enough I suppose, I’ve always thought once words were written they were given life in some way.

I really have always wanted to be a librarian though, so . . .

Full disclosure, my mind palace library does not include memories of math I may have learned, I googled my way to mathisfun.com to determine how many days have passed since I copied that darn 30 Day Blog Challenge graphic and decided it was something I could follow through with. Ha! I do not happen to think math is fun. It hurts my brain, but I must say I totally love a site that does number-y stuffs for me!

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