Questions for female writers – What’s your experience?

I was asked a few questions this morning I would like to pose to my fellow, female writers . . .

As a woman, do you feel your voice in print is sometimes held to a different standard than your male counterparts?

Do you ever feel the need to censure yourself or fear your opinions may not be well received because you are a woman?

Have you ever shared something anonymously because you thought it would be misconstrued or not taken seriously because it came from a female perspective?

~ My (short) answers ~

As a woman, do you feel your voice in print is sometimes held to a different standard than your male counterparts?

Sometimes. I’ve seen many female writers dismissed, not taken seriously, or berated for work that would likely not have been questioned if it had been written by a man. Has it happened to me? Sure enough has. Yeah, I know . . . it happens to men too. Sort of, but it’s different. Not long ago, I wrote, “I may have peed a little the first time I watched this.” I was called out for not being ladylike. Who knew saying peed would be the thing to rile folks up! I was once told women should write about parenting and men should write about politics after an article, factual, mind you, I wrote about some government nonsense. Granted, these days, just about anything can rub a reader the wrong way, regardless of gender.

Do you ever feel the need to censure yourself or fear your opinions may not be well received because you are a woman?

Again, sometimes. I’ve written things, good things, I’ve shoved to the back of my share with the world file simply because I had trepidation about the drama that could ensue, BUT, when the right time and the right venue comes my way, I will publish them. I may bide my time with certain things, but censure myself? Nope. Never have, never will.

Have you ever shared something anonymously because you thought it would be misconstrued or not taken seriously because it came from a female perspective?

Nope. If I share it, my name will be on it. Like I said, I may wait to put things out there, but I own every word I write.

I’m curious to hear your perspective?

Mr. Qwiet Muse – How to support your blogger, Beyond Your Blog

Jul27

Blogging is time-consuming. I didn’t know that until I started mine last year. My husband was super supportive when I brought up the idea – he had no idea how time-consuming it would be either. I’m not even one of those super bloggers, you know, the ones with fantastic layouts, the wonderfully organized, the themed, the consistently written, the interactive . . . yeah, I’m not one of those. Maybe one of these days.

Thankfully, my darling, dear, sweet, understanding husband deals with the life of being a * blog widower * quite well when I am lost in Cyberland. I hope he knows how much it means to me and that I’m not trying to be neglectful on nights he nukes a frozen burrito for dinner so I can finish that last sentence (or two, or three, etc.).

I salute those who stand behind their blogger loves.

I was honored to be included in this fun, Beyond Your Blog piece, How your significant other can support your writing, featuring nine amazing bloggers (and me) who share a bit about the ones who support them as they blog, I wonder how many of them are forced to eat microwavable dinners, if they still get home cooked meals, don’t tell my husband!

Anyway, click the link, read the wonderful things to read, keep going – I talk about Mr. Qwiet Muse, my rock, in the number ten spot . . .

When the ink dries

Jul25

Author calls us Inklings sometimes. He has other names for us as well. He calls us words, Ideas, and sometimes Characters. We prefer Inklings.

Author uses Pen to put us on Page. It makes Page happy when he does, Page says it isn’t alive until we come to visit, and we aren’t alive until we reach Page.

Pen is dying. Author has been using Keyboard, but Words that come from Keyboard are just words. The Words, like us, he puts on Page can breathe, at least that’s what Page says. Page tells us when Author uses Pen, the Words sink in so Page can bring them to life, like it did with us.

We are fading.

Page says we’ll disappear when Pen’s Ink is gone. We’ve learned a lot from Author, we don’t want to lose him. We don’t want him to lose us. We have to make Author stop us from fading. We have to make Author keep us from disappearing. Pen needs Ink.

Author once wrote on Page that he bleeds Ink. We need Ink. Author is Ink.

Sometimes Author forgets Pen is dying and tries to put us on Page with it. He likes to wet the tip of Pen with his tongue when Ink stops flowing. Next time, we will be waiting. We must get Ink for Pen.

Author picked up Pen today to make more Words on page, but he just scratched Page with Pen because Ink is almost gone now, we are waiting in the last drop for Author to bring us close enough to get the Blood Ink. Author brought pen to his tongue like he always does, and we left Pen.

spilled-ink We just needed Ink. We were fading. We meant no harm. When we leave Pen and soak into Page it feels like magic, Ink flows slowly and we glide onto Page, but when we soaked ourselves into Author, the Ink gushed and rushed and spilled and poured. It began to drown Page and Pen shattered on the floor. Author laid his head in Ink and gave his life to Page as Page was suffocating in Author’s Blood Ink. We meant no harm.

Ink is drying. Pen is broken. Page is dripping with Ink and we are no longer Words. Without Author we are just dried Ink and we are dying. We meant no harm . . . We meant no har –.

Crystal R. Cook

Crumpled Pages & Lines Incomplete

Jul13

Crumpled pages
scattered at my feet
Sonnets of scribbles,
of lines incomplete

So many words
with so much to say,
wrenched out and written
and then thrown away

Tossed to the wayside
by no fault of their own
they were my words,
they were seeds I had sown

Like I was some God
giving life to the page,
like I was some monster
they fell to my rage

Mourning, I gathered them
each creased and crinkled one,
desperate to undo
the damage I had done

To make amends I saved them
to one day use again,
and sat back down to seek
forgiveness with my pen

Crystal R. Cook

Beckoning me

Jul12

stock-footage-full-moon-at-night-with-cloud-real-no-cg

Moonbeams

spill into

my darkened room,

rest a while

upon my brow,

tiptoe up the walls

and dance

with shadows

to the silent song

of my quickening heart.

I hear your whisper

in the deepest of night,

enticing me to

disencumber myself

from slumbers dominion

and steal away

to a secret place

of absolute solace and

faultless pleasure.

You beckon,

I heed your call.

Laid bare before me,

unblemished canvas

waiting, yearning, needing

to be painted

with my desire,

anxious to be claimed.

A blank page,

awaiting the touch

of my pen.

Crystal R. Cook

My Silver Love has Been Lost

Jul8

It’s gone, this time for good I fear. I’ve searched everywhere, and it’s just . . . gone.

It may seem a little silly to get weepy-eyed emotional over something so many may see as nothing more than a throw away object to begin with, but to me, it was more than that; it was a mighty weapon in my personal arsenal, serving as both shield and sword; confidant and companion.

It served me well, beautifully well.

(View original – June 15, 2014)

My favorite pen fits perfectly in my hand. Sleek silver shell, slightly cold at first until warmed by the words it will ink to a page. It has substance, not too heavy, not too light. It knows everything there is to know about me, it has written of my innermost thoughts and wishes and dreams. It’s shared in my heartache and rejoiced in my joy. With my pen in hand we waltz across the page, dancing with words to music no one else can hear.

It didn’t start out as my pen, it belonged to another, who, I have no idea. How I came to have it, or how it came to have me, I can’t recall. One day it was just mine, it became an extension of my soul. When I first touched it to a blank page, I watched the dark, black ink seeping into the stark white paper and I saw pure and perfect beauty. Never has a pen touched the page so softly, leaving such a smooth trail of elegance wherever it goes.

My children often try to take it; my husband seeks to steal it away from me. My perfect pen is wanted by all. I carry it with me wherever I go. I’m not the type to lie, but if someone asks if I have a pen they can borrow the only answer there can be is no. It’s not really a lie because my pen is so much more than just a pen; It’s my partner, my confidant and my friend.

I’ve used many others, but this one has something they did not, I know not what it is, but I feel it when I hold it in my hand. Some may not understand, I don’t quite understand it myself, I simply know it is a special pen. I wonder what hands have held it before. I wonder if they knew what a treasure they held. I wonder if they search for it still.

I hope to keep it always; I doubt I could ever find another good enough to take its place. Is it odd to hold such attachment to an ordinary object, one disposable to most, irreplaceable to me? My pen is my pen; I’ll care for and keep it as long as I can. It has many more words to put on a page.

Crystal R. Cook

The origin & etymology of Qwietpleez

Jul7

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I’ve been asked several times why my blog is called The Qwiet Muse, and have also recently been informed by a few folks that I spelled quiet wrong, (just in case spell check didn’t catch it). So sweet. To put those helpful minds at ease, I spelled it that way on purpose. Spell check has been my saving grace on many occasions, however, this one I fought it on.

Words, as you know – must know, or should know, often have more than one meaning; you may think of the word muse and envision some mystical, magical creature of beauty floating overhead, gently guiding along inspiration. But believe me, if some ghostly apparition ever stops by for a brainstorming session, I’m outta there. I’m running and writing about it later (and elsewhere).

Muse can also be defined as an instance or period of reflection, a source of inspiration . . . My particular muse comes from everything around me; my faith, my family, my friends. My muse exists in all the wonders of God’s creation and in my unique human experience.

The Qwiet Muse is a reflection of me. It’s derived from my original screen-name, qwietpleez, and muse for my inspiration; the reasons I write.

Onto to origin and etymology of, ‘qwiet‘ –

qwi-et [kwahy-it] adjective. Basic definition – the same as quiet. It’s the same word, with the obvious distinction of containing a W in place of the U.

making no noise or sound, especially no disturbing sound: qwiet children.
free, or comparatively free, from noise: a qwiet house.
silent: Be qwiet!
restrained in speech, manner, etc.; saying little: a qwiet person.
free from disturbance or tumult; tranquil; peaceful: a qwiet life.

verb form
* to make qwiet: Qwiet down in there, or else!
* to make tranquil or peaceful; pacify: to qwiet a crying baby.
* to calm mentally, as a person: There, there, be qwiet now.
* to silence: Qwiet!

Origin: 1997; English(ish). Derived from (adj.) Middle English quiet < Latin quiētus, past participle of quiēscere ; (v.) Middle English quieten, partly derivative of the adj., partly < Late Latin quiētāre, derivative of quiētus.

*credit and apologies to dictionary.com

Historical Account:

In the summer of 1997 a young mother (me) was creating her first AOL.com email account. Her beginning attempts all failed, the names she chose were unavailable. She wanted something witty, something fun, and memorable. After several hours and many unsuccessful attempts, her frustrations began to rise, as did the playful rambunctiousness of her children.

Her attempts at quieting them were equally unsuccessful. Finding it increasingly hard to think, she found herself repeatedly requesting silence. Calm down, lower your voices, hush, go to the other room, knock it off, zip it, chill out, and other such requests went ignored.

Her final, shouted request, not only stilled the room of sound (for a moment), but became her victory at the keyboard as well.

“JUST BE QUIET PLEASE!”

She was filled with trepidation, dreading another ‘unavailable’ message but she pressed on, one key after the other. Q w i e t p l e e z. This was it. It was perfect. Her finger hovered over the enter key, she closed her eyes and pushed it. When she opened them, the message said ‘success’!

So there you have it . . . oh, by the way. I realize please is spelled wrong, I like it that way.

Sharing a little blog love

Jul2

blog-love2

I often neglect to stop in and pay a visit to many of the blogs I’ve chosen to follow. It’s an easy thing to do, and one that sometimes makes me feel a little like a thoughtless twit.

When I decided to take the leap and begin this blogging adventure it was rather scary; it isn’t easy to put yourself out there for the world to see. Those who do are brave and deserving of recognition.

I happened upon one of those blogs this morning and I wanted to share a little encouragement in the form of a shout-out to God of Words and Broken Things. If others hadn’t done the same for me, I may not have continued sharing, I would not have met the beautiful people who have come into my life because they took a moment to stop and read a piece of my heart . . .

{{{Hugs}}} writers and readers!