Category Archives: self-portrait

Standard

Posted by

Posted on

24 May, 2016

Posted under

determination, self-portrait, storyteller, tips, writing

Comments

Leave a comment

Encouragement

I mentioned I have this plan laid out to hopefully get my name and work out to the public this summer. I’ve tweaked it a bit, but I’m still hoping to self-publish a short story collection and get some stories published in magazines. I’ve got my FB site up and I’m working on revamping my website. So things are good…

Mostly.

I’m trying really hard at this. Yet, I keep seeing all the other people who are doing it, too, and it’s really disheartening that “Yeah, you’re special alright, just like all the other people who are JUST. LIKE. YOU.” I’m trying very hard to make myself stand apart from all the other wannabe authors out there. I’m trying to get magazines and journals to publish my work, but I keep getting rejection letters…

It just gets very discouraging.

Today I came across this advice blog. It’s quite old (from 2010), but the content remains relevant.

The first bullet got me: “Don’t let yourself be intimidated by big dreams.” I really like that. Sometimes I get so overwhelmed with how big my goals are that I think I’ll never “get there.” I have to remember that I can only get there by taking one step at a time. I have to set attainable goals first. I just think that phrase helps to refocus things.

f151936b20899c7ca77cd4d3f758c13d

I also came across this column about what to do when faced with so much rejection.

I send SO MUCH stuff to magazines and journals and, well, as you can see by my published work page, I rarely receive any acceptances! It really drags me down once in a while. I felt the above author, Holly McDowell, presented some good points, particularly the one about giving yourself permission to write.

A lot of times I feel like giving up after I receive a rejection letter. I think “What’s the point? I’m terrible.” I have to remember that that was one rejection letter. It’s okay that someone said “no” and that it doesn’t mean everything I write is terrible. It’s not a reflection on the rest of my writing, and it doesn’t mean I should stop.

Well, I figured I’d pass these along just in case anyone else needed some motivation as well. 🙂

Remember, you might feel down sometimes, and that’s okay, but don’t ever give up! Believe in yourself!

2919dd8d9b04790d0b82bc8181aa060a.jpg

Standard

Posted by

Posted on

14 February, 2016

Posted under

poetry, self-portrait, Uncategorized

Comments

1 Comment

Tiny Terrapins

Tiny Terrapins
JCD Kerwin

I don’t own a turtle.

I’ve never held interest
in a painted’s carapace, and
I’ve never been concerned
with chelonians in the park.

I haven’t got a tank
full of grimy, brackish water,
or heat lamps burning
above a mini desert.

Yet,
I know a little something
about hiding in yourself.

February 2016

Standard

Posted by

Posted on

5 October, 2015

Posted under

non-fiction, self-portrait

Comments

Leave a comment

Forty-Five Minutes

Forty-Five Minutes
JCD KERWIN

One, two, three a.m. and I’m staring, blinking, glaring at the ceiling like I’ve got a grudge against the shadows. Tossing and turning makes the stitch in my side itch. I have to lie straight to keep myself from screaming but I can’t dream think the right way without shoving pillows over my face.

Must refuse to move
until
the pain stops and
my heartbeats
d
r
o
p.

[Maybe if
I crush these tabs,
they’ll last a little longer,
be a little stronger;
make me
a little better at
not being me.]

The guy behind the desk says I’m supposed to believe in myself. I sink farther into the couch and wonder why upholstery’s always more plush in small rooms even though you’re never in the mood to sit still.

(I tell him I like the paintings of the Ming Dynasty Treasure Ships. They came with the office, he says. None of them ever know where the pictures come from.)

It all goes back
to my childhood:
where my family
went did wrong.

Separate yourself.
Cut yourself off
from everything
that hurts you.

He says.

Easier said
than done.

I say.

And the other guy throws pills at me, changing his mind with each visit. He can’t decide what makes
me messed up
inside.

Neither can I.

[Which is why I
line up orange bottles
in Chess lines,
like they’re pawns and I
am running from
the pugilist glove
that will crush me if
I don’t keep ahead of
the other me’s
next move.]

I am unimpressed with the depression of my facial expression. It gets quite old. But I don’t know how to climb out from puddles I rained out all alone.

He tells me plenty of people have sat where I sat, feeling hopeless, but they dug out, just like I will. I ask when that will be…

Right now I’m spelunking in the dark.

(October 2015)

Standard

Posted by

Posted on

30 August, 2015

Posted under

non-fiction, prose, self-portrait, storyteller

Comments

Leave a comment

Mumblestumble

Sometimes it’s hard to be me.

Mumblestumble
JCD Kerwin

The journal page reflects the white like car high beams. The bottle grins at me, beckoning that I take another sip. Just one more and you’ll go numb, it says.

Write it down. Keep a journal, he says. Breathe. Remember “the timeline.” Step back. Don’t forget your “worry time.” You’re you, remember? You’ve got to stop doubting yourself. Stop thinking everyone’s out to get you; stop judging…And whatever bullshit he’s told me this week.

I bite the pen and hope the ink runs down my throat.

These orange bottles line up like chess pieces. Their names are still a mystery to my simple tongue. I spin each bottle so I can’t see the labels. As if that somehow hides the fact I’m insane. These pawns are out to get me.

My heart pounds too hard. I’m told its panic attacks. I thought it was hip-hop, rock and roll; thought it was palpitations from the headphones over my ears. Breathe; remember to breathe, he says.

I can’t breathe in the day. I can’t breathe the same air as the people I knock shoulders with on the street. I just gasp for air like I’ve been plucked from a fishbowl. I’m drowning in humanity.

My existentialism is showing. Let me tuck in my brain.

You can catch me high on life one minute and drowning in a puddle of my own creation the next. I float up and down like a hot air balloon. The more intelligent a person, the more depressed they are, he says. I must be Neil deGrasse Tyson. Write it down.

In the middle of the night I’m alone. In the middle of the night, I stare at the wall and listen to monsters try to convince me to take the leap. I scream but it comes out silent. It’s like being trapped in a box at the bottom of the ocean. Hello to the hammerheads.

I spin a couple pill bottles. The tabs rattle and I pop the tops. Dose One should happen at dinner time….Fuck that.

(August 2015)

Standard

Posted by

Posted on

26 July, 2015

Posted under

poetry, self-portrait, storyteller, writing

Comments

2 Comments

Burnt Socks

abandoned Laundromat at Night 2008 Laurie Nix

Burnt Socks

JCD Kerwin

I lost a friend
today.
We were
in separate boxes,
never looking
at eachother.
We were
content to be
separate planets
orbiting suns
in opposite ends
of the galaxy.
We were
never meant
to be
anything more
than pennies and dimes
mixed in a vending machine,
lost in time
to be change for
some grass heads’ four-twenty munchies.
Yet I
still feel guilt
for letting you go,
even though
I  know
we would never have been
anything more
than two
mismatched socks
lost in the back
of some old
laundromat.

July 2015