Ignore the Gremlins

fear-confidence-note_SI

A couple weeks ago I had an opportunity to attend a writing/poetry fair at a local college. Many vendors, authors, and lovers of books and writing attended.

Several panel discussions took place throughout the day and I wanted to attend one of them because mystery author Walter Mosley was going to be speaking. I wanted to hear what he had to say and to possibly get his autograph on my copy of Devil in a Blue Dress.

 Long story short, M and I ended up leaving before the panel discussion. Truth is, I felt very out of place. I later told M it was because I felt like I didn’t belong; it seemed like there were more “relevant” and “creditable” writers there. I felt very small.

M and my psych both told me that it was silly to feel that way, and now I believe they’re right. You shouldn’t feel like you’re any less of a (insert profession or even person here) because a) someone makes you feel that way, b) strange environments, or c) especially because you let your self-doubts get the best of you. I started to doubt myself and my own writing and so I got depressed and nervous.

But, who’s to say I don’t belong there, rubbing shoulders with “the best of them?”

Nobody, that’s who.

So don’t listen to that little gremlin in your head who says you can’t do it and you’ll never match up. Because you can and you do.

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Writers are Alcoholics

Writers are Alcoholics
JCD Kerwin

Writers are alcoholics.
We drink India ink and
eat coffee grounds for breakfast.

We sit in bars,
lamenting regrets
and chasing memories.

Our eyes are bloodshot
from looking for answers
on typewriters.

We are invincible,
shielding ourselves with words
and wielding pens like swords.

Writers are alcoholics.
We get drunk of existence
and regurgitate Heaven.

Under the Armour

Under the Armour
JCD Kerwin

It’s funny that
to forge ahead
you must discard
the bloodied, broken armour
you’ve been wearing ‘round for years.

(Some sanguine stains are yours;
some family’s;
and some pure stranger’s.)

In the end,
you walk alone
with brittle bones
and scars upon your feet.
But you know,
the briar patch
you crawled through
all your life
is miles behind.
Nothing but grassy knolls
for your wounded toes
ahead.

And it echoes in your head:
“With every step and
every breath: hold on.”
Hold on, hold on, hold on.
With every drip
of sweat and tear;
blood that poured from all those years:
hold on,
walk on,
through valleys beyond
the Dark cast out
from your shattered, burned insides.

(May 2015)

Untitled

It came to me in a rush.
It’s probably not even good.

[Untitled]
JCD Kerwin

I’ll stab this pen
a thousand times,
to make my stories
run red with blood.
My heart will look
like a tattered valentine,
but the moon will shine
through its holes
like a billion stars,
ready to dance,
in time,
with your heartbeats.

March, 2015