Thoughts of an Unfinished, Uncredited Writer


Fear. Fear is the constant presence that has turned my cowardliness into masochism. Sometimes I think I know everything, and then I am crippled with my own naivety. How can I write when my pen touches the paper and mirrors my own inexperience? I stare at one line, and then the next, and soon I find myself in the shower crying to the lyrics of some long-forgotten-early-teen ballad enabling my unreasonable breakdown – my dramatics are not lost on me.

Soon after, the cycle starts again and the questions: why should I write, what makes you so special, decide to jerk me around again.

 Ah, the pain, I like that.

“Write what you know” is a quote that haunts writers like a white whale and is misleading in the fact that it is never wholly finished. As I was trying to hunt down the origins of this quote, to give it my own piece of mind, I discovered this:

“A lot of folks attribute it to Hemingway, but what I find is his having said this: ‘From all things that you know and all those you cannot know, you make something through your invention that is not a representation but a whole new thing truer than anything true and alive.'”

This is what I was looking for, my battle finally won.

My need for authenticity fed the monster (who needs no reservations to appease his palate) with my own words to distort their true meaning; leaving nothing more than a shell of disappointment – promptly on display in my trash.

My writer’s paradox left me waving a white flag and consuming a little, okay maybe a lot, of comfort food (& maybe some whiskey involved).

Now, I know better. My arsenal is filled with the wisdom only age and disappointment can give.

We go to school to learn, but we write to discover. Authenticity is not a clear-cut answer but an ongoing process to find out what you believe, what you know, and what you are unsure of. We need those who experience reality from outside of our own conscious to slap us down but what a writer really needs is curiosity. How fun it must be to write when you are discovering the answer for yourself; not through scholarly articles, but within your own Socratic method.

I’m going to get things wrong and people are going to correct me. My own voice will evade me and reshape itself into a parasitic dream but the very fact that I (and many of you out there) fight for authenticity means I am not in bad company.

Fuck, Fear.

Too Pressed Bed


The Bed has attained my shape,

and gained her own mortality.

She has earned her own muffled pleas

for my return to reality.

No longer can the Bed sleep

to escape my insanity,

because I weigh her down,

with the rest of humanity.

The Bed turns cold

because its warmth is worn on me.

Her sinews strained,

from my selfish immobility.

Her laments drowned out

by cowardly cheers,


“I’ll surely make this my year”.


Even the bed tires of my company.

The Chorus of Life


Sit still.



In a hypnosis of a descending form,

mesmerized by the distilled song.

No longer entranced by a bitter source,

allowing Nature to take its course.



Think of Life’s jubilation,

and give each Petal its admiration.

Yellow trumpets dance in delight,

mesmerized by the nourished song.


Breathe the aroma of Petrichor,

and feel the gods origin,

as you get closer to great riches,

forget your place and the forbidden

for nothing may challenge a Tree during a storm.

Sit still and admonish the Falling Form

hypnotized by a drip-drop song.

No longer encumbered by mortal sin,

giving Nature its violin –

The song plays on …



Sun Fairies


Glowing is the secret to life’s re-source,

Gold and brawn at its source.

Dancing fairies deliver delight

and take away my mundane plights.

Always surrounded by a warm embrace,

chasing away life’s constant disgrace.

Confound by her reactive attraction,

rejoicing in her benefaction.

I find life and mutual jubilation.

Writing is Centering, Like Prayer

Yes, growing up in a home that incubates trauma has lasting effects and shows up in the most unexpected ways. Great post to read!

BREVITY's Nonfiction Blog

marciabilykBy Marcia Krause Bilyk

The day after Trump’s inauguration, when Sean Spicer stood at the White House podium and declared the crowd the largest in Inaugural history, instead of scoffing at him, instead of declaring him as nuts as his boss, I was transported to my childhood feelings of rage, fear, and despair.

I grew up with a narcissistic father. Our home was suffused with his grandiosity, his exaggerations, his uninformed opinions. Mother, for reasons I couldn’t understand, didn’t contradict or question him. If I complained to her in private about his bullying, she’d say, “Your father loves you.” It felt crazy. Mother warned us not to speak of what went on at home to our friends. Dad’s rages were a closely guarded secret. There was no predicting what might set him off.

I withheld from Dad what he wanted and expected of me: affirmation, loyalty, devotion. I vowed I’d be…

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Wicked Falls


Wicked, wicked, little man

your fingers creep on tortured skin,

Tracing the scars of the damned

with no regard for innocence.

Wicked, wicked, little man

wilting flowers in full bloom,

Terrorizing the nights with silver daggers,

While howling at the moon.

Wicked, wicked, little man

-you’ve come too soon-

Departing from your midnight scowl

with spells of scorched tears.

Wicked, wicked, little man –

creeping. crawling. demolishing,

Diana’s sheltered Moon.

Hunting the huntress

as she descends upon the Earth

to kiss her children’s wounds.

Wicked, wicked, little man

You forget the power of the new moon.

The cloudless nights put up a fight

to forsake your muculent drool.



A Mother’s Thirst


The pain keeps on growing

As I keep on groaning

At the horrible state that I’m in.

But I must persevere,

For my children will fear

The day my surface disappears.

My attempts to fight back

Have caused quite a crack

So, you must pardon me, my dear,

For my systems are failing,

And you will go sailing

Because you wouldn’t help me,

My dear.