Inspiration or Lack Thereof

I am finding it hard to focus creatively, weighed down by a cowardly feeling always lurking in the shadows beyond the reach of my understanding. Trading in the suffocating tranquility of upstate New York for the chaos of the concrete jungle and its ever-present noise has not been as beneficial as I first imagined. Day in and day out, I stare at my pens collecting dust and wonder what, if anything, I'm missing out from the world of the muses. I have stopped trying to find reason in my exclusion from their visits, though I find myself looking back at the days and nights they came to me in droves, each carrying a vision as unique as the tales they inspired.
Maybe one day they will return or, maybe, they have found another door whose hinges exhibit not the slightest spot of rust and whose hinges glide without complaint. I work hard at preventing myself from anger and frustration...from throwing in the towel and heading back East. I've bared my pride for picking, and my skin hangs on my bones like a dejected soul.
Soon - I hope sooner- they will come back with tales from lands further away. They shall tell of new faces, new heavens, and new hopes. They shall have new expectations, too, so I have to get better at transcribing what their eyes had beheld. Then, and only then...

Better Writing Techniques

I have articles on improving your writing stashed away on my computer, but like an amnesiac squirrel, I can't seem to locate them. Rest assured, however, that my ability to write has been contested by many before -the devil among them- but no one has denied my skills at devouring hot pie at an incredible pace. Eating virgin pie, while superficially unrelated to writing, is a good indicator of how good a writer one is. If you can get your lips, tongue, and every mince of meat in your grinder scorched, yet you keep going, I am willing to wager a smile that you would fare well against a severe case of writer's block. Don't believe me? Try eating hot pie then sit down to write. If you're unable to write, you are not, and have never been, a writer...not a good one, at least. If, however, you sit and you are able to write an interesting piece, then you have just proved my point and will excuse the mistakes in this article - as I haven't had hot pie in weeks.

Time to Catch Up

It has been a while since I wrote on here due to several unlinked factors, but which all conspired to keep me off here. My mom has now been here for almost three weeks and we are all enjoying the company of my cousins (who have been here for nearly a week), my uncle (who came to visit for a day from Canada), and our great neighbors.
I have received many family heirlooms from her and I now feel a stronger connection to her side of the family...now I have to brush up on my Russian and gear up for my visit up there in the summer.
I also received, as a gift from my mom, a new Canon Rebel 500D (Rebel T1i) camera with the 18-55mm IS and 55-250mm IS lenses, but my goal is to take and sell a few pics to buy myself a quality "L" lens. I'll keep you folks updated on that.
I keep repeating that I consider myself to be an artist, rather than just a writer or a poet or playwright, so the camera will give me a chance to utilize my artistic skills through a different medium.
I think I said this before, but I am planning to release an e-book of about 50 of my poems through a collection titled "Visions of a Homeland: Poems in Exile" at the end of March. I want this collection of poems to showcase a small piece of my culture. Our people’s history extends from one end of time to the other; a period as indescribable as it is enjoyable.
I will be posting updates often. I hope you are enjoying the start to this new year.

Kanyana: A poem

My previous post addressed the subject of writer's block and what I do when I've been blessed by such an abomination, as folks in my profession doubtlessly regard it. I mentioned that I switch to poetry and hope something comes from it. Well, today brought me a few things: cold weather, sunny skies, life, and, you guessed it, writer's block. Being a seasoned pro at this, I quickly focused on poetry and I started writing whatever idea came to mind. To build upon yesterday's topic, I figured I would post a poem that I just wrote out of my encounter with that bitterest of enemies of writers renowned. Here it is, titled Kanyana in my native Kinyarwanda and addressing the 1994 genocide. I will most definitely edit it as this is the rough draft, but I still hope you enjoy.

Kanyana***

Rivers empty tears

No longer choked by ignorance

Reigning rampant across the land.

Kanyana stands on the bank

Searching for her family

Amid the flotilla of emptied shells

Cruising at the speed of the current.

Her cheeks are devoid of tear tracks,

Her calf eyes dehydrated by sorrow.

Life, like the river, moves past her

To empty into a distant memory

As heartless as the hate

That orphaned her so early in years.

Her little soul unable to understand

Or bear the pain tearing at her heart

Shudders and flees her weakened corps.

The little body rolls towards the brown liquid

Where it might find its parents in time.

Her spirit remains rooted at that final spot

Unable to flee from her vigilance post.

In time a blue rose sprouts forth

From the spot between two ancient

Tiny footprints. Kanyana’s sorrow

Manifested for theworld

To see and never forget.

Edouard S. Mutabazi

December 2, 2009

1^st Draft

***Kanyana means little heifer. In Rwanda, calves are highly prized and a symbol of wealth.

To Write or Not To Write...That Shouldn't Be The Question

Often, I feel like I'm writing to a deaf world. I sit and pour whatever flows from within onto a screen and put it up for the world to judge. Sometimes, it feels as if the world has already left and I'm the only one remaining in the vicinity of my story. I'm sure this happens to a lot of writers, especially beginners, such as I, who have to prove themselves as legit. I have no problem with making the rounds of submissions and playing the waiting game...I've become a pro at that. I, also, have no problem observing and learning from other readers and writers I interact with daily.
What I have a problem with is the gray expanse of time when mind and fingers refuse to plot together to make letters appear on my notebook screen. I huff and puff but I feel like I've encountered the brick house of the literary world. During a time such as this, you can find me sullen as a desert slug, frustrated by circumstances I feel are beyond my reproach, at the mercy of a power higher than I- a muse as inconsiderate as wedding-day rain showers.
I, however, refuse to be fooled by the perceived absence of my muse. To write or not to write is never an entertained dilemma in my realm. I find it easy to start one or more poems to see what kind of creativity they might awaken, and this usually works to unclog ideas that had been previously stuck.
So, if you find yourself facing the proverbial writer's block, switch to poems and see what that might do for you. I find that poetry usually flows out of me easier than short stories or plays, so that might be the same for you, too.
If you have something else that works for you in such instances, please share. Thanks.

What I write

I have had a few new followers, people that, supposedly, follow what I write on here and will get crucial insider information about me and my work -on top of other little perks, don't ask me what they are now, though- so I want to go over what it is I write and who I am. I have covered this in my previous post (http://exilewriter.blogspot.com/2009/08/who-am-i-and-what-am-i-currently.html), but I feel the need to say it again because I doubt people have gone back and read the very first post I posted on here. If you have, big ups to you.
I aim to write on three main subjects: 1. Life and its meaning. 2. exile 3. Nature. I explore these subjects through, not only my writing, but also photography. I'm an avid amateur photographer and you can see some of my pics on here or on Facebook. I love being surrounded by nature; understanding that all things have a purpose to which they strain to attain, and an end that is as much about life as is the beginning. I love, especially, water. Anything to do with water moves my spirits in ways I don't even fully comprehend, although it might have something to do with the fact that I'm a Pisces, but who knows.

Currently, I'm working on so many projects that I wouldn't have enough space to list them on here, but the good news is that I have a monthly journal I publish every first Monday of the month and I fill it with as much of my work as I possibly can. It's titled Exile Calling and the third issue is coming out December 7th. If you haven't signed up for it, you can subscribe either through the button at the top right of the page, or you can send me an email. I charge $15 per 12 issues, but I think that's small change to you bigwigs; besides, I have to eat somehow. So far, the circulation is around 25 people and I hope it will grow into three figures by the summer. I, also, hope to begin featuring work of other exiles in future issues.
Well, now you know what I do, but if you've read this far, maybe you deserve knowing who I am. My name is Edouard Samuilovich Mutabazi...some call me Ed, Eddy, Eddie, Edick, J, Kunta, Mr. Ed, Mr. Eddie and, believe it or not, sweetie, baby, and a few other fluffy names...yep, true story.
Now you know all there is to know about me, why don't you tell me about yourself.

A Writer's Reflection

Writers, generally, are fond of highlighting the glories and shortfalls of other professions, but I find myself, usually without much exertion of effort on my behalf, writing about my profession in a manner with neither veneration nor morosity, but rather with a certain detachment that seeks to showcase my perception of life from my own point of view. It might lie in the fact that most, if not all, in my wonderful line of work come upon incessant periods devoid of motivation lifting neither pen nor paper; stretches of time when the very meaning of existence floats out of reach of any comprehensible universe and they are forced to look at others' lives for something to give their time purpose.

It was during one of these devilsend (as I figure it to be the opposite of godsend) times that I decided to explore the woods by my apartment. In the summer, when I moved here, the foliage clung tightly to each other as the undergrowth raced upwards, fed by rain as abundant as was in the days of that great patriarch Noah, to mingle with the branches of the trees towering above them. I, in my infinite ignorance of the fact then, concluded that there was little of interest beyond the ragged edge, but that changed with the coming of autumn and the withering of the once-lush weeds.

Soon after the leaves put up their yearly color-morphing show, they fell and left a void where an impenetrable wall of green had once stood. What fascinated me more, however, was that there seemed to be a path leading further into the woods; this path beckoned, teasing me to follow it to see where the rabbit hole leads to. The urge being greater than the natural resistance afforded me by the benevolent creator, I put on my jacket and boots and followed the cleared path into the leaf-carpeted belly of the woods.

Fear set in with apprehension and a certain degree of senselessness that I couldn’t explain. I followed the wide path for about one hundred yards; observing the woods with fixed intensity, tensing at the slightest rustle of the fallen leaves. I stopped, now and then, to take photographs of trees or discarded material that managed to wrestle my attention from my canopy of fear.  There was an old, rusted iron bucket and a steel peg, still attached to a limp cable, which rattled its complaint at my attempts to dislodge it. There, also, was a smooth, mauve rubber ball still in decent condition, but I was hampered from taking it by a protective garb of twigs that had gathered themselves around it.

The greatest article of importance, however, lay at the edge of the woods; where the trees stop and the shrubbery continues as if unaware of their companions’ halt. There, on the path with its rear on woods side of the path and its fore in the clearing, was an old dump truck, its front wheels collapsed as if knelt in never-ending prayer, and its canary paint still alive despite invading swathes of brown rust. I took pictures of the discarded mammoth, wondering why it had been necessary to abandon it there.

I climbed on its muzzle and stood watching the descending countryside before me. I could see the land rolling and heaving into the far horizon, the sea of treetops at times broken by a building or steel tower on a distant hilltop. I looked over the truck again, noticing the high weeds growing in its massive bed, which still containing its last load, deemed worthless as the bearer on whose back it now waited out its eternal rest, and the iced-over pond on its roof, with its organisms busily milling about on its visible bottom.  I took in as much of the truck as I could and it started me on a path of thought I dreaded to tread.

I began to think about the truck, its purpose, its demise, and its neglect; having served its purpose, it was now time to fade out of existence. I looked at the leaves on the floor, the weathered weeds, and the rotting, fallen tree limbs. They all, at one time, had been vibrant, alive and serving a purpose at which, I assume with measured certainty, they had been good. I, too, was the same as the death of autumn surrounding in as much as I would be here for a season and then fade off to make way for a newer generation. My earlier reprehension of the woods –my fear –fled the more I thought about the lessons the old dumper had brought to my attention.

I offered a prayer for the woods, the leaves, the truck, and the souls whose feet had trod that area eons before, and those that would eons after me. I offered condolences to the leaves for stepping on them; that was the way of life, and I, also, would one day be laid in the soil, feed the earth, and be tramped upon by nature. Yes, that was the way of life – to live out one’s purpose, then make way for a future that was, in every way, greater and equal to us. That purpose, in my case, was to be a mirror for the world; to have it see itself as it is, with all its blemishes as much as its beauty.

I walked back home deep in thought and lacking in fear as one can be without having breathed his last. I passed the spot of the twine-protected ball and its defenses did not seem impregnable as they had before, but I had no intention of disturbing its repose. The rusty bucked and the peg and its cable were also left in their peace.  Things were a little clearer for me now and I had found the inspiration I had hoped to when I set off for my promenade, but it also came with a bonus lesson of life.

As I cleared the woods into the trimmed grass on my apartment’s grounds, I turned back towards the hibernating woods, whispered my thanks again, and let my eyes swim over the area that had terrified me before. Humbled and grateful, I covered the few yards to my door, entered and began to write. This is what I wrote.

Almost Done:::Poetry Project

I didn't want to spend days posting on the progress of the rhyming project, so I decided to go through it a few times and post something close to the finished product. I just remembered reading, years ago, about the process and progress of Beethoven writing his famous Symphony No. 9; how the finished work was noticeably different from the first draft. I am not saying I'm in the same class as Beethoven, but I think the process for all artists is the same.
Anyways, back to me and my attempt to rhyme my poem. I will post my thought process, then put up an image to show what I did.

Step 1 (not really step 1, but we have to start somewhere)

I decided to rewrite the poem from a different angle, but I decided against it as this is just a project poem and I don't want to spend a lot of time on it. It would have set us back to square 1.
I thought it was necessary for me to outline what I want to show through the poem: Me, the brook, its story, me not understanding the story, and ending on hope for understanding it in the future. 

 

Step 2

I try to rewrite it using the sequence I had established in the previous step. However, I switched and wrote from the point of view of me understanding its story and the underlying message that comes with it. I want to show that all things are one, from the lofty heights of the mountains, to the valleys, to the oceans

Step 3

That radical change brought a lot of confusion from me, but, as often is the case, through that tangling of nerves and words, burst through what I wanted to do with the poem - like the sun's rays breaking through overcast heavens. I moved towards the idea of me "seeing" the path of its travels from the mountains to the ocean, while still unable to comprehend the story. So I was able to see it without understanding it and hoping that I will with the next trickle of the feeble sike. 

Step 4

This is the last step for today's post, but the project is not done yet; I will post the last one tomorrow.
Here, everything came together and I was able to see the poem a little more polished in terms of rhyming. I ditched the ABAB structure and moved towards ABACDC (I have it marked at the end of the lines).
The top part of the page is the raw writing, and the bottom is the easier to read handwriting with a little sketch I did about the scene.

I hope you were able to read the chicken handwriting (my apologies to the chickens worldwide) and understand the processes I went through. I will post the last version tomorrow, and, remember, this is a project poem and poetry is my weakness, so go easy on me...Thanks for your time and keep writing...

Zen Garden Experiences

I can't say I've learned all I can from my mini zen garden- nor can I say that I haven learned much- but I can say I've learned at least one thing; everything, no matter how small, is there for its own, special purpose. As I was pouring the sand in the wooden tray, I noticed that some of the ivory grains had spilled over the side and, even, on the books and desk. I contemplated just wiping and throwing them away, when it dawned on me that I should keep all parts of the garden (the littlest sand included) together for the special reason they were put together in the first place. What would it be like if I threw away every little grain that spilled on the side? In time, I would lose a significant amount of the sand.
I figured if the garden was to help me relax and meditate through action, the least I owed to it was to keep it together...to regard its every, individual member as important to my wellness. So I carefully, using one tooth of the small rake, pulled them back in with the other sand; I picked up the other ones from the books and the desk with my finger and brushed them off into the tray, too.
It's not only relaxing, but also helps focus my thoughts. As I focus on the work, my mind is deep in uninterrupted thought about something or the other, which helps clear things for me whether it be writing or otherwise.

Staying Alive!!!

It has been quite some time since I last posted something, but I've been busy working on the plays and some poems. I discovered the correct genre of poetry I love most is "epic." Sometimes, I feel as if the English language is still foreign to me because certain words, simple words, just elude my mind.
I have decided, egged on by certain folks, to look at the article about my mom, touch it up, and submit it somewhere. So far, it has received some good reviews, with some suggestions, when I posted it on a Facebook writer's group discussion board. We'll see how that goes.
Anyhows, work is complete on the second issue of Exile Calling, a few subscriptions have already come in (thank you, folks, now I can eat a hearty meal for at least one more day), and I am looking forward to writing some more.

Submitted Lyrics

I have just submitted two of my lyrics for possible publication in an anthology series and I'll be waiting to hear if they deem my work worthy of inclusion. As I mentioned in my first post, this blog is to chronicle my journey on this literary journey. To register my highs and lows. At the moment, I confess that my heart is heavy with self-doubt. I do my best to strive forward doing that which I love- writing- and to cope with other needs that come with life. I know I will succeed in the end, I have no doubt about it, but the beginning can be hard and discouraging. So, now I'll be waiting to see whether these lyrics are accepted (both or just one) and whether the theater picks my play for their upcoming season.
Before I forget, I have started work on my first novel, which is an adaptation of my first play. It is set in Rwanda and is about the possible dangers on one's path of following a dream. Hopefully, we can pick up production again in Atlanta next summer...I know the actors, actresses, and everybody else involved were disappointed with the postponement, but it will come through, I have no doubt.
Well, keep your fingers crossed for me...heck, cross those toes, too, for extra blessing...and send me a little word of encouragement if you visit this site.
I thank you, and wish you all a pleasant night...or morning...or afternoon.

Who Am I and What Am I currently working on?

My name is Eddie and I come from a small country in central Africa with a big, horrendous past. Rwanda is a place of indescribable beauty, where my heart still longs for after all these years outside. It has been 15 years since I crossed into the Democratic Republic of Congo (then Zaire) and left my beloved motherland behind. At the time, I did not look back, but I know I would go about doing it differently were I to be given another chance. I doubt my 11-year old mind even contemplated the possibility of spending so much time away from the only place it had known. that excitement of crossing into another country did not wear off until a decade later, when my heart, at last, began to long for the dusty roads my feet had trod in those bygone days.
I keep alive the memories by recounting my adventures to my friends and colleagues. I tell of the old mischievous doings, the thrashings I received for a milliard of offenses, and I tell of the stories of joy. Visiting my cousins (a welcomed reprieve from staying home as an only child), my first bike, learning to use a photo camera. I tell them all so I can remember. So I can relieve their thrills and terrors through the reactions they receive. I tell them because without them, I would not be the same person.
Now, I'm here blessed with experience of living in 6 countries and countless communities. I have been high and I have been low. I have laughed much and I have wailed much, but through it all I have had the guidance of a higher power, and, for that, I am grateful.
I currently have finished a full-length play "Where Flies Flock" and a 10-minute play "NoGood, NoWhere." I also have finished and am about to submit a couple of lyrics. As for what I'm working on, my biggest and proudest work is a play about my hero, Thomas Sankara. He is the assassinated president of Burkina Faso who worked to make Africa free and dignified. I am also working on a play about smuggling Africans from Africa to Europe, and a prose about a man falling in love on his way home from the market.
I will keep this up and we will stay in touch...please leave your mark, let me know you dropped by.
Thank you.