A Mind’s Dark Corner

To compound the anger comes news that the killer, Ahmad Al iwi Alissa, age 21, was being tracked by the FBI, was considered ‘deeply psychotic’ and troubled. After losing a wrestling match in high school Ahmad threatened to kill the winner.

A Mind’s Dark Corner

By BR Chitwood

*

Pretend if you will – only, pretend, please!  – that this post is written by a ‘mad man’!

Instead of sitting, stewing, and, in my mind, performing several hours of pain carving in my mind sharp little icons into the arms, chest, and face of the degenerate Boulder, Colorado bastard who killed a police officer and ten people, I grab my laptop and eliminate the hatred and evil thoughts that roam in wild waves through my mind.

I know that the majority of people who read this have their own anger and do not need my words to clash with their own.

To compound the anger comes news that the killer, Ahmad Al iwi Alissa, age 21, was being tracked by the FBI, was considered ‘deeply psychotic’ and troubled. After losing a wrestling match in high school Ahmad threatened to kill the winner.

We live in a big country with nearly 350 million people, and the United States cannot guarantee against such horrible crimes, so, we have to live with ‘trade-offs’ here and there. I get that. I’m sure we all get that, but it is still a hard pill to swallow by all of us who have some tenderness in our hearts, some regard for our neighbors and friends.

Being angry is easy. Most of us, if not all have been there, and we hate ourselves a bit when we adjust in our minds the intricate network that governs us.

These few short paragraphs have eased the negative flow of anger… Yes, the worst of our world stays with us until there is only a ‘soul’ somewhere in an eternity repair shop preparing us for another life – maybe, or a pure paradise.

I won’t be talking about other alternatives in the afterlife.

BR Chitwood – March 24, 2021

*

Check out my 20 books in most genres and over 370 blog posts, flash fiction, short stories at:

https:’//brchitwood.com

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‘Poor Me’

What molecular miracle could have made me more than I am? Less lonely and lethargic? Less maudlin and ‘poor me’?

‘Poor Me’

By BR Chitwood

Would a chromosome here or there have made a difference? A genetic anomaly? A stronger voice? A calm persona? Magnetic personality? An indefatigable nature?

What molecular miracle could have made me more than I am? Less lonely and lethargic? Less maudlin and ‘poor me’?

Oh, I know how to assess my beginning and all that came with my life’s rural entry… That is where much of the ‘poor me’ was introduced, forming in me for the rest of my life, frustration, loves, anxieties, and adventures…

Among the days, weeks, months, and years, I have not been denied the gifts of life or the vagaries. There has been the beauty of love, college, wonderful job opportunities, some fun film and television acting, friendships, novel writing…and the awful squandering of time and essence.

‘So, what, my man?’ I hear the old annoying voice of my alter-ego. ‘There are billions of people in the world – grow some balls’!

Hey, I’m writing here, ‘mute’ your nasty mouth and leave my head… I’m writing this for me and those who have felt similar emotions. Your rude attendance is not mandatory, nor, wanted…this session is for the sad and weak of heart, the Romantics, the dreary of character, the great mass of ‘unwashed’ of the world.

For the most part, it all began after my escape from the emotional rural abyss, after a tour of duty in the US Navy in one of its mentally depressive duty stations on the small, snowy, and bleak island of Adak in the Aleutian Chain. Russia was relatively close…on a clear day from our neighbor island, Attu, the coast-line of Vladivostok could be seen.

We were one hundred fifty especially trained men, some who would spend 18 months or longer on a snowy, remote, tundra-carpeted piece of the island – that is, when you could see it through patches of snow.

We 150 sailors were three units, each working our special jobs for three shifts before a break. Each unit was responsible for operating the various amenities available to the hardy group of sailors, those being: library, photography, crafts of all kinds, and Beer Bar. In fact, all 150 sailors lived and played in this huge concrete and steel one-level ‘C’ structure – it was quite a building sitting on a huge hill of tundra above the Bering Sea. There were other operations buildings where we did our jobs.

It is not my intent to make this post about the island of Adak. The ancient Aleuts who lived here had nothing better to do but hunt their cows (their meat source) and how best to keep from freezing. They need not have worried about bears taking their steaks (there were none). Eagles did give them a bit of trouble.

Adak was a place of harsh cold winds, snow, and rain where ‘warmth’ was in constant demand. Adak was simply a place where loneliness dwelt, where buddies sat, drank, told their stories of home, the girls they loved, and their sports moments of glory. There were times when group tears were shared as well. All in all, our jobs on the island were important to our country and that established importance got us through the tough spots.

Many of us lived on that hill or in our Ops buildings for our full tours – eighteen months, although the ‘tour was supposed to be for twelve months.

It was on Adak when I discovered further dimensions of myself, my insecurities, my mobile youth, fears, confusion, and my intense longing for home, hearth, and love.

In short, I discovered a ‘me’ that carried a lot of emotional baggage. I was a destined ‘romantic’ nomad. I was an untrained lotus eater.

There’s an old ‘Anon’ saying which I could have easily written: “Life is really simple! People insist on making it complicated.” Old ‘Anon’ had to be thinking of me when he, or, she wrote that.

In that Appalachian portion of my life – that ‘Poor Me’, among the bad parts, I would mimic ballad singers. Maybe I could be a famous singer. But, wait, I also wrote poetry and fumbled around with words. Maybe I could be a writer…well, I have done both, even done some film work and TV commercials, taught school, but the very best talent I have is, wait for it! Procrastination.

What I really wanted to do with this post, for you, the reader, and me, was to merge the two events in my life that have likely made me who I am, not a ‘nobody’, but an ‘anybody’. I have written here about two events in my thinking that were ‘me-shapers’ and will not write about some of the I’s and Q’s I am likely missing.

One thing I am reasonably sure about is my writing, twenty books so far, most of them taken from true crimes. I write mystery, suspense, romance, memoir, thriller, Sci-Fi. I have written over 370 blog posts from various parts of the globe.

So, take a look at my Website/Blog, click the menu icon and read some book synopses. See if my writing might team up with your reading.        

BR Chitwood – 3/15/21

Author’s Website and Blog: Books and Writings by BR Chitwood

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Idle Thoughts in the New Year

Idle Thoughts in the New Year

By BR Chitwood

I’m awake. I take a deep breath, laze, and ponder the day ahead…

I’m one of the lucky guys, did my hitch in the US Navy, got a college BA degree, somehow managed by the good and bad instincts within me to reach old age with a few good wives (only one at a time!), great kids, a lovely home, a few pets, and a truck load of bitching and moaning.

Mistakes? The accounting would be likely a glaring RED on the mythical scale judging rogues like me. Now, please take note, this is a constricted confession of me and my life, and I won’t be listing all my digressions, not even a small scintilla of them…anyone who has read any of my twenty-odd books and some 400 blog posts and poems will have spotted some of the RED.

I shall admit to one RED glare that some few of my family and friends know about…I’m driven by lethargy, okay, I’m lazy. Sure, ‘Arthur’ has something to do with that, but the truth is, after a short teaching stint, after many years in the textbook publishing business visiting the curriculum staff and department heads to promote major companies’ textbooks and aids – but mostly ‘schmoozing’, I became a Regional Manager, ultimately promoted to a National Sales Manager. The company would eventually merge, and I moved on to creating my own business.

My own business created a slow- moving life style that satisfied my latent and behavioral laid-back tendencies. The business opened the door to a long-held desire to write more often until it became the only reality for me. Maybe I can put the blame on writing for my lethargy.

So, from Appalachia and a plethora of emotional dips, turns, straw behindmy ears, I entered the human race.   

With my books, posts, poems, I find parts of me on, above, and below the lines of what I write. I see a bewildered young man discovering the neon madness of the world, watching it stagger and at times fall to the raw whimsy of charlatans and fools who believe only in power, money, and domination. AND, I see the goodness, the sadness of good people only wanting a fair and equitable life, comfort in their faith, and an eternal reward.

BR Chitwood – January 3, 2021

SEE MY BOOKS & BLOG POSTS/POETRY: https://www.brchitwood.com

Love Is

‘The Heart races to find love and soulmate’!

Love Is

By BR Chitwood

Love is the Soul responding to a vision,

The motion of a body

That moves in perfect tempo…

Love is the luscious face of Grace Kelly –

Be still, my racing heart,

Her smile facilitates its pounding…

Love is the seeking of one so lovely

To cease the Romantic Wanderlust,

To surfeit lingering desires of the heart…

*

By BR Chitwood – December 14, 2020

https://www.brchitwood.com

Hässlicher Geist der Nacht

‘Never forget the mass murders of millions’!

Hässlicher Geist der Nacht

(Hateful Spirit in the Night)

By BR Chitwood

Consuming Christmas Party libations beyond my good senses, a taxi took me home at 11:00 PM. Slightly inebriated and weary, I quickly undressed and went to bed. Sleep came before I could analyze any possible party behavioral glitches.

`Whether a ‘hateful ghost of night’ or not, Adolf Hitler was sitting on the edge of my bed as I turned to change positions, banging my hand on the headboard. As I bunched the bed covers around me on some obscure impulse, I could not turn my eyes away from the apparition on my bed.

Der deutsche Führer… (Okay, no more ‘showing off’ plus it takes time switching back and forth getting the translations.) The ruthless German leader, responsible for a war and executions of millions of good people in gas chambers, sat sullen staring at me fully dressed in his German uniform, knees crossed, his right hand holding a gun lazily on his lap, his eyes like daggers across the three feet of space between us.

The clock on the bedside table showed the time at 1:45 PM. I blinked a couple of times, and the German Bad-Ass was still there.

“Oh, now, I’m getting it. Which one of you apes at the office is it? Could it be you, Arnold? You have my only spare key – did your wife kick you out again?”

No reply, just the mean-looking eye movement and a sound similar to a weak whistling fart.

“Ah, C’mon, Arnold, I’m tired, man, still half-drunk, and the hangover will be brutal when I get up in the morning. Be gone, man, and sleep it off in the other bedroom. Arnold was a frequent visitor when he and his wife were spatting.”

He just sat there, same menacing pose, and, finally, he stood, the gun in his right hand, and loomed over me.

“Okay, I’m in a dream, and you are here to kill me for writing my Master’s Thesis about your mindless atrocities in the last century. I’m just curious, Adolf, libraries are filled with the history of your inhuman brutality and your unparalleled evil. Why, me? My ‘Masters paper’ was a simple thesis with echoes of your insane mass murders of the innocents.”

The shadowy figure took one step toward me, raised the gun, and pulled the trigger…

With my face soaked from the water pistol ammunition, Adolf-Arnold cocked his head to the right, put the toy gun in his pocket: “You forgot to take Mona’s Christmas present with you when you left the office Christmas party. Her flight arrives tomorrow, and I won’t be seeing you ‘til Christmas is over. Got to go, buddy, Brenda is waiting in the car.”

Arnold left.

After a long adjustment period, I left the wet sheets, checked the entire house, put Mona’s present under the small tree, drank some warm milk, blow-dried the mattress, put clean dry sheets on the bed, and collapsed my naked body into a fresh and restful sleep. It took a while…

*

By BR Chitwood – December 2, 2020

https://www.brchitwood.com

(Personal Website & Blogsite)

Author’s 20 Books with Synopses

Author’s 400+ Blog Posts

Follow Author at: twitter.com @brchitwood

Writing and Me

Read, Write, Experience!

by BR Chitwood

Most people who write and those who wish to write likely know that the libraries of the world are comfortably stacked with the ‘how to’ of creative writing. Writing for years, I guess the thing for me is, I have to do my own struggling, find my own way of saying things with these fingers that dance along the laptop keys.

The question for me is not so much, how successful can I be financially in my writing? (Don’t get me wrong, why would I mind at all cashing a lot of royalty checks!) It has simply been for me more important at this juncture in my life finding out the boundaries and dimensions about where I’ve been, all the bad experiences, all the good, and getting a better idea of who I really am. My books have plots, and they have characters. These plots and these characters serve me and give me a chance perhaps to ‘muse and fuse’, to discover some things about me I never knew. I like to say, ‘Readers can find me on and between the lines of what I write’. It is true for me, and ‘finding me’ between my lines is not always a gratifying view of myself – not that I wish to leave with the reader the impression that I’m an unsavory character, just that I have made mistakes of the heart and mind.

Sure, I want my books interesting enough to be read, enjoyed, and to have people talking about them. The most important thing, though, for me, is being true to me, plumbing my depths, finding the music of my soul, and hoping I discover more of me.

Ego?

Maybe so. But it has got to be me finding out whether or not I’m any good at this business of writing. I think maybe I am. It’s not that I’m not willing to learn — it’s just, it better be there within me now, this style thing, this appeal to readers, because I’m not necessarily going to find it in the library…been there, done that.

I’m thinking we do it by ‘doing it,’ over and over again… if we’re any good, we need to trust that little voice inside that says we are.

Everyone has to do her and his own thing. I’m old enough to think I’m just as right as some folks who write about writing and maybe too dumb and inflexible to realize I’m singing a song here with a guitar out of tune.

That’s what I’m thinking!

I’ve written twenty books, some inspired by true crimes and beastly appetites of abuse… Perhaps I write in those genres because my own young life was touched by murder, abuse and poverty. So, I write in those genres of Mystery and Suspense, but also in the Romance genre, Love stories connected to History, and two Memoirs.

My personal Website and Blog features all my 20 books, complete with synopses, and my blog has a near 400 posts, including short stories, Flash Fiction: https://www.brchitwood.com

Please visit my site. Hopefully, you will find my writing interesting.

BR Chitwood – November 29, 2020

https://www.brchitwood.com Books & Posts

Follow me on Twitter:

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The Essence of Love

God Bless all the little creatures of the world!

By BR Chitwood

During the soothing touches of my massage by a good and lovely wife, we chatted about one of our small pets… I thought the story of how we met our little cottontail rabbit and our seven-year love affair with that cottontail might have some soft and tender moments to convey. The morning was bleak, gray, and looked like snow. The trees were stark and sad without their leaves against the gray backdrop. It was much like the day ‘Christmas’ came into our lives.

Julie and I lived in Cave Creek, Arizona with Toby, our beautiful and faithful golden retriever. It was Christmas night around 10:30 PM and Julie took Toby out into our front courtyard for a tinkle session and to turn off the holiday lights on the few small trees and bushes. Julie heard a quick rasping sound among the gravel and brush. Toby suddenly assumed his retriever pose near our courtyard wall of stucco.

Toby maintained his pose there in the courtyard looking somewhat dumbfounded with his head arching downward and trying to see why the squeaky-sounding creature might be quivering under his furry body. Julie saw that it was a small cottontail rabbit, obviously recently born, seeking refuge under Toby’s body. Julie picked the tiny rabbit up and put it in the palm of her hand. She could see from the holiday lights that some animal, perhaps a coyote, had caused some serious damage to the rabbit. It had one eye missing and its small head was bloody and appeared just recently attacked.

With Toby softly moaning at her side, Julie carefully carried the cottontail into the house and began her miracle nursing. She wrapped the one-eyed cottontail in a small blanket, found in our garage an old cage we had once kept our lop-eared rabbit, Gigi, and put her tiny wounded creature inside. Julie put the cage and rabbit in the room she used as an office, with Toby still softly moaning and keeping careful watch.

The next morning Julie went to see a Veterinarian friend nearby and was told that the most humane thing to do would be to put the rabbit out of its misery. What the Vet did not know was that my wife is a true animal lover and refused to take to heart her pronouncement. Julie persisted, and the Vet finally gave her a small doll’s bottle for feeding, some kitten formula, and recommended that Visine drops be put in the rabbit’s good eye, that Neosporin be used on the gashed head, and that the formula be fed every two hours..

Julie returned home to find Toby in a state of frenzy. The cottontail had somehow managed to get out of the cage. Julie finally found the rabbit under her desk near the cage. Then Julie began the steady nursing and rehabilitation of the tiny desert cottontail. Every two hours, Julie brought our new pet, ‘Christmas’, out to the great room, wrapped in its blanket, fed it and tended to the wounds. The incredible thing was that Toby played Dad and Mom to this little furry creature, nosing its little bottom up in the littler box to make it go potty.

For me, it was a remarkable period as I watched all of this play out over the following days and weeks. Julie is the most patient and caring person I know. She loves animals, family, and children more than anyone I have ever known. She even loves me, and I consider myself one of the luckiest men in the world.

‘Christmas’ moved with us to a lake community and thrived with her daily routines of treats, going to her guest bedroom hideout under the bed, returning to Julie’s office to be fed. Julie was the only person that ‘Christmas’ would allow lap time. And, after seven years with us, that is where ‘Christmas’ died, on Julie’s lap.

It was early morning and Julie had come to her office where ‘Christmas’ litter box and feeding took place. Julie would habitually hide little treats around the office for ‘Christmas’ to find. This particular morning, all ‘Christmas’ wanted was to be on Julie’s lap. With tears flowing, Julie softly stroked with her forefinger the fur on ‘Christmas’ back, her barely audible breathing fainter with each passing minute.

We all cried, even Toby, when ‘Christmas’ died. She had become part of our family. I found a shoe box, lined it with tissue and a treat, and placed ‘Christmas’ in it. Julie, Toby, and I drove some miles to the country, found an old gnarled oak tree near a farmer’s field and, after a few words of love, buried ‘Christmas’ there.

Even in writing this, in the remembrance, tears easily come.

Perhaps, that is the essence of love. Perhaps that is why God gave us enduring souls.

***

BR Chitwood – (From the Archives) – November 28, 2020

https://www.brchitwood.com (Website & Blog & my Books)

Follow on Twitter.com @brchitwood

Pumpkin Pie and Tomorrow’s Promise

“Pumpkin Pie and Hope for Tomorrow!”

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

Pumpkin Pie and Tomorrow’s Promise!

By BR Chitwood

Most of us are always in the moment of a calendar’s celebration…

This year, we citizens of the world who still believe in tradition and well-wishing will put on that in the moment face over a family Thanksgiving dinner, and an invisible cloud of uncertainty above our place settings. Our smiles and the anecdotes displayed will have an invisible cautionary reality of new hope, promise, and doubts which is exactly as it should be.

 We sit at our Thanksgiving family tables and give thanks to our Deity, if that is our wont, for seeing us through another year of death and living, of Medical and government officials seeking control over a menacing virus that is killing millions, of another presidential election fraught with fraud, duplicate ballots, chicanery far and beyond any we have seen in our lifetimes, political parties going in different directions, with some of its members sheltered by the riches of the ‘Swamp Dwellers’.

It is not unlikely that the conversation will mildly and slowly evolve to these dreadful subjects, and most families will handle the pros and cons of these monologues and dialogues with tacit awareness that all at the table will not have agreement on the issues.

After the turkey and pumpkin pie, family members, will play their games of Trivia, Charades, and/or, weather permitting, horseshoes, pitch and catch in the backyard…

Soon, the grandparents, uncles, aunts, brothers, sisters go home with family love in their hearts but a ‘never before’ felt deep uncertainty as to how their country will turn out once the virus has been controlled through vaccines and the political wars ahead…another Civil War, undocumented immigrants coming in thousands across our borders, a serious and alarming tilt toward Socialism where citizens serve their ‘big tech’, ‘global conglomerate,’ ‘big money’ power brokers?

They will likely be very different Thanksgiving dinners from those of our recent pasts, people defying the political leaders’ mandates regarding attendance numbers, perhaps more arguments than in the past, more pent-up aggression and anxiety.

Then, who knows?

We could be turning corners dictated by a history already predicted and about to be recorded, a history that is actually a new edition of We the People and God Bless America.

Who knows?

*****

By BR Chitwood

https://www.brchitwood.com

Sinful Desperation

“Maureen died last night, Father.”

Picture

Sinful Desperation

Flash Fiction by B R Chitwood-

*****

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”

He stared at the ceiling as he reclined on the big bed, his naked body stretched straight, seeking relief from his back pain.

“It’s been years, my son, since your last confession. I hear desperation in your voice. Is the Church your last bastion of hope?”

A mournful smile of contrition and watery eyes looked upward to the ceiling. He would play both parts of this little satire from his soul, not mocking the billions of people who habitually practiced their faith in a Deity, rather, an awkward attempt at an anodyne for his pain.

“Yes, Father, on all accounts…” a back spasm interrupted his soliloquy and he sought another position on the bed. He was too tightly wound and needed to move his limbs in some exercises the cute young lady in physical therapy had insisted he practice each day.

Finally, he found some relief and continued with his conversation with the ‘Holy Father’ there in the center of his ceiling. “Yes, Father, many years, and, in conflicting ways, a lifetime ago, yet, now, here, as the filmstrip of my earthly adventure unveils itself to me, my weekly spiritual visits to your Church seems not so far away.”

The man was almost ready to hear a reply. Not to be, he continued.

“So, on to my confession, Father, one, I fear will take more than a few ‘Hail Marys’ and a heavy penitence to absolve.” The man closed his eyes and his face took on a grimace.

“I confess to one of Man’s oldest of the seven sins, Pride. All my life I’ve taken umbrage with people who sully me, sometimes, in simple remarks that attempt to jest and tease. Perhaps that sin comes from a youthful disconnect with family and a poor quality of life. This sin has cost me friends and love connections. It is also truth to say it is the least of my sins.

“I confess to an earlier life rife with excessive sensual pleasures, Lust/Debauchery of the wicked and most wild, orgy-filled, salacious kind. I sought out and experimented with life’s underworld of Bacchus-plus drug madness. There were moments of intense euphoria, gratification, and immoral depravity.

“And, when the days and nights of playing Nero’s mad fiddle ended, there were tears, self-recrimination, times for soul-wrenching and no resolutions: preparation-time, it could be said, for the next ‘big toot’.

“I confess, Father, to periods of Envy, of Sloth, of Gluttony, and of Greed.

“There remains one more sin, Father, that of Wrath. I have saved it for the final portion of my confession because there was a prelude of most, if not all, the seven virtues before its denouement… a period in my life of happiness so fulfilling, so real, that it seemed my life had found its right and true moral compass.

“Having run the gamut of my ‘fiddling’ days, I sought to find a more righteous purpose in my life. A friend of mine who had been lost in the same forest of shame as I invited me to go to church with him on a beautiful Sunday morning in June. After smiling stupidly at the idea, I decided to go…to see how the ‘moral half’ lived.

“Are you still with me, Father? Have I lost you in my recount of decadence?”

The man could almost see the Father’s smile. “How could I not? What with such an interesting life you present to me?”

“You, Father, speak with a forked tongue. You must know it’s the fires of hell I’m destined for!

“Whatever, at the beautiful church with my friend, I met Maureen, a woman of remarkable beauty I felt destiny had placed in my path. We both felt a Karmic bonding and began a long relationship which ended in marriage.

“Our love was pure and, by any standard, storybook. We danced in the moonlight and worked every day at our jobs, saved our money and became wealthy, mostly by her artistic talent and her huge following. We were together all the moments we were not working or at a painting exhibition.

“We had a baby boy who died in his sixth month of an undiagnosed tumor.

“Maureen and I were devastated by Brian’s death, but, for her, there was an emptiness she could not fill. She began drinking. She stopped painting, and fate pulled her from me into the arms of another man. She was still trying to fill the void left by Brian.

“We began to argue, our spats becoming an ugly, yet another obtrusion to our love.

“Last night, Maureen arrived home after midnight, clearly in the mood for another spat. I pleaded with her to go to bed. She became infuriated with me and began slapping me. The slaps made me angry, and I tried to wrap my arms around her to carry her off to bed. She stomped my foot with the heel of her shoe and pushed me backward. I began to fall and grabbed her wrist instinctively to secure my footing. Then, she, too, began to fall, and I let go so she could get her footing. Her head banged loudly into the granite counter in our bar area and she went down onto the carpet, blood spreading out in a profuse flow from the gash. Maureen died last night, Father.”

The man could almost hear the sorrow in the Father’s voice, see the pain on his face through a small imagined window in a small imagined confessional.
On the bed, as tears flowed from the man’s eyes, he saw a pale shadowy figure, an apparition, Maureen, her arms extended toward him, her sad tearful eyes and still beautiful face beckoning to him.

The man’s face was covered in tears, his voice gagging and pitiful gasps, as he thrust the butcher knife upward into his heart.

The bedroom was silent in its darkness as the two wraiths walked across the room to eternity.

*****

Flash Fiction by B R Chitwood –

-From the Archives-

Please preview my books/blogs at:

https://www.brchitwood.com

Please follow me on:

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Demented Pleasure

“Any chance for an editor somewhere getting all atremble about my writing?” (Just asking!)

©Demented Pleasure

BR Chitwood

What manner of demented pleasure do I receive by  

The daily pounding of these laptop keys?

Most certainly not the accolades written in copious

affirmational delight with so much ease…

Please mind not what seems vain adolescent tripe…

Each of us in turn have found our time to gripe.

My observation is, writers bear it alone for hours,

and become inured to the ‘hearts and flowers’.

So, write your historic epic, your suspense thriller,

just remember, there are millions drafting a chiller…

*

by BR Chitwood

https://www.brchitwood.com

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