The moments between watching what you want, and getting what you want.


Without her I am mush.
Like baby food. I am purple carrots and peas.
I am crippled by my inspiration and by my motivation, like evil clockwork or like the infinitely more evil circle of life. When I am with her, I have the inspiration to write – to write books and poems and music; to cherish every frame my brain captures of her – and yet, when I am with her I find no justification for leaving her in favor of my words. Then, when I am alone, my muscles burn with motivation – with the desire and need to produce; to create; to make use of my free time by developing my sentences and words and to do what is written in my very skin to do, and yet…
Without her, I am dried of inspiration. It is an uncommon curse – to see something so perfect that it shadows everything else. To dry the well of inspiration life has to offer because forever and always, she is what life should be. How silly, then, for that tree to grow like that, when it would look so much better if it looked like her. How stupid, for that rose to smell as it does, when it would smell leagues better if it smelled more like her. How embarrassing to think that the wind even breezes, when it would feel so much better if it moved even slightly more like her.

Life, in contrast, is pathetic.

But it is not always so. See, like a diamond, she does not keep all the light to herself. She prisms it out in many colors and hues and projects it to every corner of the world, so that when she is present, all of life becomes incredible. And once again, my inspiration returns. Unfortunately, she is an addiction and I cannot put her down, so I step right into that wicked clockwork of inspiration versus motivation.

They key, it seems, is to watch her but not have her. To be near her but not with her. To yearn for her, not to indulge in her.

Like asking a smoker to watch a lit cigarette, then write about it. It is in those words that you catch true desire – true passion and need.

The moments between watching what you want, and getting what you want.

The Lights In The Sky, Part 1

The Lights In The Sky, 1

A Children’s Epic by G. Z. Kieft

Once upon a time,

In a magical kingdom far away,
Ruled by a King and Queen who loved their land,
Nearly as much as their daughter, Faye.

They lived as a family inside their castle,
And did their people many favors,
Every man and woman there,
Were treated as if neighbors.

But one man, old and tired,
Lived not on their land, even beside it,
And although he slept inside the castle,
Nobody knew that he resided.

This old man was Oliver,
And there wasn’t too much magical with him.
He spent his mornings reading papers,
And afternoons were spent gardening.

Granted, he didn’t have much of a garden,
Only one cactus and a pot of weeds,
But the care he took was much alike,
To a master gardener and his deeds.

Oliver had one job to do,
In the castle filled with magic,
To change the light bulbs once they die,
And take old ones to the attic.

But one day, all lights went out,
The entire kingdom was in darkness,
And grumpy old Oliver awoke,
Thinking it was harmless.

But as Oliver went through the castle,
To change the old bulbs out first,
And slowly light came back on,
He noticed outside was worse!

“Why, the whole kingdom was black”,
He mumbled to no one.
What kind of power outage,
Could cause this much to be done?

Suddenly, from out the shadows,
A young child came to his side,
A crown was placed upon her head,
She had golden locks, and pure green eyes.

There was no mistaking,
This one here was Princess Faye,
But on her lashes, Oliver saw,
Some drops of wetness, she was dismayed.

Oliver lit one light bulb then,
And whispered to her kindly,
“This is just a power outage,
No need to feel so frightly.”

But Princess Faye just shook her head,
And Oliver then asked, “What’s wrong?”
Fay responded with her tears,
Then bellowed, “They’re gone, they’re gone!”

Oliver discovered then,
That the King and Queen had been spirited away,
By a witch there, oh so evil,
She promised to return for Faye.

“Don’t worry,” Oliver ordered,
“We’ll find your mom and dad, we will.”
And he took Faye upon his shoulders,
And slowly took her to the windowsill.

“See all those stars, way up high?”
Oliver asked, pointing.
“No matter how dark this gets,
They’ll always be glowing.”

And that’s the day,
When Oliver found his fate.
To take the Princess,
And leave their estate.

What he would do when confronting the witch,
He did not know.
But one thing was certain,
He wouldn’t stop until all lights glowed.


To Be Continued…

Projects (Excuses)

Anybody that knows me knows that I’m horrible with multitasking. Want me to text and walk? I hope there’s no walls around. Want me to talk and navigate heavy traffic? I’ll have my insurance card ready. Want me to maintain a blog and develop a new story? I’ll just develop a new story.

That’s exactly what I’ve been working on, along with moving and starting a new job.

Despite my lifelong rebellion against timelines, lists and organization, I have buckled down and written a 10 page broad summary of a cycle of books. I will start writing this after my next two page love story.

Also, for my birthday, my girl edited the book I already finished, so soon I’ll be posting an excerpt and title for that.

I don’t have internet so I’m forced to visit Starbucks for these posts, therefore the scarcity of posting.

I think that’s it.

Shepherd To My Comfort


Words burst from my brain,
Thirst for verses disperse through my veins,
Alphabet poisoning, now I’m insane,
I’m penning my thoughts on the face of a page,
Relentlessly pressing the words from my rage,
Compressed and regressed but their worth stays the same,
And call it coincidence that it rhymes with your name.
But rage boils down and pain falters,
Walls once put up, suddenly crumble,
Look at your eyes, look at your face,
Look at the void that once took your place,
Look at the want, look at the grace,
Your blood is the antidote to the poison in my veins.
I can’t stay angry, not even for a second,
Your smile cures all the insecurities present.

And then just like that,
The pain goes away.
You’re the shepherd to my comfort,
When it has fallen astray.

My SOS to writers: The Red Pen


Look at that pen. Digging its sharp, judgmental point into the body of my story and ripping it out. Tearing at its bones and purging its blood until the only thing left is the crippled, once mighty shadow of my creativity. Here lies my bravado – splintered by the detrimental jabs of the RED PEN.

So far I’ve only edited 30 pages of my book. This is the most tedious, horrifying work mankind has ever had to commit themselves to.

Yes, EVER.

I would love for the magical fairy of editing to come by and edit this garbage for me, but I know there’s no such thing as letting someone else edit your first rough draft, much less the magical fairy of editing – not with this many commas. He’d rip me apart.

My girl has edited a few pages, and as much as it crushed my ego and bruised my confidence to see that I am not 200% perfect, it has definitely helped me reshape what was previously misshapen.

The problem is she’s eight billion times busier than me and has no time to read all 80,000 words, especially with my demands (printed pages, color coded for corrections, additions, notes, funny parts, boring parts and interesting parts, all neatly penned by hand) and I know deep down in my soul that it is my responsibility – my debt to my story and my characters – to edit the first draft myself.

I know there are a lot of writers on here. Do you guys have any advice? Apart from just writing it right the first time?

I need help.