amwriting the point of the quill


amwriting the point of the quill


I am writing. Though a failed spinal reconstruction is now gripping my spine in an evil clamp, I am writing. Though I slip into fevers that last weeks from severe r.a./lupus sle, I am writing. Though I must fight with the state for the egregious bills they charge me because I’m under 50 and sick, I am writing. Though the pain grips me so much I stare into space unable to stand every second of it, I am writing.

Though I often can’t use my hands to type, I am writing. 

Why? Because a man whom I’ve never met but who understands far more than I obstacles is sitting in his wheelchair and building empires. Because of this man, I am writing. 

Thank you for your example, Jon. And this quote I am hanging on my bedside:


The more I write, the more I realize building a career as a writer isn’t about smarts or talent or even discipline. It’s about guts.



To guts and gumption and you.


What obstacles do you overcome in your writing? Be fearless and write a few words in the comments.



See Jon Morrow’s Letter to Writers

An Open Letter to Writers Struggling to Find Their Courage

Photo Credit: Kozzi

Can Anyone Give Me a Hand?




(from http://thepointofthequill.wordpress.com/?p=554&preview=true)


It is time for me to roll out the red carpet for my awards ceremony thanks to TLN and his award. I will have to wait a bit though as I have had an injury of sorts.

Before I go further, I want to thank the beautiful Cheryl Moore for dedicating part of her ongoing story to me. She writes and draws at Unbound Boxes Limping Gods , an incredible work in progress. Both her words and artwork are a dream. I had written her after being transfixed with a drawing of one of her characters, Ancille , that seemed to me to move off the page, so enlivened was her artwork. The amazing thing is she thanked me for her work of art. How that generosity of spirit manifests is itself a thing of beauty. Thank you, Cheryl.

I haven’t written lately due to a hand injury. I had lost the use of my dominant hand. I couldn’t will a finger up if I tried. Now there is a revolving door of sweet nurses, talented physical therapists, occupational therapists; and I must leave shortly for a doctor’s appointment.

Thanks to an angel of a friend, I have now Dragon, the speech-to-text software which still is trying to learn the funny ways of my speech and thanks to a dear friend, Jen, a wonderful headphone and mic. Thank you, Jen.

The hand is getting better, but it has been very frustrating. This happened just after I was accepted with a scholarship to The Story Cartel. I am reminded of the injury my brother sustained as a violinist when he broke a wrist bone. He went into a severe depression due to his limitations. Though my reaction has been somewhat different, there have been periods of, well, even a writer finds it hard to find words for the abysmal feelings we must fight against as if our very soul depends upon it. In many ways, I believe it does; our soul must create, and any wall we encounter to that goal seems higher as our spirit is crushed further. My fight has been both physical and spiritual; but I am fighting. I am fighting the good fight, as a writing friend has stated.

Though it sounded quiet Freudian to me, it turned out to be an autoimmune reaction; as it was explained to me. The circuits between the hand and brain just stopped. Okay. Whatever; I just wanted my hand back. It was quite timely as May is the month of Lupus Awareness Month. Ironically, the Lupus Association decided this year that a symbol of awareness and solidarity for a cure would be to hold your right hand up in an L-shape. I just had to laugh as this disease is nothing if not ironic.

I must go to the dreaded doctor, but I will be back to post more and will be visiting all of you as I have missed you. Be well and happy.

Image credit: Agustín Ruiz via Compfight  

Hard Day’s Night


lupus sle

 Amir Jina via Compfight


The Beatles had a song for everything. I slept finally, my brain drained from the pain; screaming in my sleep where I used to laugh. None of us knows when we are going to die, but it gets a little closer when you are facing down the barrel of the gun that is going to kill you; in my case, the gun is an unseen disease called ‘autoimmune disease.’


One of the many ironies of my life; I have something that attacks my body and causes it slowly to eat away at every cell, organ, bone on the inside.


It is what the normal process of life is but sped up like night lights on a fast photo time lens.


When the doctor had first mentioned it to me, I had to ask him to say it again and slowly. “Your cells are attacking themselves.” blah blah blah,” he said.


“No please how can that be?” I asked. “It makes no sense.”


It was like the game my older brother and sister played with me as a child; “stop hitting yourself.”


The game made me laugh because it was so ironic; the love of irony a gift from God given to me early in life. This game involved the elders taking my arm and hitting my face with my arm while saying, “Stop hitting yourself!”


I would laugh and laugh, and it got to be harder and harder to pull my arm away because I was laughing so much; I couldn’t stop myself.


Well, believe me, I’m not laughing now.


The auto-immune cells that would protect a normal person attack cells that help with the natural daily living of a body. They attack other “helpful” cells where they should actually leave them alone.


This speeds up the natural flow of death at a certain percentage (in my case ‘aggressively.’)


I don’t sleep much now partly from the pain and also what I term the ‘pain nightmare’: Every time I moved I groaned becoming more and more conscious of the pain. All the more ironic because I pray for relief from the ever-presence of this aggressive beast.