Head to Desk

for the 5000th time this year.

100 words written, read (no kidding) about 15 times, tweaked (a lot), published.

Come back 25 minutes later, reread and see: you’re for your.

Gremlins or fatigue…take your pick, but still a bruised forehead.

On another note, thanks to those of you who expressed your opinion on my color scheme. As you will have noticed, I am almost back to where I was last year at this time. Is that progression or regression?




Can’t Write Scared

dVerse~ Poets Pub OpenLinkNight #196


Can’t Write Scared

At university

the stoned poet said

“you can’t write scared”–

I continued

each word precisely penned

attuned to imaginary readers

whose lips curled derisively

on occasional lapses

of censorship.

I was an egg

concealed in a flimsy shell

like another half-dozen

cosseted caricatures

playing writer

spinning trite phrases

of sweet sounding words

imaginings of pink packaged

saccharine sentiment

but then I succumbed

to non-consumption.


On rebirth I cried

“you can’t write scared”

and I didn’t, for a while

developed succinct style

of hewn craft on drafts

pinched words like pennies

wanted bennies, not

in my twenties anymore.

Fear pervades the core

bores into the brain

insane unremarkable drivel

pours through pores

I wrote scared

but scarred surfaces

surge upward

like polished wood

trampled on daily

til frailty exists no more.



Sascha Darlington

(oops. I had farce in there, but deleted it.)


Writing Reader Observation #4: 5 Thoughts for Writers

“Just write every day of your life. Read intensely. Then see what happens. Most of my friends who are put on that diet have very pleasant careers.”
—Ray Bradbury


Continue reading

Reflections of…the way life used to be* #atozReflections #atozchallenge


A to Z Challenge Reflections

This was my first A to Z Challenge so it was quite an experience. Fortunately I have done nanowrimo and octpowrimo so I do have some experience with the task of writing everyday. It was very, very nice to have Sundays off though, which you don’t get with the other two challenges.

What made this a tremendous experience for me was finding fellow bloggers who were also doing the challenge. Some bloggers I’ve been reading for months and some were new to me, but I enjoyed reading their works progress through the month.

Continue reading

Writing Reader Observation #2

“The greatest part of a writer’s time is spent in reading, in order to write; a man will turn over half a library to make one book.”
—Samuel Johnson


Lifestyle Interruptus

This is a two parter. Interruptions in thrillers and romances. Continue reading

Writing Reader Observation #1

“If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. ” ― Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft


Regardless of whether you’re a fan of Stephen King’s or not, his advice regarding reading is spot on. How can you be a good writer if you don’t read? It’s kind of like a writer’s apprenticeship. Reading shows you what to do and sometimes what NOT to do.

Today marks the start of what will be a semi-regular feature on the Microcosm. I’m going to share with you some observations, unfortunately mostly what-not-to-do’s, from the books that I’ve read while blogging.


The following is paraphrased from the novel I’m currently reading:

The character is on the phone. The British man says to her:

“We want to use the telly.”

My reaction when reading: what does their wanting to watch the tv have to do with her being on the phone?

Reading on I realize that the author thinks the British use “telly” to mean phone. They don’t. “Telly” refers to television.

Lesson Learned: Don’t use slang unless you are positive of the meaning; if nothing else, google. If you don’t want to do that, just use the term common to your own language.

As a writer you always want to maintain the “fictional dream,” which is interrupted when you use the wrong word.


The Next Time

You weren’t expected. Obviously.

His door is open. She’s giggling. You hear his soft laugh join hers. She’s leaning over his desk, supposedly pointing at data, but her blouse gapes open to show what little cleavage she has. He looks. Of course, he looks. She catches him and purses her lips, the smile still there. Her fingers reach toward his face and as they are about to caress his beard, you step in the room.

“The car’s broke down,” you say, jangling your keys.

She leans back, no apology in her eyes. The next time you’ll be on the interstate.


end 6/16/2016

©S. Darlington

Bite the Censor

I’ve never been afraid of the nighttime, darkness closing in. Rather, it’s been a time of security and creativity as well as abandonment by the persnickety writing censor who lurks during the daylight as if working a nine-to-five shift, insisting that I must only write the safe, the easy, the careful (but never the good, the bad, the ugly).

The summer’s night brings nature’s evensong, the tremulous last calls of the robins as darkness descends, cicadas and katydids, owls and Eastern whippoorwills; the latter you will only hear if you’re very lucky, but once heard remains with you like a reverent chorus. I’ve reveled in this song because it claims chords I feel are my own.

I cherish the title of night owl. I used to feel somewhat miffed because there was a set of people who, everyday, were awake for the sunrise or found the energy to jog at 6 am or pursued any of the early morning activities I seemed to only accomplish once before my body said: that was a really nice morning, but let’s sleep in tomorrow. However, I recently read a study that said night owls tend to be more creative thinkers and perhaps even more intelligent, so now, regardless of whether the study will be disproved down the line, I relish being a night owl.

Perhaps I now brawl with my persnickety censor because I blink and months pass, forming years. The word “jettison” springs to mind. These days we fight often because I want to write uncensored all of the time. I want to express myself without fear, regardless of whether the sun is shining or not. My censor sometimes wins these battles, usually without my knowledge, because playing it safe is ingrained for protection. He says to me: “What if you write something and someone doesn’t like it? What if they mock you? What if they harass you? What if they don’t click the ‘like’ button? What if? What if? What if?”

I want to be a writer who isn’t afraid . . .

When I am fully aware, I can counter his questions. When I am not, he subliminally rules and subjugates my ideas until they are deemed, in his eyes, harmless. Despite my intentions, I fall into being careful, writing carefully. This is no longer who I want to be. I want to be a writer who isn’t afraid, who can put herself, true self, on display, vulnerabilities, insecurities, securities, mistakes, acceptance, no facades. If I persevere, I will own the daylight as well as the darkness.

For joviality? That last bit me-dears, just makes me sound like a writing vampire in transition.

end 7/7/2016


My Pleasure

Because of circumstances deliciously out of my control, I am revisiting my pleasure. Upon arrival, I was sent a rainbow, which I’ll show you tomorrow, because it’s late and I have little patience at the moment for card readers and transferring files.

It was a long drive from DC to Sandbridge Beach, when it shouldn’t have been, but we are talking about I-95, which, for those of you who are not familiar with the East Coast of the United States, is a parking lot masquerading as a highway/motorway.

And then there were so many accidents on I-64, the route that takes one east toward the beaches. I even saw one with several gentlemen navigating cars just a bit too close to each other. But what more could they expect?

Upon arrival, there were multiple thunderstorms…and then a rainbow, a complete rainbow, but I only have pictures of each section (for you tomorrow…ha).

I just went outside where the breeze is blowing temperate air and the sky is full of stars and lightning flashes across the sky stubbornly, yet brilliantly, and I thought: pleasure. Relaxation. Heaven on earth.

I try to be mindful, appreciate where I am in space or time, but sometimes it’s hard. This week was hard and I don’t know why. I am a person given to frequently over thinking and  over feeling and maybe that was it. Maybe it was all something outside and inside and everywhere in between. It would be nice to know where these feelings that catch us up originate from, but would knowing help? Would knowing make it better?

Regardless, I am here in the space that gives me a great pleasure and for which I feel lucky.

I’ve heard people say: oh, I’m not beachy as if it were just some bikinied slathering of sunscreen and inane qualities on the sand. And, I guess I can see where that would have some merit, but being here, with the tide constant and soothing and the stars twinkling and the frogs singing on the bay and feeling the soft breeze on my cheeks, I have only pleasure, even if I’m not bikinied and oil slathered. I feel rejuvenated and whole and I feel enough to push the week’s overwhelming sadness somewhere far beyond me. And, right now, I appreciate just how fortunate I am.