Story cover for Kick-starter by PSarahN
Kick-starter
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  • WpHistory
    Time 1h 30m
  • WpView
    Reads 156
  • WpVote
    Votes 2
  • WpPart
    Parts 23
  • WpHistory
    Time 1h 30m
Ongoing, First published Jan 27, 2016
Mature
I've recently found that a good way to start my mind to flow, especially when I'm not in the mood to write, is to be given a kick-starter. With that I mean: An idea, a sentence, a quote. Once I see this I write freely and from there my mind begins to reveal what I really want to express. So these are my kick-starters. 
Some of these are taken from my Creative Writing class, or school, or from this amazingly cool writing book I found at Books-A-Million, or my own thoughts. Some of these are good, some bad, some don't make sense. But in the end, they kick-started my creative mind. I hope you enjoy!
(The picture, if you are too lazy to depict it on your own, basically has some form of meaning to myself. I am just a girl, too tired most times, with a bunch of 'fishes' swimming around inside my head all day, and sometimes I have to work to lift the bowl from my head and let all the fishes out.)
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A fucking mess of poems dead stories

70 parts Complete Mature

FINISHED AND COMPLEATED. Just poems, I suppose. Or maybe a scrapbook of scars. A chaotic collage of half-born stories, abandoned plots, and feelings too loud to ignore. This isn't a novel. It's a graveyard of unwritten books- stitched together with ink and impulse. A little trauma here, a little heartbreak there. Addiction. Bad parents. Dangerous love. The usual mess. I never claimed to be a poet, but pain has a way of teaching rhythm. And when the stories in my head refused to become chapters, they became verses instead. My father? A ghost in flesh. A man who cradled needles more tenderly than he ever held me. He is an addict. A lover of oblivion. And I, the daughter left behind in the smoke of his escape. Does that make me a girl with "daddy issues"? Or just a girl still learning how not to bleed from wounds she didn't choose? This book is for the overthinkers, the almost-authors, the ones who feel too much and write too little- until the words finally spill out like blood on the page. Welcome to the ride. There's no exit. But there's poetry in the wreckage. Author's Note I didn't set out to write a book. I set out to survive my own mind. This is what happens when you have too many stories, too many ghosts, and not enough discipline to finish a single novel. So instead, I wrote poems- or something like them. Fragments. Feelings. Flashbacks. A scrapbook of the soul. Some of these pieces are fiction. Some are memory. Some are just what happens when you stare at the ceiling too long and let your thoughts rot into poetry. If you've ever had a thousand ideas and no idea where to start- if you've ever felt too broken to write but too full not to- this is for you. Thanks for riding with me. There's no map. No neat ending. Just the wreckage, and the words we make from it.