Rianna Shaikh's Blog, page 31

Once a rider

darling dearest,

She was once strong, brave, broken et accepting of her role. She held her reins and lead the way.
If she fell she’ll never tell you anyway.
She fisted her glove from her saddle and galloped away ‘til the wind blew and brushed her helmet hair across her face.
Revered in hopes of the past, she stared ahead to the thought of a brighter day.
Even if you didn’t stay.

“Chut chut!” She said aloud on her way.

Oh a woman’s heart.

Bonjour my rabbits et to you a good day!

RS

Can you do it? ( part deux)

Dearest you,

Had I given thee much time to think of can you?
I may have but truth be I have had very little sleep in 2 days. As I am in between two books at the Au courant.
Two, deux.
So shall we?

I did my last writing post as I was asked by a few new writers such a trail of questions. Pardon my French but writing isn’t for sissies.

las poule mouillée!

Is that a word?
I think yesterday I was beyond tired during my family meeting et I sat across from my eldest Ferrie et my husband and I said, “ I must attend to my work.”

They both were so serious staring at me, then they both laughed loudly, after my husband said,

“ you are the only one that is up at 2 AM writing books, like you have got a deadline with Simon et Schuster.”

I laughed, then I wept. Oh it’s quite frustrating to be a perfectionist at 2am, see.
Seriously so.
Mental exhaustion after writing two books back to back,  is a real thing
Hence, my reality is darlings, respectfully,  I could do whatever the Fudge hickins I want, and when.
I have got private publications that cost 1500. To 2500. Per book.

Yes. I can own that. Because no publisher can give me that right now. Oui, non.
absolument aucun.
So what’s my morale?
Money cannot speak to me like HEART, sorry.
And I am now 200 percent sure that I have hit a certain level of fou and I am on a role!

I work hard.
So hard.
Daily.

toutes les heures.

No one can pay me enough to stay up till 3 am to write a book. Because there are many things money cannot buy my dearest. Time is one of them.
But I want to do my books regardless of Simon.

Why I need to…

It’s the core of my existence.

Its the hand on my clock that ticks hourly. Well minus the annoying bird chirping at the hour.
I sigh.

And these books are my companion. A good thing when you call yourself a writer.
These characters are the ink in my Mont Blanc.

Oh and we all need that ink, non?
So Tell your story as it is.
Don’t forge a different end nor a beginning.
The fame, the pennies, the whatever you seek will follow, but don’t try to create what isn’t to be.
Especially on paper.
That’s it.
You asked, I answered.
My stories, all 399 pages are as I want them.
Infact if you are reading this and you think you may want to get me published or be my agent firstly, do think again.

I mean that well. And I shall guarantee you, you never met a writer as awkward as moi.
The 24 books in private publication that will be given to an agent THEY will have to match them, as they are.
Simply because, I mean business.
And the children I write for are not normal. Most of my books are charming as most of my characters are all not so alike.
And so for the normals one as they say, they too will envision the nØT so normal as captivating.
I’m writing books, I’m designing my books, I am printing my books, and mostly importantly, most ever so, the audience is a child that cannot walk nor talk.
If he loathes it, I scrap it et start again.

First I must question the dislikes of it. And often I try to tell the morale but mostly I think he’s actually showing me what it’s like to see things through another’s eyes.
So I will re visit the book and then do another.
I don’t fix stories, I write them.
Because I can.
I will.
On repeat.
Daily.

Often Nightly.

Nevertheless, Writer to writer, to heck with what’s been done, here’s to a new genre.

The Rianna Shaikh one perhaps?
I hope this helps you to find the you that you ought to be. It took me a very long time.
And a lot of money. A team really to tell me that my writing is pure merde. And all my characters in my children’s books were just mannered et properly dressed.
Oh the critics they can go look for Alice
But I was only stumbling to find my inner voice.
So to my dearest Blanc rabbit, I j’adore you.
My readers I am all so complicated, but I know, je connais, that you get it.
merci beaucoup for all your love et patience.

God knows I have none, but motherhood is teaching me lots of it

Forever your writer,

RS

ps. The portrait is to distract you from the trop parler, bonsoir!

 

Can you? ( part deux)

Dearest you,

Had I given thee much time to think of can you?
I may have but truth be I have had very little sleep in 2 days. As I am in between two books at the Au courant.
Two, deux.
So shall we?

I did my last writing post as I was asked by a few new writers such a trail of questions. Pardon my French but writing isn’t for sissies.

Is that a word?
I think yesterday I was beyond tired during my family meeting et I sat across from my daughter et husband and I said, “ I must attend to my work.”

They both were so serious then they both laughed loudly, after my husband says, “ you are the only one that is up at 2 writing books, like you have got a deadline with Simon et Schuster.”

I laughed, then I wept.
Because reality is darlings I could do whatever the F I want, and when. I have got private publications that cost 1500. To 2500. Per book.

Yes. I can own that. Because no publisher can give me that right now.
So what’s my morale?
Money cannot speak to me like HEART, sorry.
And I am now 200 percent sure that I have hit a certain level of fou and I am on a role.
I work hard.
So hard.
Daily.

No one can pay me enough to stay up till 3 am to write a book.
But I want to.

I need to.

It’s the core of my existence. And these books are my companion.
These characters are the ink in my Mont Blanc.
So Tell your story as it is.
Don’t forge a different end nor a beginning.
The fame, the pennies, the whatever you seek will follow, but don’t try to create what isn’t to be.
Especially on paper.
That’s it.
You asked, I answered.
My stories, all 399 pages are as I want them.
Infact if you are reading this and you think you may want to get me published, think again.
The 24 books in private publication that will be given to an agent THEY will have to match them, as they are.
Because I mean business.
And the children I write for are not normal.
And also the normals one as they say, they too will envision the nØT so normal as captivating.
I’m writing books, I’m designing my books, I am printing my books, and mostly importantly, most ever so, the audience is a child that cannot walk nor talk.
If he loathes it, I scrap it et start again.
Because I can.
I will.
On repeat.
Daily.

Nightly.

Writer to writer, to heck with what’s been done, here’s to a new genre.

The Rianna Shaikh one.
I hope this helps you to find the you that you ought to be. It took me a very long time.
And a lot of money.
But I was only stumbling to find my inner voice.
So to my dearest Blanc rabbit, I j’adore you.
My readers I am all so complicated, but I know, je connais, that you get it.
merci beaucoup for all your love et patience.

God knows I have none, but motherhood is teaching me lots of it

Forever your writer,

RS

ps. The portrait is to distract you from the trop parler, bonsoir!

 

Can you do it? part one.

The Stroller by Claude Monet, 1887

 

 

dearest you,

It’s not simple. Though it makes no sense, it’s within its walls a complication so great that only the one with the paint brush standing lost in the stillness of perfect beauty can feel.
oui?
Like Claude Monet.
I am often lost in my own solitude.

I was born in the stillness of colors et very little sound, I was born with pain et a fountain pen.
With ink splattered on the walls of my existence.
As an adult I know that today where I shall stand it was meant for me.
The question my darlings is can you do it?
Can you write?
Can you sit still for hours lost in your thoughts, can you fill the pages with the beat of every thump?

Will you weep, when your characters fall or becomes mort or when they read aloud where they ought to go?
Will you jump when they lead you to a waterfall?

Can you forget for the many seconds that it’s not about you, but abouts a story that  has recognized you can feel it’s pain, et you can scribble every dust of emotion on papier?

can you?

Are you ready to answer the question or shall you ponder the answer?

This is the first step to knowing what you are as the one with the fountain pen at hand.

Yours,

RS

ps. Daily ponder

To the day

dearest you,

it’s been ages since I have posted a thought. I have been like the kite to the wind. Bellowing to the horizon, sitting calmly at times, deep in thought. As you see life is anything but a sit in the stillness of the greenery watching the sun rise or the sun setting.

Ce n’est pas facile.

Absolutely so, somethings will always be. What changes is you. et moi, non?
What motives is within you, what finds you, you may never seek.

Et so the charade goes on…

I have completed my petit Roo book et my first

Un journal et I hope to share snippets on my diary soon. I am Au courant working on a second, as pleased as I am, motherhood takes a huge gap of my time. Well good luck to you if you are swept away by a gentleman that wishes to marry.
Hence, that leaves me to the next subject, I receive a few emails per week on me being represented by an agent.
Anyone.
A madame.
A monsieur.
A rabbit perhaps?

I shall never hesitate to speak of this, but most graciously, tout à faire, I must decline all inclinations to be represented.

ALL
I know, I know, I must be fou, but I am not willing to share my works with any agents at the moment.

But dearest agents, merci beaucoup for your time. There are many who will jump on that saddle, I however am not able to do so, as i am quite comfortable with my Private publications et I have 1,001 saddles. I should cry, but I am a grown up!

Well I must gallop back to my writings et my grand subjects of sort. I will respond to emails from time to time et hopefully I can find my darling Pegs, to address the many situations that shall arise.

I am wishing you a productive day, my dearest you. And I hope to write the most awaited topic to my new writers on, WHY not give up at manuscript one?
See, if I May you cannot, you may or may not stop at one. Why, what will the blanC rabbit say, he’d YELL, out so LoUDLy, “ have you lost a marble or two?”

I Yelp.
next subject coming soon!

Your writer,

RS

dearest One million (Instagram)

 

Dearest 0ne million,

it’s been a long time since I had walked the other way in the eyes of the literary world on the social scene. Oui Instagram especially.
Many days et nights hath elapsed, the clouds even bid it’s farewell to me.

I hadn’t budge, my mind won’t let me even fathom the scenic of the past. But there comes a day that even the best equestrian has to let go of her reins and jump of the saddle. Life isn’t a race to perfection, non ce n’est pas.

I had wanted and longed to say that though I treated you as an accessory, a number so they speak of, a fluff of tulle to be worn but once, you were not. You are more like a horizon of sunlight.

je Pense.

Though I am fully aware that I left my readers without notice. Or care. For reasons of my own. 

I lack from time to time the care to be known to the public. Furthermore I left my one million followers to the hot air balloon on a windy day, whilst I chase rabbits barefoot on the greens.

Darlings do forgive.

  I am not quite public, though I am a writer of sorts. Hence, this is my apology for leaving you without notice. Of course 2020 wasn’t any ones year!

Here my dearest diary, my letters to you. We begin again. I begin again.

  My gratitude to the many of you that I call readers, fans, some  foes, some rather great disturbances, many  I consider leaves of many branches seeking a good book to critique, most of you my dearest readers. And of course the big critics.

To you I ask, be polite in your addressing me as a person, a writer, a mother, a wife, a human being. And no I am not a pompous human, obviously I write for an exception of a crowd. If it isn’t for you, I do beg, read the works of others,  and be like Siskel would to Ebert.

  The bottom line is I thank you,  the kind rest, for getting me. For understanding that I shall pour my heart utterly et truly only into my books, with the greatest hope that one day when I’m ready to share my works with you I will. One day, not there yet.
I vow. So of to the day, merci beaucoup, gracias, يحبك لك,

Dhan’yabāda, hvala ti, 谢谢你, dank je, ευχαριστώ, ਤੁਹਾਡਾ ਧੰਨਵਾਦ, Danke, shukran.    

   I am most gracious for the ability to write for you, and to mostly feel for all.  But for now, this is my only social platform. I am aware I am a queer square. Perhaps the only writer that cares not to be known or found but rather read. Oui, I said it, I mean it et I hope we all get it….

(wicked laugh)!

J’adore  you my readers.

For like ever, oui?

Good day  darlings

RS

ps. Working on a book part two, that was one of many’s favorite. Think of the Long Island sound. Make no sound…. tip toe if you may

l’hiver en spring

To the page that sets me a space,

I was littler than nine, now bigger than then.
A pretty little thing wrapped in a bow. With glasses like a ginormous eye on  a sharp shark in the deep waters.

Pretending He cannot swim.

It was a birthday, one that I was disowned. Meaning, I was no longer with parents.

They left me, I cried.

It rained.

It thundered.

The trees were covered in white dust.

It was like the freezer at aunt May’s cottage in Alsace.

Except she was colder than the Alps.

She was stern. Their was no hope in her garden.

or Verde. Even when spring came.

But she was my geweldige tante, And it meant she was suppose to be my everything.

Suppose to.

Everything is a word that I have to think of as winter, a winter in spring.

Forever raining so will you save me? 

 Grateful,

Sarah Beckins

somewhere en France.

Ps. A book ( dearest self) 

You’ll ever never know

Dearest,

you’ll never know what it’s like to be broken as a Thousand hearts. You’ll never know what it’s like to have seen love et watch it grow into hate. You’ll never know what it’s Like to make a wish and then watch it unravel. You’ll never know what it’s like to have a mére that inevitably loathes your eyes, your nose et the structure of your bones. You’ll never know what it’s like to have a notable man be your father but yet not love you as he should.
You’ll never know what it’s like to be dressed in your best Valentino frock et freshly made velvet pumps walking under the sunlight of day to then the burst of blue clouds turning into a storm of doubt.

You’ll bet you know but you won’t…

you’ll never know what it’s like to write a thousand books et then lock it away from the world. You’ll never know what it’s like to have so many try to skatter your heart as if it’s a teacup fallen to the floor, shattering as you stay paused to awe.
You’ll never know what it’s like to be ugly,
Because your heart is to beautiful to know pain.
et mostly you’ll never know what it’s like to be a broken character in a book, one where the days are filled with Tears et rain et one where you wished you were the painter like a Renoir or Gauguin.

You’ll never know, I hope, because pain cannot be everyone’s friend.
j’adore toi.

ever so terribly busy,

RS
ps. From the memoir of many.

He loved

Black and white Abstract Head portrait Original Oil Painting on canvas – Modern impressionism art.

Dearest life,

He once stood at the cliff admiring the ebb et flow of your waves.

He once lived a far apart from the good days.

He once touched the heart of a girl so brave.

He once lived in a world so cold, so braze.

He once lit her heart with firefly days.

He once loved her in all her ways.

He once walked on her path, stood poised and dazed.

He once walked to this side of the maze. 

He lived.

He loved.

He fought God above.

Mostly he loved his Abigale like he loved to sail.

Think of the clouds of love,

RS

Ps. A story of a poem, sometimes I can’t say…

by the door

Dearest you,

When you see the door forth tightly closed, when you see the lock bolted in.
When you see the day light lightly faded, you know to fear for a storm is near.

But listen, listen to the whistling wind, for time is singing you a hymn.
March nØT back but forward then, for time this life will not amend.
Life is a trot for the long winded road, maybe near a toad, or a mole, stay focused et match in on. Run if you may but skip on the way, I’m right beside you as you gallop away.
For darling dears this Song has just begun.
Yet we are so terribly worn, oh terribly so, I fear you were gone.

tête haute
Forever so,

RS