Short Stories: Why John writes, wrote, but now writes no more

spiritedStarred Page By spirited, 19th Jan 2016 | Follow this author | RSS Feed | Short URL
Posted in Wikinut>Writing>Short Stories

I have written about John here on this site a few times before. This short story describes still another chapter in John's life for you.

Unfortunately, as it turns out, it is about the last part of John's life. John's later years were spent mostly in seclusion, and sadly, he died that way too.

His writing died with him, but I have included here, one of his last poems, ever written by him. Fittingly, it's about his little dog Abbey.

Early on in his life, John hated writing, and participating in his English classes at school

Early on in his life, John had hated writing, and participating in his English classes at school.

"Writing is an act of faith, not a trick of grammar."

The American writer, E. B. White (1899 to 1985) once said this.

When John first started to write, way back when he was only a young kid, he did think to himself that there were indeed tricks involved in writing.

John hated writing at school.

It was only when John reached middle age, that he started to write, and to enjoy his writing.

John had always been a keen chess player.

John had learnt the game early in his life. His old bachelor uncle had taken a keen interest in his brother's kids, and being a good chess player himself, he had taught John the rudiments of the game when he was only just out of his nappies, so to speak.

Learning young like this was beneficial to John, because before he reached his teenage years, he was already beating his Uncle in every game that they played.

John went on to become a master of the game.

John won many a state title in his country. After ten years of winning this event annually every year consecutively, John was asked to write some commentaries on some of his best games played, to be included in the country's chess magazine.

John's liking of writing turns from hating it to loving it

This was how John went back to writing (see above, last section). He started writing articles on chess.

He found now that he loved it, very much indeed.

Even in his early twenties, John never had much time for writing.

John's parents, at that time, had taken a trip to England. It was the first time in their life, that they had ever left their home country, and it would prove to be their last time too.

This was soon after John's father had taken an early retirement, due to his ill health. He had a weak heart. They had given John the address of the places where they were going to stay. They had pleaded with John to write to them at least once, during their six week holiday period, over there.

At that time, John had simply written these few, short, sharp words, in the letter, no, it was more just a note, that he had posted off to them. John only ever wrote this one letter, or not to them too, in all of these six weeks.

John's parents had sent him numerous postcards, as well as some long letters, highlighting the good and the bad parts of their trip to him.

Anyway, here is what John wrote:

"Dear Mum and Dad,

Just a line to say all's fine,

Love John."

He didn't know of course, that as soon as the writing bug bit him, he would be writing far better poetry than this, and that one day, a book of his best efforts, or of his best poems, would be published.

His father though, did keep this little letter, and every so often, he would bring it out to show John how his writing used to be.

"Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words."

The highly regarded, and probably best known American poet Robert Frost, (1874 to 1963) said this.

John's poetry always were written with great emotion, and they also evoked great emotion in their readers too.

Photo credit:

This photo has been taken freely from the free media site

John gets to seventy, and finally he feels now all written out

John had been writing now for more than forty years.

During this time, he had had six books published. Three of them were on poetry, the other three were more on his philosophical thoughts, and musings.

John had also written over 4,000 articles and had them published on various writing sites on the Internet.

These writing sites, in the beginning, had promised the world to their writers. One promise was that you would be paid a residual income for life, after the articles were up on the site, from the views made of them by their readers.

John had lost his job in his shop, because he had been bashed by a gang of petty thieves. He lost his nerve, and he was afraid after that to even venture much further out of his house than to his own letter box. The terrible incident had psychologically damaged him.

Before this unfortunate incident, John had loved working in his little antiquated, but out of the way, little second-hand bookshop. He owned and run this shop for many years. He would write his poetry whilst at his counter, in the quieter moments, during his time there.

These writing sites initially seemed to offer John some type of an income source. To him, they seemed to be like a saviour to him. He was so glad that he had found them.

Slowly, over more than fifteen plus years of writing, John built up huge databases of his writings on at least six different writing sites.

At first, he was earning good income.

One site paid him in the thousands, another site only just in the hundreds, still another, only just a trickle. But at least, he was earning something to provide him with some food on his meagre fold-up little table, in his small two bedroom flat.

Here's a link to a great online writing site, and community. Join this site, and start writing too.

John's one love, his little dog Abbey

John lived on his own, with his small dog, which I am sorry to say, his neighbour took for walks for him, whenever he walked his own dog.

As I said above, John was too afraid to leave his own house, past his front gate, in case he met those larrikins again who had bashed him, and who had never been caught for doing so.

Before John died, he had tried to analyse for himself what had interested him in writing. Why had he changed from hating it to loving it?

"Should I write to benefit myself, or others?"

"How does my writing benefit me, given I often forget what I write about, and that I do not seem to have the wisdom to apply the ideas, understanding and wisdom teachings that I include in my writing, and which I have loved writing about, into my life, as yet?"

John had a journal in which he wrote up his answers to his own questions. He used to write these answers to himself as if he was writing to himself from his higher self. John often used these writings to himself from his higher self, in his own writings.

This answer was found in John's diary, after his death, by his younger brother.

"The writing of anything benefits not only the reader and the writer but all concerned souls in the world as when any knowledge is brought forth from the formless in this way overall knowledge pool is deepened by the adding of any new knowledge, but the wisdom pool is not deepened until somebody has the power to take on board these teachings wisely and so to understand how to apply them to live, in life."

"Do not worry if you cannot do this yourself (understand and apply your own writing ideas and ideals), as yet.

"Just putting the writing out there allows anyone else too to be able to access it too, either outwardly, or from the Akashic recording of it, by their re-establishing a connection to it through their own aware conscious connection to it."

"The general part of these Akashic records are available to all souls. Individual records are available only to that soul, and to any other soul who they give access to."

John had then written in two more questions of his own

Why am I so terribly tired these days? Why is my arm getting so painfully sore, should I keep writing for these article sites, such as wikinut, or not?

Then came this reply to John.

"The length of your writing tires you, at the moment, due to your ill health, but the writing itself is not the problem, as much for the fact that you do not value me, your higher self, as much anymore, because you feel that your life goes on in its mess, either with or without me inputting to you like this, or not."

"Believe in me, and have faith in God, and all will be well. If not, there is only one way out, but let's hope that it doesn't come to that, my old friend"

John's brother unfortunately had found John dead in his small flat.

He must have had a massive heart attack.

Bert, John's brother, had found him sitting on his favourite old armchair, with his pen still poised in his hand. For some reason, his hand had stayed clenched around it, but his diary had fallen to the floor.

"No matter how you're feeling, a little dog gunna love you."

The American musician/rapper, Waka Flocka Flame knew this, as did John.

John's very last poem, that he wrote, shortly before his untimely death

"Writing means sharing. It's part of the human condition to want to share things - thoughts, ideas, opinions."

The above quote is from that great Brazilian writer, Paulo Coelho. He wrote that great spiritual classic, "The Alchemist".

This poem was obviously written about John's dog, which died only two years before he did. John lost some of his will to go on living, when his little dog died.

Poetry: The sad, sad, sad, sad eyes of my little dog Abbey

Little sad brown eyes looking up, up now, at me, so sadly.
A little heart's beating so softly, just for me to see, gladly.
My little dog Abbey has the saddest, sad eyes of them all.
Enthralled, I look into what God has so deeply installed, loudly.

And yet my dog has no known secrets, for it to be so sad about.
Playing around usually, she's now all but flaked, and tired out.
Her sadness isn't a sadness like mine, I soon find, in my own mind
& yet her wall of sadness, I cannot ever yet climb, she now reminds.

Why does my dog have such sad, melancholy, entrancing eyes?
Does she feel my own sadness somehow in some type of a disguise?
Her sadness is perhaps, but her deep love for me in reverse.
Her love's not rehearsed, or coerced, to be reimbursed, bye and byes.

Her sadness is simply her wanting my sole, undivided attention.
I go and pick her up, but I'm providing only knowing pretension.
She doesn't even care, if I'm just giving her but half my time.
Her sad eyes look back at me now, as if it's all but a small crime.

The sadness of others can never yet be ever fully understood.
We can ask them profoundly to give up their mood, to stop brooding.
Their sadness sharpens our heart to hear their frightening plight.
With all our might, we love them, they're at last, all right, in our sight.

Sad eyes show us a memorable picture, reaching deep into another's soul.
Our role is to help them, though their seemingly out of our control.
To ease heartache, is not to please, but to love, with a greater depth.
Sad eyes sadden more, if love comes gloved, or if we push it with a shove.

Photo credits:

The photos used in this article belong to the author, myself, unless otherwise stated.


Benefits Of Writing, Love Of Poetry, Love Of Writing, Reasons For Writing, Sadness In Life, Short Stories, Short Story, Why We Write

Meet the author

author avatar spirited
I have been interested in the spiritual fields for over thirty five years now. My writing is mostly in this area.

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author avatar Mariah
20th Jan 2016 (#)

RIP John... lovely share Spirited

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author avatar spirited
20th Jan 2016 (#)

Thanks Mariah

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author avatar brendamarie
21st Jan 2016 (#)

what a very sad story spirited. I hope he is at peace now.

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author avatar spirited
21st Jan 2016 (#)

Yes, it was very sad for me to write it to in a way, elements in it were about my own life, thanks brendamarie

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author avatar cnwriter..carolina
23rd Jan 2016 (#)

hello my friend...yes i am back and will write more again as i like the faster clearer wikinut...thank you for this story...all the best, i call myself...lily*** since my bout in the hospital..
love and light to you..

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author avatar spirited
23rd Jan 2016 (#)

thanks Carolina, yes it appears they have fixed that bug where an article disappears too, for now, but I hope for good.

A few people left now they are not paying revenue share, I am glad to have you back writing here.

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author avatar Sivaramakrishnan A
25th Jan 2016 (#)

Quite a soulful post Spirited, touching in every way.

Life takes us everywhere to open our feelings and heart and keeps us wondering what it is all about. Yes, our fellow travelers are so much alike in terms of emotions and yearn to connect with us more than we want to do with them.

The yearnings to share our thoughts have been with us from time immemorial so that others may benefit though we may not be able to act on those.

Good that Wikinut also gets a mention and attention as it has become an inevitable part of us, who we are! siva

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author avatar spirited
25th Jan 2016 (#)

Thanks siva,

It is said that we need to allow pain to enter our hearts too, and not hold it off in our minds.

Our heart also needs to feel the pain to open itself up to love fully, because pain is a part of that love too.

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author avatar Helen Thomas
26th Jan 2016 (#)

Thanks for sharing this wonderful, warm, and emotional piece ~ Spirited.

I must admit you confused me a little when you mentioned Wikinut ~ inasmuch as I thought I was sure ~ that the story was about your Dad.

Good read. Thanks for sharing. Blessings.

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author avatar spirited
26th Jan 2016 (#)

thanks Helen,

I write my short stories up, which are a mixture of events from my own life, and other's lives around me.

I do it like this, because I like to embellish some details to strengthen the telling of the story, and if I wrote the story as a true event from my life, I could never be sure that I had honestly remembered all of the details correctly.

This way, if a detail is not right, well it's all just a story, so to my mind, it doesn't matter too much.

Also writing it up like this removes the real names of people from the story too.

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author avatar Helen Thomas
26th Jan 2016 (#)

Yes ~ I see what you're saying ~ Spirited. I think that's a great way to do it.

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