They play with guns in the woods
and practice survival, like boy scouts.
They want to be ready
when the helicopters come.
They talk ammo and snipers
and live in fear of the day
they become a minority.
They say they want to take their country back.
But who are they taking it back from?
For the history behind the Flash 55 (a story told within 55 words), click here. If you want to try your hand at a 55, post it on your blog and then visit the G-Man. If writing flash isn't your thing, visit him anyway and check out all the awesome writing therein linked. Then have yourself a nice weekend across the latitudes.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
Rage Against The Advancing Darkness
Have you ever been in the throes of writing to find yourself writing something you didn’t know you knew? Have you ever wondered about the dreamstate you slip into, which allows you to inhabit other lives? How does this work?
For me, and I think for many of you as well, the writing process can be therapeutic, write or die, but it has also now been found to be beneficial to people afflicted with the early stages of Alzheimer’s.
The Alzheimer’s Association is working with writers to connect people in the early stages of the disease to writing groups. There is no cure for Alzheimer’s but they have found that with early diagnosis you can still construct a life in front of the advancing darkness. It is essential to begin while the patient is in the early stages of the disease, but many people are in denial. Hence, precious time is lost. In recent polls it has been discovered that people are more afraid of contacting Alzheimer’s than heart disease or cancer. Working with writers groups, the Alzheimer’s Association is helping people afflicted with this tragic disease to seize the opportunity to say what they want to say while still cognizant, before their knowledge of what went before is lost forever.
So let us open our minds to this possibility: that a person can write something down they didn’t know they knew. Writing is a form of memory, and we use a different part of our brain when we write. Thus it has been discovered that an Alzheimer’s patient can write something down they have actually forgotten. In fact, the next day they've forgotten that they wrote it. But there it is, proof on the page, visible and tangible.
I find this to be such an interesting concept, that there is a special area of the brain that clicks into overdrive when we write. Can it be that this ties into the “vivid and continuous dream” that John Gardner (my favorite writer on writing) talked about? Writing is nothing if not a mysterious process.
Verbal exchange is invisible and intangible, while writing lasts. When these patients write something down in their writing group, they are entrusting their memory to someone else. If you can give something away you don’t lose it.
Alzheimer’s patients lose so much of their identity as they start to lose simple things like the ability to drive a car and plan their day. If we can help them preserve some of their memories for themselves and their loved ones, then this is a noble endeavor. There is no nobler profession than writing.
For me, and I think for many of you as well, the writing process can be therapeutic, write or die, but it has also now been found to be beneficial to people afflicted with the early stages of Alzheimer’s.
The Alzheimer’s Association is working with writers to connect people in the early stages of the disease to writing groups. There is no cure for Alzheimer’s but they have found that with early diagnosis you can still construct a life in front of the advancing darkness. It is essential to begin while the patient is in the early stages of the disease, but many people are in denial. Hence, precious time is lost. In recent polls it has been discovered that people are more afraid of contacting Alzheimer’s than heart disease or cancer. Working with writers groups, the Alzheimer’s Association is helping people afflicted with this tragic disease to seize the opportunity to say what they want to say while still cognizant, before their knowledge of what went before is lost forever.
So let us open our minds to this possibility: that a person can write something down they didn’t know they knew. Writing is a form of memory, and we use a different part of our brain when we write. Thus it has been discovered that an Alzheimer’s patient can write something down they have actually forgotten. In fact, the next day they've forgotten that they wrote it. But there it is, proof on the page, visible and tangible.
I find this to be such an interesting concept, that there is a special area of the brain that clicks into overdrive when we write. Can it be that this ties into the “vivid and continuous dream” that John Gardner (my favorite writer on writing) talked about? Writing is nothing if not a mysterious process.
Verbal exchange is invisible and intangible, while writing lasts. When these patients write something down in their writing group, they are entrusting their memory to someone else. If you can give something away you don’t lose it.
Alzheimer’s patients lose so much of their identity as they start to lose simple things like the ability to drive a car and plan their day. If we can help them preserve some of their memories for themselves and their loved ones, then this is a noble endeavor. There is no nobler profession than writing.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
The Brothers and the Shrew
The brother is back.
His stuff fills the garage—
styrofoam take-out on the table.
Brothers who shake hands and don’t hug,
who talk about the weather
and act like they don’t care.
Her husband acts like his brother
when he’s in town.
They lie on the couch and watch TV.
It’s them against her.
Brothers.
It's time for a snapshot, a peek through the open window, a captured moment in time. I thought I was going to write something for Earth Day but then I thought every day should be Earth Day and Brothers wanted out for the weekend. They wanted to raise a little hell. If you or anyone you know has written a Friday Flash 55, go tell Mr. Knowitall, known to some as the G-Man.
His stuff fills the garage—
styrofoam take-out on the table.
Brothers who shake hands and don’t hug,
who talk about the weather
and act like they don’t care.
Her husband acts like his brother
when he’s in town.
They lie on the couch and watch TV.
It’s them against her.
Brothers.
It's time for a snapshot, a peek through the open window, a captured moment in time. I thought I was going to write something for Earth Day but then I thought every day should be Earth Day and Brothers wanted out for the weekend. They wanted to raise a little hell. If you or anyone you know has written a Friday Flash 55, go tell Mr. Knowitall, known to some as the G-Man.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Coming Clean and Going Green
I stole fledgling sprigs out of the ground from around this shrub in my mother's yard while she was at the hairdresser's. It was woody and deep and I dug and dug to capture a root line. I dug and dug whilst looking over my shoulder, but I don't know if I dug deep enough, and I slogged home with my efforts and then had to rush to get them in the ground as a storm front moved in like the hand of God and the temperature plumeted.
Going green is not just a way of life, it's a state of mind. April is a month for planting trees, and Sarahjane at writing in the wilderness also planted a bug in my ear and now I'm turning my blog carbon neutral. There is a new program to help us do that. Just click the link below to find out about it then you can pick out a button from the website's assortment like this one.
Get your button here. This is not merely symbolic. They'll plant a tree for you when you follow the link, helping to neutralize the carbon dioxide emissions of your blog. The trees will be planted in the spring of 2010 by the Arbor Day Foundation.
Now, to soulmates. Tricia at Talespinning recently bestowed the Soulmates Award upon me. Isn't it beautiful?
It reminds me of orchids bursting out of an organic cauldron.She claimed on her blog that I track the Far North for litterbugs. When I catch one, I make him/her sift the sands of time or write flash fiction, which ever. She so knows me!! I do far worse than that when I catch a litterbug. You may discover the evolution of this award at Christi Goddard's A Torch in the Tempest. Thank you Christi and thank you Tricia.
To pass this on I must spin some new folklore for you.
Sarahjayne has her own Christmas tree farm and also digs the holes for her customers who buy "live" trees as an incentive and to help make the drive to her out-of-the-way farm carbon neutral.
Amy lives beside a suspension bridge and has a writing hut underneath the approach where she can keep an eye on the river traffic and watch the sun set and rise as she writes and writes and writes her way to fame.
Talli Rolland lives near Hyde Park in London. She frequents Speakers Corner on Sundays; in fact she has her own corner. She has attained a loyal following of thousands who come out on Sundays to hear her read from her new novel.
One final thing I'd like to share with you this morning. I've been published today in Pure Francis!! I've also had my short story "Canary" published in Full of Crow. Nothing feels finished until it's found a home and these two pieces have. I will also be in Steam Ticket in May. This is the literary journal published by the University of Wisconsin and they are always looking for new writers. As Simon Larter pointed out here, we are their legacy.
Finally, I would like to thank all of you writer-friends who interact with me here. Thanks for extending a hand and helping me stay on the writing path, pointing out obstacles and pitfalls, without even realizing it. You all rock!
Thursday, April 15, 2010
HIGH STREET
She avoids the bathroom
where young girls gather
in a place of their own.
She sees double-lashed eyes,
pouty lips,
mirrors that elongate.
She sees college boys cheat
at pool. She toes the line
and throws weighted darts
at a receding board.
They see graceful
untoward.
She sees young girls—
in the mirror
she sees old.
If you want to try your hand at the ultra flash-flash (55 words, no more, no less)
let the G-Man know. He runs this horse and pony show.
where young girls gather
in a place of their own.
She sees double-lashed eyes,
pouty lips,
mirrors that elongate.
She sees college boys cheat
at pool. She toes the line
and throws weighted darts
at a receding board.
They see graceful
untoward.
She sees young girls—
in the mirror
she sees old.
If you want to try your hand at the ultra flash-flash (55 words, no more, no less)
let the G-Man know. He runs this horse and pony show.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Being There
Back when I was a transient, I wrote the following poem. I loved my Queen Anne cherry tree and my little flagstone patio, but I was out of place and knew I would never be from “there”. But it was warmer "there" and this is the time of year when I sometimes miss my fernleaf buckhorn and the lilac bursting forth. While there, I missed gravel roads and lakes and woods. Now I no longer have to. Now there are other things to miss. Funny how that works.
But I'm glad to have known what it’s like to be a stranger in a strange place. Come summer, I’ll drive by fields of muck where carrots and lettuces are harvested by brown-skinned men with their shirts off talking to each other in their musical language, and I'll wonder if they feel the way I felt when I wrote this poem. I’m glad my ancestors weren’t considered “illegal” without a right to schools and medical care, a path to citizenship and reward for work well done, but that is a subject for another time. This is poetry month.
BEING THERE
The straight lines of the flagstones
are precise as a musical bar.
Our slat backs are positioned to place
our legs in the sun. The Old Peculiar
is chilled. Sit up against me, we’ll share
a glass. You can admire my vices and I your wit.
The dog sees visions, roots out
mushrooms from the zebra grass
while the Queen Anne cherry tree
makes a mess the birds can’t match.
We consider dinner as the sun slips
off our feet. Another hatchling flops
out of the eave and a flock of swallows
darkens the sky in a sudden concerted bank to south.
*first published in the Melic Review
But I'm glad to have known what it’s like to be a stranger in a strange place. Come summer, I’ll drive by fields of muck where carrots and lettuces are harvested by brown-skinned men with their shirts off talking to each other in their musical language, and I'll wonder if they feel the way I felt when I wrote this poem. I’m glad my ancestors weren’t considered “illegal” without a right to schools and medical care, a path to citizenship and reward for work well done, but that is a subject for another time. This is poetry month.
BEING THERE
The straight lines of the flagstones
are precise as a musical bar.
Our slat backs are positioned to place
our legs in the sun. The Old Peculiar
is chilled. Sit up against me, we’ll share
a glass. You can admire my vices and I your wit.
The dog sees visions, roots out
mushrooms from the zebra grass
while the Queen Anne cherry tree
makes a mess the birds can’t match.
We consider dinner as the sun slips
off our feet. Another hatchling flops
out of the eave and a flock of swallows
darkens the sky in a sudden concerted bank to south.
*first published in the Melic Review
Monday, April 12, 2010
A Primer For Men
Monday is Musk
He smiles in the mirror.
Tuesday is Brut.
He won’t ask for help.
Wednesday is Undeniable.
He wears steel-toed boots.
Thursday is no-name Avon.
He’s wearing down.
Friday is Sex Appeal.
He looks toward the night.
Saturday is Wild Country.
He wishes himself elsewhere.
He’s worked his tendons into knots;
his way through every bottle.
I try to throw things out on clean-the-cupboard day.
Sundays he sits, soaped and robed.
April is poetry month and I wanted to start the week off with an ode to men. We love them, even when we hate them. We couldn't live without them. Here's to all the men in our lives.
He smiles in the mirror.
Tuesday is Brut.
He won’t ask for help.
Wednesday is Undeniable.
He wears steel-toed boots.
Thursday is no-name Avon.
He’s wearing down.
Friday is Sex Appeal.
He looks toward the night.
Saturday is Wild Country.
He wishes himself elsewhere.
He’s worked his tendons into knots;
his way through every bottle.
I try to throw things out on clean-the-cupboard day.
Sundays he sits, soaped and robed.
April is poetry month and I wanted to start the week off with an ode to men. We love them, even when we hate them. We couldn't live without them. Here's to all the men in our lives.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Prairie Dog Rapture
As writers, we need to pay attention to the world around us. To write authentically, we must develop a sense-of-place. In this distracted world it is easy to forget to watch and see what is happening under our eyes. It is easy to miss the sunrise and sunset. It is easy to forget the moon overhead and the stranger across the street and the mass extermination of an entire people going on in Africa. It takes much consideration to develop a global sense of place.
In the rush of modern life in a preoccupied world, we forget to pay attention to the little things that are really quite remarkable. And, so, to the point of this post. Each morning, as the sun rises, prairie dogs leave their home burrows and stand with their palms together and face the sun for twenty to thirty minutes. Then they go about their day. Towards sunset they return to their home burrows and again stand motionless with their palms together and face the setting sun. What do they know that we have forgotten?
Prairie dog colonies are systematically being exterminated. From the hundreds of square miles they occupied before we advanced west, they inhabit a mere nine at present(via an NPR report from Bryce Canyon on 4/3/10). They are considered vermin and of no use to us. I’m wondering if there is a lesson we could learn from them before they are gone forever. I wonder that there isn't room for us and them on planet Earth. They who would dance to the rising sun.
In the rush of modern life in a preoccupied world, we forget to pay attention to the little things that are really quite remarkable. And, so, to the point of this post. Each morning, as the sun rises, prairie dogs leave their home burrows and stand with their palms together and face the sun for twenty to thirty minutes. Then they go about their day. Towards sunset they return to their home burrows and again stand motionless with their palms together and face the setting sun. What do they know that we have forgotten?
Prairie dog colonies are systematically being exterminated. From the hundreds of square miles they occupied before we advanced west, they inhabit a mere nine at present(via an NPR report from Bryce Canyon on 4/3/10). They are considered vermin and of no use to us. I’m wondering if there is a lesson we could learn from them before they are gone forever. I wonder that there isn't room for us and them on planet Earth. They who would dance to the rising sun.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
At the Lake House Borrowed From a Friend
She dressed for dinner even though she was alone, knowing there were worse things. There was losing a baby that was hard to conceive with a man she would have died for but who was now also lost to her. She walked out on the weather-beaten deck and waited for the sun to set.
If you can write a story in 55 words, post it and then visit the G-Man.
If you can write a story in 55 words, post it and then visit the G-Man.
Love Accosted
I thought I saw you
in a tree
Your hair was streaked with
gray
and leaves
of red and lips
and chin
like a crag
with the cleft
I could sink my teeth into.
But the eyes were
wrong and looking the other way.
in a tree
Your hair was streaked with
gray
and leaves
of red and lips
and chin
like a crag
with the cleft
I could sink my teeth into.
But the eyes were
wrong and looking the other way.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Appreciating Poetry and Electricity and Planting Trees
The gravel road we live on is always dark at night, and never more so than when the moon is new and not illuminated. But as we drove down the road under the new moon, returning home from a night out, the absence of any lights whatsoever began to register a warning. Even the scattered, always-on vapor lights of the neighboring farmsteads were extinguished, and the road grew ominous.
When we pulled in the driveway, we knew the power was out.
You wouldn't think that darkness would instill quiet, but it does. Maybe it's just the absence of visual stimulation that amplifies stillness to the human ear, the way ringing in the ear is more pronounced in the still of the night. We turned off the car and stepped outside. It was as quiet as a chicken coop after dark. When chickens roost they go into a semi-comatose state, like your computer on sleep mode. You can rest your hand on their backs when they're roosting and they won't budge. That's why chickens are easy prey for predators should they be stranded without cover at night. My mother says that when she was a little girl she would sit at the kitchen window after sunset and watch the chickens fly up into a tree to roost. She vividly remembers how they would ruffle their feathers and settle on a branch for the night. After raising a flock of our own, I know where the term “chicken” (meaning afraid) comes from. They are defenseless and very timid creatures. The fox would only have to stick his nose under the door and they would all die of heart attacks.
So the chicken coop dark and quiet was the norm, but the surrounding farmland dark and quiet . . . not so much. We found our way into the house and tried a light. It came on dimly. What we had was a “brown-out,” a low-power event which is extremely dangerous for appliances. Luckily a family member from down the road had thought to pull the plugs on everything, including my laptop or I would not be speaking to you now. I would be balled up in a corner as distressed as Blanche, Stella’s disturbed sister in A Streetcar Called Desire. If you haven’t seen that classic, go quickly and rent it! We watched it via Netflix because I wanted to see the young Marlon Brando in his sweat-stained T-shirt. Oh my God! He invented that entire James Dean look—the muscled, conflicted, brooding male. The film is in black and white, which makes it even more dramatic. It is definitely character-driven and dialogue rich, a literary extravaganza for the senses. But back to our dilemma.
Why is it that when you really need a candle you can’t find one, and when you only want one for atmosphere, they’re everywhere? Desperate, we stuck a couple of stick candles in empty beer bottles, like college days. All I needed was incense and The Moody Blues. But we went to bed early like pioneers not college kids. The next morning candle wax was dripped across the countertop, evidence of our fumbling.
OK, so April is the month for violent storms and watching classics. It is also poetry month and I plan to highlight more poetry on this blog starting Friday. I just got some good news from Steam Ticket a Third Coast Review, published out of the University of Wisconsin. A piece I submitted will be published in their 13th edition which is due out in May!
One more thing. April is also the month for planting trees and kissing the earth. This is a white pine. I kissed the earth with my shovel and watched another storm blow in.
Are you planting a tree this month? If so, what kind?
When we pulled in the driveway, we knew the power was out.
You wouldn't think that darkness would instill quiet, but it does. Maybe it's just the absence of visual stimulation that amplifies stillness to the human ear, the way ringing in the ear is more pronounced in the still of the night. We turned off the car and stepped outside. It was as quiet as a chicken coop after dark. When chickens roost they go into a semi-comatose state, like your computer on sleep mode. You can rest your hand on their backs when they're roosting and they won't budge. That's why chickens are easy prey for predators should they be stranded without cover at night. My mother says that when she was a little girl she would sit at the kitchen window after sunset and watch the chickens fly up into a tree to roost. She vividly remembers how they would ruffle their feathers and settle on a branch for the night. After raising a flock of our own, I know where the term “chicken” (meaning afraid) comes from. They are defenseless and very timid creatures. The fox would only have to stick his nose under the door and they would all die of heart attacks.
So the chicken coop dark and quiet was the norm, but the surrounding farmland dark and quiet . . . not so much. We found our way into the house and tried a light. It came on dimly. What we had was a “brown-out,” a low-power event which is extremely dangerous for appliances. Luckily a family member from down the road had thought to pull the plugs on everything, including my laptop or I would not be speaking to you now. I would be balled up in a corner as distressed as Blanche, Stella’s disturbed sister in A Streetcar Called Desire. If you haven’t seen that classic, go quickly and rent it! We watched it via Netflix because I wanted to see the young Marlon Brando in his sweat-stained T-shirt. Oh my God! He invented that entire James Dean look—the muscled, conflicted, brooding male. The film is in black and white, which makes it even more dramatic. It is definitely character-driven and dialogue rich, a literary extravaganza for the senses. But back to our dilemma.
Why is it that when you really need a candle you can’t find one, and when you only want one for atmosphere, they’re everywhere? Desperate, we stuck a couple of stick candles in empty beer bottles, like college days. All I needed was incense and The Moody Blues. But we went to bed early like pioneers not college kids. The next morning candle wax was dripped across the countertop, evidence of our fumbling.
OK, so April is the month for violent storms and watching classics. It is also poetry month and I plan to highlight more poetry on this blog starting Friday. I just got some good news from Steam Ticket a Third Coast Review, published out of the University of Wisconsin. A piece I submitted will be published in their 13th edition which is due out in May!
One more thing. April is also the month for planting trees and kissing the earth. This is a white pine. I kissed the earth with my shovel and watched another storm blow in.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Sabotaged (friday flash 55)
Everything’s her fault.
She missed the UPS delivery
sunning by the pool.
She left the shutter open
on the camera
ruining the battery.
He sets her up for defeat
as he anchors the house.
She takes her masters in February
but she’s defensive as a naughty child,
hobbled as the three-legged cat
she furtively feeds.
If you write a Friday Flash 55 (a story in 55 words, no more, no less) make sure you let the G-Man know.
She missed the UPS delivery
sunning by the pool.
She left the shutter open
on the camera
ruining the battery.
He sets her up for defeat
as he anchors the house.
She takes her masters in February
but she’s defensive as a naughty child,
hobbled as the three-legged cat
she furtively feeds.
If you write a Friday Flash 55 (a story in 55 words, no more, no less) make sure you let the G-Man know.
Writing is not for fools
I came within a hair of winning Andrea Cremer's paranormal haiku contest for one of her "signed" NIGHTSHADE arcs. This, hot off the Cremer Express:
Best Drama:
Yvonne
A night bird twittered
at the window, tapped the sill.
A chirp then a claw.
The competition was stiff as a pair of jeans hung out to dry so I'm considering the finalist category the winner's circle. She promises more of these giveaways so check her blog out. She's one of my oldest blogging friends and is about to be famous worldwide!
Another contest I want to mention this morning is Lady Glamis's short story contest. It runs until June 1st so plenty of time to hone that short and the prizes are very much worth your effort.
Tomorrow is Good Friday with a Flash 55 to conjure up. I have stories and poems out on submission and a nifty rejection in my inbox from Ploughshares. I've recovered from my blog transformation, and I just backed up my novel by emailing it to myself which I thought a pretty good idea since I keep my flashdrive in the vicinity of my laptop and hardcopy is somewhat combustible. And the query letter? Umm, yeah, it's here staring me in the face like a albatross.
Albatross n, 2 a: something that causes persistent deep concern or anxiety.
THE NOMINEES ARE:
Best Drama:
Yvonne
A night bird twittered
at the window, tapped the sill.
A chirp then a claw.
The competition was stiff as a pair of jeans hung out to dry so I'm considering the finalist category the winner's circle. She promises more of these giveaways so check her blog out. She's one of my oldest blogging friends and is about to be famous worldwide!
Another contest I want to mention this morning is Lady Glamis's short story contest. It runs until June 1st so plenty of time to hone that short and the prizes are very much worth your effort.
Tomorrow is Good Friday with a Flash 55 to conjure up. I have stories and poems out on submission and a nifty rejection in my inbox from Ploughshares. I've recovered from my blog transformation, and I just backed up my novel by emailing it to myself which I thought a pretty good idea since I keep my flashdrive in the vicinity of my laptop and hardcopy is somewhat combustible. And the query letter? Umm, yeah, it's here staring me in the face like a albatross.
Albatross n, 2 a: something that causes persistent deep concern or anxiety.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Color Schemes and Bloggy Gadgets
I've been fiddling with my blog layouts, gizmos and gadgets. I'm a scaredy-cat when it comes to change in my corner of the computer world. I break out in hives when my mouse acts up and suffer paralyzing inertia when my computer has an unexpected break-- ah,shutdown. I have this fear that everything will somehow disappear never to be seen again. Though we all know that things posted to the internet never really disappear.
So, please tell me what you think. Is this easier to read than my white on black? I've feared for some time that my blog's dark background made it hard on the eyes which is a very bad thing in bloggerland but I've hesitated to change it. Then I stumbled upon this post by the estimable Michelle Davidson Argyle, aka Lady Glamis, aka The Innocent Flower, which made it seem easy. By the way Simon Larter's back and has a great guest post on her blog about flash fiction. (Hint... a secret way to trim the fat off the bones of your novel). After you post a comment here and tell me what you think you can go over thata way.
Should I revert back to my old ways or do you like the lighter scheme better? This has been so stressful I have to take a break for a bowl of ice cream. Next thing you know I'll be putting up an actual picture of myself!
So, please tell me what you think. Is this easier to read than my white on black? I've feared for some time that my blog's dark background made it hard on the eyes which is a very bad thing in bloggerland but I've hesitated to change it. Then I stumbled upon this post by the estimable Michelle Davidson Argyle, aka Lady Glamis, aka The Innocent Flower, which made it seem easy. By the way Simon Larter's back and has a great guest post on her blog about flash fiction. (Hint... a secret way to trim the fat off the bones of your novel). After you post a comment here and tell me what you think you can go over thata way.
Should I revert back to my old ways or do you like the lighter scheme better? This has been so stressful I have to take a break for a bowl of ice cream. Next thing you know I'll be putting up an actual picture of myself!
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Speaker's Corner
Hyde Park,
where anyone can speak their mind.
It’s Sunday so there’s religion—
urgent voices and eyes that would drain you.
At the far edge is a Marxist with a different stick.
His long hair whips across his face
as he extols the virtue of public transportation
Across the green, the park moves with soccer.
I liked the idea of a Speaker's Corner for my Friday Flash entry.
If you or anyone you know has written a Friday Flash 55, go tell the G-Man where you can find more brevity and wit and get feedback from coast to coast.
And then have a great weekend.
where anyone can speak their mind.
It’s Sunday so there’s religion—
urgent voices and eyes that would drain you.
At the far edge is a Marxist with a different stick.
His long hair whips across his face
as he extols the virtue of public transportation
Across the green, the park moves with soccer.
I liked the idea of a Speaker's Corner for my Friday Flash entry.
If you or anyone you know has written a Friday Flash 55, go tell the G-Man where you can find more brevity and wit and get feedback from coast to coast.
And then have a great weekend.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Wednesday Uplift --- Eureka!
Nathan Bransford wrote a very interesting post recently on the Dunning-Kruger effect. Do you lack confidence in your writing? It seems that might be a good thing.
This was like an Eureka moment to me. And what an interesting concept. If you’re at the pre-agented stage in the journey to publication, you’re especially susceptible to agonizing self-doubt. If you suffer from lack of confidence in your writing skills (as I believe we all do from time to time), make your way to Mr. Bransford's posthaste.
Lack of confidence can be debilitating, and with each rejection it becomes harder and harder to maintain a decent level of self-esteem without which one cannot gather the courage to forge ahead and resubmit. According to the Dunning-Kruger effect, lack of confidence can actually be an indicator of talent. Likewise, when people are incompetent at something they tend to lack the ability to realize it.
Maybe this theory can also explain the recent actions of certain Republicans in the House and Senate. Maybe it explains why the Texas Board of Education is trying to write Thomas Jefferson out of history. These self-proclaimed historians have traced the idea of "separation of church and state" back to Jefferson and they don’t like separation of church and state, so they would strike him out of American History. What is troubling about this is that the textbook industry contains very few textbook publishers and because of the tremendous purchasing power Texas has, what they want schoolchildren to know can make its way into classrooms around the country. From sea to shining sea, Thomas Jefferson could become but a memory.
But this blog is supposed to be principally devoted to the craft of writing, so back to Nathan. Read his post. I’m calling this the Wednesday Uplift. You might be underrating your abilities. Go see what I mean.
This was like an Eureka moment to me. And what an interesting concept. If you’re at the pre-agented stage in the journey to publication, you’re especially susceptible to agonizing self-doubt. If you suffer from lack of confidence in your writing skills (as I believe we all do from time to time), make your way to Mr. Bransford's posthaste.
Lack of confidence can be debilitating, and with each rejection it becomes harder and harder to maintain a decent level of self-esteem without which one cannot gather the courage to forge ahead and resubmit. According to the Dunning-Kruger effect, lack of confidence can actually be an indicator of talent. Likewise, when people are incompetent at something they tend to lack the ability to realize it.
Maybe this theory can also explain the recent actions of certain Republicans in the House and Senate. Maybe it explains why the Texas Board of Education is trying to write Thomas Jefferson out of history. These self-proclaimed historians have traced the idea of "separation of church and state" back to Jefferson and they don’t like separation of church and state, so they would strike him out of American History. What is troubling about this is that the textbook industry contains very few textbook publishers and because of the tremendous purchasing power Texas has, what they want schoolchildren to know can make its way into classrooms around the country. From sea to shining sea, Thomas Jefferson could become but a memory.
But this blog is supposed to be principally devoted to the craft of writing, so back to Nathan. Read his post. I’m calling this the Wednesday Uplift. You might be underrating your abilities. Go see what I mean.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Prolificacy
I would like to thank Sarahjayne Smythe for awarding me the Prolific Blogger Award. 
According to Webster, prolific means "marked by abundant inventiveness or productivity."
So what does it mean in blogspeak, this writer in a state of congitation with the contented dog at her feet? According to the inventor, "A Prolific Blogger is one who is intellectually productive...keeping up an active blog that is filled with enjoyable content."
And folks! That ain't easy! Do you see the worry etched into her brow?
I don't think I'm very prolific but I do try to post something meaningful at least two or three times a week. The temptation to put up anything is always whispering in my ear, and I'm constantly swatting it away, so I'm grateful, Sarahjayne, for this acknowledgment.
Check out her blog. She, herself, is an extremely gifted and prolific writer.
Now for the rules. No groaning. This one is easy.
1. Every winner of the Prolific Blogger Award has to pass on this award to at least seven other deserving prolific bloggers.
2. Each Prolific Blogger must link to the blog from which he/she has received the award.
3. Every Prolific Blogger must link back to this post, which explains the origins and motivation for the award.
4. Every Prolific Blogger must visit this post and add his/her name in the Mr. Linky, so that we can get to know the other winners.
So who are my recipients? I'm glad you asked. I've given a great deal of thought to this, and I know some of you are on a blogging hiatus or don't do awards but that doesn't mean I can't tell you what a great blogger I think you are. No pressure from me....just appreciation and a little bit of a shout-out. You are prodigious, not only on your own blog but with the time you spend commenting and supporting other writers. And you are . . .
1. Tricia at Tailspinning
2. Cat at Words From The Woods
3. JonPaul at SkyMeetsGround
4. Jonas at Twilight
5. Jemi at Just Jemi
6. Andrea at A Blurred History
7. Carol at Carol's Prints
8. Wendy at Musings From Down Under
9. Annie at Quiet Commotion
10. Nessa at The Chrysalis Stage
And there are many more writers I've met along the way who are also worthy of this designation, and I could just keep going but for time constraints. It's time to go to work. And you know what they say about that. "It isn't work unless you'd rather be doing something else." And from the minute I arrive to the minute I leave, I'd rather be doing something else. The best thing about "work" is the 60-minute drive during which time I read my manuscript. Of course I read while I drive. Don't you?
One more thing before I let you leave. I have a question for everyone who is in the query process. Do you include a link to your blog under your name at the bottom of your letter? Should we? Is it like dessert? If the agent wants more they can have it?
Have a great week. Me? I'm going to try to live up to my new handle as I finalize my query and the lucky agents to receive it. (I'm working on my confidence). Optimism breeds success. Onwards and upwards.
According to Webster, prolific means "marked by abundant inventiveness or productivity."
So what does it mean in blogspeak, this writer in a state of congitation with the contented dog at her feet? According to the inventor, "A Prolific Blogger is one who is intellectually productive...keeping up an active blog that is filled with enjoyable content."
And folks! That ain't easy! Do you see the worry etched into her brow?
I don't think I'm very prolific but I do try to post something meaningful at least two or three times a week. The temptation to put up anything is always whispering in my ear, and I'm constantly swatting it away, so I'm grateful, Sarahjayne, for this acknowledgment.
Check out her blog. She, herself, is an extremely gifted and prolific writer.
Now for the rules. No groaning. This one is easy.
1. Every winner of the Prolific Blogger Award has to pass on this award to at least seven other deserving prolific bloggers.
2. Each Prolific Blogger must link to the blog from which he/she has received the award.
3. Every Prolific Blogger must link back to this post, which explains the origins and motivation for the award.
4. Every Prolific Blogger must visit this post and add his/her name in the Mr. Linky, so that we can get to know the other winners.
So who are my recipients? I'm glad you asked. I've given a great deal of thought to this, and I know some of you are on a blogging hiatus or don't do awards but that doesn't mean I can't tell you what a great blogger I think you are. No pressure from me....just appreciation and a little bit of a shout-out. You are prodigious, not only on your own blog but with the time you spend commenting and supporting other writers. And you are . . .
1. Tricia at Tailspinning
2. Cat at Words From The Woods
3. JonPaul at SkyMeetsGround
4. Jonas at Twilight
5. Jemi at Just Jemi
6. Andrea at A Blurred History
7. Carol at Carol's Prints
8. Wendy at Musings From Down Under
9. Annie at Quiet Commotion
10. Nessa at The Chrysalis Stage
And there are many more writers I've met along the way who are also worthy of this designation, and I could just keep going but for time constraints. It's time to go to work. And you know what they say about that. "It isn't work unless you'd rather be doing something else." And from the minute I arrive to the minute I leave, I'd rather be doing something else. The best thing about "work" is the 60-minute drive during which time I read my manuscript. Of course I read while I drive. Don't you?
One more thing before I let you leave. I have a question for everyone who is in the query process. Do you include a link to your blog under your name at the bottom of your letter? Should we? Is it like dessert? If the agent wants more they can have it?
Have a great week. Me? I'm going to try to live up to my new handle as I finalize my query and the lucky agents to receive it. (I'm working on my confidence). Optimism breeds success. Onwards and upwards.
Friday, March 19, 2010
Taking the tone of the company you keep
We passed three bars before we found one
you could be seen in.
You threw darts that wouldn’t stick
and I looked for songs on the jukebox
that wouldn’t make you want to leave.
Everyone wants to leave the country to turn fifty.
After the train pulled out
I fluffed pillows into the shape of you.
If you write a flash in 55 words (no more and no less) vist the G-Man (Mr-Knowitall, himself) and let him know. If not, visit him anyway and read some others.
What are you doing today? I'm watching for my first robin, planting seeds and query pondering.
TGIF and all that jazz.
Here's to blogging! (raises coffee cup)
you could be seen in.
You threw darts that wouldn’t stick
and I looked for songs on the jukebox
that wouldn’t make you want to leave.
Everyone wants to leave the country to turn fifty.
After the train pulled out
I fluffed pillows into the shape of you.
If you write a flash in 55 words (no more and no less) vist the G-Man (Mr-Knowitall, himself) and let him know. If not, visit him anyway and read some others.
What are you doing today? I'm watching for my first robin, planting seeds and query pondering.
TGIF and all that jazz.
Here's to blogging! (raises coffee cup)
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
P.O.V. (the masterful experiment)
I woke in the middle of the night troubled by the weight of my unsent query letter. Is it specific? Is it succinct? I kicked my way out of bed and settled on the couch with The Sound and the Fury to take my mind off the unsent Memories of Snow. Thus it was that at two in the morning I was trying to get a handle on the confusing dialogue and brilliant but exasperating P.O.V. of the manchild, Benjy. Faulkner's narrative weaves back and forth between decades with no warning. It's no wonder I didn't understand it the first time I tried to read it. But I think I'm finally beginning to appreciate the greatness of this literary masterpiece, the risk of beginning a novel in the P.O.V. of an adult man who is mentally three years of age, and the sheer genius of pulling it off. I'm only now getting the symbolism of Benjy's castration and Caddy's soiled drawers (a symbol of her promiscuity), and the reason behind their brother, Quentin's, obsession with time and eventual suicide.
I was reminded of the recent news out of the state prison in Lucasville, Ohio about a prisoner on death row. His third execution date is set for today. He tried to commit suicide with a drug overdose before the last one, so they had to postpone it until he recovered. I wonder if he broke the hands off his watch and put them in his pocket like Quentin did? He was unconscious for some time and they nursed him back to health so he could be executed properly. He's recovered and they will execute him today by lethal injection. I expect it’s already been done.
One can only take so much Faulker at two in the morning, and I put the paperback, penciled up with dates in the margins to help me follow the shifts in time, aside (it is a tragic story, but at least it is fiction). I leafed through my Eliot Coleman gardening book, The Four Season Harvest. It, too, is wonderfully written with photos to complement the wealth of knowledge this gardener from Maine has accumulated over the years.
Earth is so kind - just tickle her with a hoe and she laughs with a harvest. -Douglas Jerold
I've been tickling the earth in the green house. I dug up a worm here amongst the argula ***envision picture*** and tucked him back under the soil. Please use your imagination as I live in internet no-man's land and couldn't download my pretty photo.
This morning I was gifted with another sign of spring. I heard them first and dashed to the window for a look. A flock of geese were flying overhead, heading north.
Godspeed.
I was reminded of the recent news out of the state prison in Lucasville, Ohio about a prisoner on death row. His third execution date is set for today. He tried to commit suicide with a drug overdose before the last one, so they had to postpone it until he recovered. I wonder if he broke the hands off his watch and put them in his pocket like Quentin did? He was unconscious for some time and they nursed him back to health so he could be executed properly. He's recovered and they will execute him today by lethal injection. I expect it’s already been done.
One can only take so much Faulker at two in the morning, and I put the paperback, penciled up with dates in the margins to help me follow the shifts in time, aside (it is a tragic story, but at least it is fiction). I leafed through my Eliot Coleman gardening book, The Four Season Harvest. It, too, is wonderfully written with photos to complement the wealth of knowledge this gardener from Maine has accumulated over the years.
Earth is so kind - just tickle her with a hoe and she laughs with a harvest. -Douglas Jerold
I've been tickling the earth in the green house. I dug up a worm here amongst the argula ***envision picture*** and tucked him back under the soil. Please use your imagination as I live in internet no-man's land and couldn't download my pretty photo.
This morning I was gifted with another sign of spring. I heard them first and dashed to the window for a look. A flock of geese were flying overhead, heading north.
Godspeed.
Monday, March 15, 2010
Gravity
Many of my blogging friends are writing about love scenes and here I am, writing about dust. I wouldn't blame you if you hit exit. Get me the hell out of here! But I wish you'd stay. Sometimes I don't feel like writing about love. Oh, I like nothing better than a good love scene, the warm calloused hand sliding over the knee, under the skirt, oh, God! don't stop! and I like writing them as much as reading them. It gives me that funny feeling in the groin just thinking about it, but sometimes I have to write about what makes me sick.
Hospitals make me sick. The sterile maze of hallway, doors opened to bare backs on beds, the indignity of disease, how it diminishes and reduces one to zero. The gift shops all have the same trinkets and flowers and get-well balloons. Get well. Get well. But what if they won't let you go home? Then how do you get well? I suppose it's the smell that starts the quiver in my belly, the oh-I'm-going-to-be-sick twinge in my gut. I'm not much use in a hospital, other than to sneak in cookies and date bread (real food) books and newspapers, but even when you pull the curtain you can still hear the roommate groaning. I can't adjust a pillow without glancing at the monitor and staring at the squiggly life lines and all those fluctuating numbers, and I think I have a heart problem or a lung disorder or what if that little bump on my ankle that when rubbed sends tingles into my toes is not benign? What if it gets bigger? Why can't I make an appointment? I so admire nurses and caretakers and doctors and everyone who works in a hospital. My sister held hearts in the operating room, the warm center of gravity in the palms of her hands without moving for however long it took to disconnect and reconnect and suction and suture. She retired early but not without varicose veins. All that standing. I stand most of the day too, but I could never do what she did.
The door swings empty. Dust settles.
Flesh accommodates.
Even a feather obeys gravity.
The old lady stumbles but she recovers.
I hurt therefore I am.
When you crossed the hospital lobby
Did you think to escape
With only shaking hands?
Pick up your feet.
Make a wrong turn and you could come up missing,
Walking back at yourself with the look of another.
in elongated mirrors hung in corners.
Don’t breathe.
Grandma couldn’t without the ventilator,
hissing and pumping a nasal gurgle.
(Did I dream that noise?)
The incident, unforeseen, took her down
one day before she was to come home,
one from which she could not recover.
It’s raining again at the window bed,
Steady as the pocket watch ticking
from where no one can see it.
It paces us through gathering events.
In a place like this . . . the only time I ever saw
my father down.
Out of time. And when was it ours?
Sometimes we can’t go home but would it matter
if we don’t recover?
We get along. Dust settles.
Hospitals make me sick. The sterile maze of hallway, doors opened to bare backs on beds, the indignity of disease, how it diminishes and reduces one to zero. The gift shops all have the same trinkets and flowers and get-well balloons. Get well. Get well. But what if they won't let you go home? Then how do you get well? I suppose it's the smell that starts the quiver in my belly, the oh-I'm-going-to-be-sick twinge in my gut. I'm not much use in a hospital, other than to sneak in cookies and date bread (real food) books and newspapers, but even when you pull the curtain you can still hear the roommate groaning. I can't adjust a pillow without glancing at the monitor and staring at the squiggly life lines and all those fluctuating numbers, and I think I have a heart problem or a lung disorder or what if that little bump on my ankle that when rubbed sends tingles into my toes is not benign? What if it gets bigger? Why can't I make an appointment? I so admire nurses and caretakers and doctors and everyone who works in a hospital. My sister held hearts in the operating room, the warm center of gravity in the palms of her hands without moving for however long it took to disconnect and reconnect and suction and suture. She retired early but not without varicose veins. All that standing. I stand most of the day too, but I could never do what she did.
The door swings empty. Dust settles.
Flesh accommodates.
Even a feather obeys gravity.
The old lady stumbles but she recovers.
I hurt therefore I am.
When you crossed the hospital lobby
Did you think to escape
With only shaking hands?
Pick up your feet.
Make a wrong turn and you could come up missing,
Walking back at yourself with the look of another.
in elongated mirrors hung in corners.
Don’t breathe.
Grandma couldn’t without the ventilator,
hissing and pumping a nasal gurgle.
(Did I dream that noise?)
The incident, unforeseen, took her down
one day before she was to come home,
one from which she could not recover.
It’s raining again at the window bed,
Steady as the pocket watch ticking
from where no one can see it.
It paces us through gathering events.
In a place like this . . . the only time I ever saw
my father down.
Out of time. And when was it ours?
Sometimes we can’t go home but would it matter
if we don’t recover?
We get along. Dust settles.
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