by Kathy W.
National Novel Writing Month (www.nanowrimo.org) is an extravaganza that traditionally takes place in November. WriMo’s are people who participate in this, well, mad writing marathon. In 2010, over 200,000 people worldwide took part. I did it, as did several other members of our Vernon Writers Group. The goal is to write 50,000 words in the 30 days of November. (Most novels are at least 80,000 words.) If you achieve the 50K word count you get a cool certificate to print and hang on the wall. And that manuscript you produced, of course! No matter if it’s 10K or 25K or the magical 50K, it’s a major ego booster even when there are plot holes that could swallow Mac trucks.
I’ve participated in NaNoWriMo six times. It has made me a better writer. Why? It’s intense writing practice. In the beginning I primarily focused on word count, but after I knew I could write 50K, I focused on things in my writing that needed improvement. In 2010 I discovered the joys of plot! To me, that’s the most important value of this exercise. Writing better. There’s also a marvelous online community of fellow writers to commiserate with and lots of general writing information in the Forums (message boards).
Ever heard of Water for Elephants? Written during NaNoWriMo.
I’m bringing this up now because for the first time ever there’s going to be Camp NaNoWriMo this summer! They haven’t yet announced which summer month. I’ll post it either here or at the Yahoo group site when the information is available, or you can check their website.
I'll participate. But it’s always more fun with friends. If you sign up, let me know. We can be NaNo buddies.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
Saturday, May 21, 2011
International Day of Pease
by Carol Keene
According to sources in Pease Porridge, a small village in West Sussex, England, we're coming up on another International Day of Pease. Pease Porridge became the town's official name when in the 1740's, it became the favorite watering hole and eatery for convicts in route from London to a prison on the southern coast. Pease Porridge is made from cooked dried peas that grow in and around that village. It was a cheap and hearty meal to prepare for the traveling prisoners that could be served hot or cold, fresh or old—up to nine days old, commensurate with the children's clapping game and popular Mother Goose nursery rhyme.
This year in Pease Porridge, the Day of Pease will include: pease shooting, a pease cook-off, and music by the Village's own, Peaseable Kingdom. The ubiquitous tortures of yore have officially been eliminated from the festival. Unruly residents will no longer be required to kneel on dried pease as punishment for acts originating in the beer tent.
New this year's line up are exciting changes in the gaming rules and not surprisingly, in the ingredients list for the cook-off, according to Flarrity McHugh, this year's organizer. Pease shooting will now require a tube from which to launch fresh green pease. One's own nose is no longer considered an appropriate instrument. Soda straws, category A-7, for this year's tenderometer-graded specimens, will be provided. Neither metal nor composite instruments of nondescript or questionable components will be acceptable, including wires, generators or batteries.
On the heels of last year's first prize entry debacle, Sorley O'Flay has been banned from the festivities. In fact, she was recently seen in Pease Porridge eating a bowl of Porridge while shackled to a string of prisoners, heading down to the southern coast. Sorley was suspected, and convicted of cubing the marinated feet of her dear, departed husband, and including him in her stew. Sorley's entry was tasty, but disqualified from the baked pease category when a whole toe, nail and all, floated to the top of a bowl. This year's entries, it was decided, will be entirely vegetarian.
And finally, The Nine-Days-Old Micro-Brewery is up and running again, after two unrelated infusion-mashing incidents. Besides Sorley's husband Danny drowning in tank number one, a second incident; the mistaken addition of kaolin clay left over from Finn's Pottery Shoppe was added instead of yeast to the boiled wort. The look-alike granules that clogged the apparatus instead of dissolving and fermenting shut down the operation for longer, even, than the unfortunate marinating of Danny O'Flay. Nine-Days-Old will be the sole concession of beer this year and will debut its International Day of Pease Ale. Free pedicures will be offered at the foot of the beer tent in memory of Danny O'Flay.
According to sources in Pease Porridge, a small village in West Sussex, England, we're coming up on another International Day of Pease. Pease Porridge became the town's official name when in the 1740's, it became the favorite watering hole and eatery for convicts in route from London to a prison on the southern coast. Pease Porridge is made from cooked dried peas that grow in and around that village. It was a cheap and hearty meal to prepare for the traveling prisoners that could be served hot or cold, fresh or old—up to nine days old, commensurate with the children's clapping game and popular Mother Goose nursery rhyme.
This year in Pease Porridge, the Day of Pease will include: pease shooting, a pease cook-off, and music by the Village's own, Peaseable Kingdom. The ubiquitous tortures of yore have officially been eliminated from the festival. Unruly residents will no longer be required to kneel on dried pease as punishment for acts originating in the beer tent.
New this year's line up are exciting changes in the gaming rules and not surprisingly, in the ingredients list for the cook-off, according to Flarrity McHugh, this year's organizer. Pease shooting will now require a tube from which to launch fresh green pease. One's own nose is no longer considered an appropriate instrument. Soda straws, category A-7, for this year's tenderometer-graded specimens, will be provided. Neither metal nor composite instruments of nondescript or questionable components will be acceptable, including wires, generators or batteries.
On the heels of last year's first prize entry debacle, Sorley O'Flay has been banned from the festivities. In fact, she was recently seen in Pease Porridge eating a bowl of Porridge while shackled to a string of prisoners, heading down to the southern coast. Sorley was suspected, and convicted of cubing the marinated feet of her dear, departed husband, and including him in her stew. Sorley's entry was tasty, but disqualified from the baked pease category when a whole toe, nail and all, floated to the top of a bowl. This year's entries, it was decided, will be entirely vegetarian.
And finally, The Nine-Days-Old Micro-Brewery is up and running again, after two unrelated infusion-mashing incidents. Besides Sorley's husband Danny drowning in tank number one, a second incident; the mistaken addition of kaolin clay left over from Finn's Pottery Shoppe was added instead of yeast to the boiled wort. The look-alike granules that clogged the apparatus instead of dissolving and fermenting shut down the operation for longer, even, than the unfortunate marinating of Danny O'Flay. Nine-Days-Old will be the sole concession of beer this year and will debut its International Day of Pease Ale. Free pedicures will be offered at the foot of the beer tent in memory of Danny O'Flay.
Random
by Alan Barasky
As I blew my horn at the minivan cutting me off so that it could navigate from the left lane to the exit in the 20 feet that remained available to it, I noticed its bumper sticker flashing by: “S--t happens.” And to push aside the homicidal thoughts directed at the minivan’s driver, I thought instead, “Is life really that random?”
Some other guy always wins the lottery. Some other guy’s team always wins the championship (some other guy who doesn’t live in my home town of Cleveland, that is. No champions there since 1964). Some other guy even wins the NCAA pool every year. But if life were truly random, wouldn’t I get to be that other guy once in a while?
Of course, I’m happy to leave some things to that other guy. I’ve never had a bird poop on my head, punctured a tire in a pothole or gotten hit by lightning. The other guy caught all of those – poor schnook.
So why does that other guy have all the luck – good or bad? Is life really governed by the laws of probability? With apologies to my old statistics professors, that is a particularly depressing thought. Much as I like stumbling through probabilistic brain teasers, our existence has to have more of a foundation than that – doesn’t it?
Georges Duhamel, a French author, once wrote, “I have too much respect for the idea of God to make it responsible for such an absurd world.” But perhaps that absurdity is the key. Perhaps God was invented by man solely because the prospect of no higher power, no coherent plan governing the human condition was just too unbearable for our distant ancestors to contemplate. And succeeding generations, after quickly checking their options, said, “Yep, me too. I’m a believer.”
Atheists must be the bravest people on the planet because they really believe that the only ones keeping things going are me and that other guy. Me and the schnook? That would be like getting out of bed in the middle of the night when you are six years old, walking into your parents’ bedroom and discovering that they aren’t there. And you realize that not only aren’t they there that night, they have never been there. There isn’t even a bed.
As I blew my horn at the minivan cutting me off so that it could navigate from the left lane to the exit in the 20 feet that remained available to it, I noticed its bumper sticker flashing by: “S--t happens.” And to push aside the homicidal thoughts directed at the minivan’s driver, I thought instead, “Is life really that random?”
Some other guy always wins the lottery. Some other guy’s team always wins the championship (some other guy who doesn’t live in my home town of Cleveland, that is. No champions there since 1964). Some other guy even wins the NCAA pool every year. But if life were truly random, wouldn’t I get to be that other guy once in a while?
Of course, I’m happy to leave some things to that other guy. I’ve never had a bird poop on my head, punctured a tire in a pothole or gotten hit by lightning. The other guy caught all of those – poor schnook.
So why does that other guy have all the luck – good or bad? Is life really governed by the laws of probability? With apologies to my old statistics professors, that is a particularly depressing thought. Much as I like stumbling through probabilistic brain teasers, our existence has to have more of a foundation than that – doesn’t it?
Georges Duhamel, a French author, once wrote, “I have too much respect for the idea of God to make it responsible for such an absurd world.” But perhaps that absurdity is the key. Perhaps God was invented by man solely because the prospect of no higher power, no coherent plan governing the human condition was just too unbearable for our distant ancestors to contemplate. And succeeding generations, after quickly checking their options, said, “Yep, me too. I’m a believer.”
Atheists must be the bravest people on the planet because they really believe that the only ones keeping things going are me and that other guy. Me and the schnook? That would be like getting out of bed in the middle of the night when you are six years old, walking into your parents’ bedroom and discovering that they aren’t there. And you realize that not only aren’t they there that night, they have never been there. There isn’t even a bed.
Cures For Writers Block
By Marsha Gooden
I recommend you write incessantly and use one of the following to make sure you are never blocked or to get past it.
First, stop work on a project and start capturing scenarios and idea
Or, research cultures, regions, era sciences, etc. for material
Then, look at various word books to find new or interesting ones and list them.
Also, work on an idea book of writing projects.
Finally, I switch between projects. I keep my main projects top of mind, but sort my project file by detail to see which I have ideas for but haven't worked on in 14-30 days.
I recommend you write incessantly and use one of the following to make sure you are never blocked or to get past it.
First, stop work on a project and start capturing scenarios and idea
Or, research cultures, regions, era sciences, etc. for material
Then, look at various word books to find new or interesting ones and list them.
Also, work on an idea book of writing projects.
Finally, I switch between projects. I keep my main projects top of mind, but sort my project file by detail to see which I have ideas for but haven't worked on in 14-30 days.
One Afternoon In Memphis
By Jeff Segal
Lindy perched on the edge of the motel mattress, her face barely a foot from the weather alert flashing across the TV screen. “What county are we in?”
“Pretty sure it’s Shelby,” said Todd. “Did they say Shelby?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, that would explain the sirens.”
On cue, the distant wail resumed, ebbing and surging as the civil defense horn spun its cautious circle. Lindy whimpered a four-letter word. Todd turned to me, standing in the doorway of their room, and asked me if I was ready for another drink. I said yes.
We were staying at the Graceland Days Inn in Memphis, but we weren’t there for Elvis. We were in town for the three-day Beale Street Music Festival, and day three wasn’t looking too good. Considering the devastation wrought by tornadoes just a few days before, an outright cancellation wouldn’t come as much surprise.
But we weren’t about to spend the last day of our vacation cowering in a motel room.
Drinks in hand, my wife and I made for the deck of the guitar-shaped pool. We wiped down the lounge chairs and lowered the backs so we could gaze at the sky—a seething upturned cauldron of olive green and charcoal grey. They weren’t the kind of clouds where you say, oh look, a rabbit! a kangaroo! More like, oh look, a stampede of gorgons! Here and there sunlight would singe the edge of a cloud, as if the entire churning mass might catch fire and crash to earth like a fleet of doomed zeppelins.
We sat quietly, breathing the wispy, metal-scented air, listening to the Elvis songs on the poolside speakers dueling with the tornado siren. “Love Me Tender.” “Heartbeak Hotel.” “Return to Sender.” When “Burning Love” came on we both laughed—the first Valentine I ever sent her depicted two Far Side scientists examining a flaming, heart-shaped meteor: “No doubt about it, it’s a hunka hunka burnin’ love.”
Secretly, I was hoping to see one of those sinister clouds sharpen into a funnel. Not that I wished destruction on anyone, least of all myself. But ... I don’t know. Seems like you spend half your life scared of abstract what-ifs—is your job safe? will your kid make new friends? does insurance cover that?—but how many times in life do you experience genuine terror? I craved that moment of sky-cleaving panic, daring myself to watch wide-eyed until the very last second before running for cover. I wanted the exhilaration of being scared out of my freakin’ mind.
But soon the siren stopped and the sky lightened into a flat, boring pearl grey. Todd and Lindy came out to the pool and said if we left now we might still catch Gregg Allman. So we piled into the van and took the near-deserted highway into town. The park was a sea of mud and Gregg Allman’s set was lame.
Lindy perched on the edge of the motel mattress, her face barely a foot from the weather alert flashing across the TV screen. “What county are we in?”
“Pretty sure it’s Shelby,” said Todd. “Did they say Shelby?”
“Yes.”
“Well then, that would explain the sirens.”
On cue, the distant wail resumed, ebbing and surging as the civil defense horn spun its cautious circle. Lindy whimpered a four-letter word. Todd turned to me, standing in the doorway of their room, and asked me if I was ready for another drink. I said yes.
We were staying at the Graceland Days Inn in Memphis, but we weren’t there for Elvis. We were in town for the three-day Beale Street Music Festival, and day three wasn’t looking too good. Considering the devastation wrought by tornadoes just a few days before, an outright cancellation wouldn’t come as much surprise.
But we weren’t about to spend the last day of our vacation cowering in a motel room.
Drinks in hand, my wife and I made for the deck of the guitar-shaped pool. We wiped down the lounge chairs and lowered the backs so we could gaze at the sky—a seething upturned cauldron of olive green and charcoal grey. They weren’t the kind of clouds where you say, oh look, a rabbit! a kangaroo! More like, oh look, a stampede of gorgons! Here and there sunlight would singe the edge of a cloud, as if the entire churning mass might catch fire and crash to earth like a fleet of doomed zeppelins.
We sat quietly, breathing the wispy, metal-scented air, listening to the Elvis songs on the poolside speakers dueling with the tornado siren. “Love Me Tender.” “Heartbeak Hotel.” “Return to Sender.” When “Burning Love” came on we both laughed—the first Valentine I ever sent her depicted two Far Side scientists examining a flaming, heart-shaped meteor: “No doubt about it, it’s a hunka hunka burnin’ love.”
Secretly, I was hoping to see one of those sinister clouds sharpen into a funnel. Not that I wished destruction on anyone, least of all myself. But ... I don’t know. Seems like you spend half your life scared of abstract what-ifs—is your job safe? will your kid make new friends? does insurance cover that?—but how many times in life do you experience genuine terror? I craved that moment of sky-cleaving panic, daring myself to watch wide-eyed until the very last second before running for cover. I wanted the exhilaration of being scared out of my freakin’ mind.
But soon the siren stopped and the sky lightened into a flat, boring pearl grey. Todd and Lindy came out to the pool and said if we left now we might still catch Gregg Allman. So we piled into the van and took the near-deserted highway into town. The park was a sea of mud and Gregg Allman’s set was lame.
Some Minor Adjustments
By Larry Boisen
Trudy Schlaumeier made some final adjustments to the console of her gadget, which she called her, “ideal man maker.” It was attached to a well-padded recliner that had hidden within it all sorts of electronic connections. She had only to convince her potential victim, some young hunk, to sit in the recliner, let the drugged drink he had imbibed take effect, connect all the electrodes to his chest and forehead and then turn the gizmo on. She was a brilliant scientist; although others would deem her a diabolical one.
She had worked so hard creating this contraption and had, in fact, tried it out on a few men already. The fact that the device had not exhibited the correct effect was not due to any failings in her scientific planning but rather to her wrong choice of men.
Her plan was relatively simple: since she was a reasonably attractive woman, she wouldn’t have too difficult a time finding some young hunk to lure to her lair. She would ply him with alcoholic drinks, say and do a few suggestive things, get him to sit in the “electric chair”, wait for the drug to take effect and then whammo! – she would adjust all the dials to alter his state permanently to become a mindless slave that would satisfy her every whim.
Her few past attempts resulted in men who became too docile, too lazy. She wanted a man full of vigor, but one whose one constant goal was to serve her like the queen that she was meant to be. Oh, sure there were plenty of men who would want plenty of hanky-panky, but after they were sated they would just dump her. But this time it would work perfectly. She had found herself a hunk all right, but he was a brainless Lil’ Abner of a man. Once she had manipulated his nervous system and brain waves he would be all hers to cater to her every beck and call.
Herman was his name, and he was due to arrive any minute. She was sure that this time she wouldn’t have to dispose of a body. She didn’t want any guy with brains; she had enough brains for any couple.
The door bell rang. Trudy opened the door, and there stood all six foot four of this simpleton named Herman. He was dressed like the bumpkin that he was wearing a brown and yellow striped shirt. He held a bouquet of flowers in his trembling hands.
“Please come in, Herman. Let us not waste a precious moment. I have some delicious new variety of wine for us to celebrate with. Please be seated.” And she indicated her lethal weapon.
“Oh, thank you,” Herman said as he bowed clumsily and then sat down.
Trudy scurried off and fetched the glasses of wine, one for herself and the other, laced with a sedative, for Herman. Within minutes Herman was in la-la-land and Trudy attached the electrodes to his chest and forehead. She rubbed her hands together and smiled with sinister glee as she started to manipulate the dials. This went on for several minutes.
“Any minute now,” she snickered to herself. Suddenly, Herman popped open his eyes,
looked at her and around the room and then smiled graciously at her.
“I feel simply marvelous,” he said with a somewhat British accent.
Trudy was taken aback a bit at first, but he seemed so happy that she assumed that this was just an unusual side effect. He rose quickly, bowed gracefully, grabbed her hand and kissed it.
“What a charming princess you are, my dear,” he said, and he took her into his arms and waltzed her around the room.
“What happened to the shy young man who was at my door a few minutes ago?” she panted with delighted exhaustion.
“Why, he has been changed into your most ardent lover and slave, madam. Please sit
down so I may attend to your every need and desire.”
She sat down a bit perplexed. He stroked her hair and face. She smiled as she contemplated her plan working so effectively. He continued to stroke her temples, and then suddenly he pressed her temples hard and she passed out. He attached the electrodes to her and walked over to the console.
“Now, let me make a few adjustments here and soon I will have my very own Stepford woman. Ha! Who wants a brilliant woman? No, I have a much better use for you, my dear ditz.
Trudy Schlaumeier made some final adjustments to the console of her gadget, which she called her, “ideal man maker.” It was attached to a well-padded recliner that had hidden within it all sorts of electronic connections. She had only to convince her potential victim, some young hunk, to sit in the recliner, let the drugged drink he had imbibed take effect, connect all the electrodes to his chest and forehead and then turn the gizmo on. She was a brilliant scientist; although others would deem her a diabolical one.
She had worked so hard creating this contraption and had, in fact, tried it out on a few men already. The fact that the device had not exhibited the correct effect was not due to any failings in her scientific planning but rather to her wrong choice of men.
Her plan was relatively simple: since she was a reasonably attractive woman, she wouldn’t have too difficult a time finding some young hunk to lure to her lair. She would ply him with alcoholic drinks, say and do a few suggestive things, get him to sit in the “electric chair”, wait for the drug to take effect and then whammo! – she would adjust all the dials to alter his state permanently to become a mindless slave that would satisfy her every whim.
Her few past attempts resulted in men who became too docile, too lazy. She wanted a man full of vigor, but one whose one constant goal was to serve her like the queen that she was meant to be. Oh, sure there were plenty of men who would want plenty of hanky-panky, but after they were sated they would just dump her. But this time it would work perfectly. She had found herself a hunk all right, but he was a brainless Lil’ Abner of a man. Once she had manipulated his nervous system and brain waves he would be all hers to cater to her every beck and call.
Herman was his name, and he was due to arrive any minute. She was sure that this time she wouldn’t have to dispose of a body. She didn’t want any guy with brains; she had enough brains for any couple.
The door bell rang. Trudy opened the door, and there stood all six foot four of this simpleton named Herman. He was dressed like the bumpkin that he was wearing a brown and yellow striped shirt. He held a bouquet of flowers in his trembling hands.
“Please come in, Herman. Let us not waste a precious moment. I have some delicious new variety of wine for us to celebrate with. Please be seated.” And she indicated her lethal weapon.
“Oh, thank you,” Herman said as he bowed clumsily and then sat down.
Trudy scurried off and fetched the glasses of wine, one for herself and the other, laced with a sedative, for Herman. Within minutes Herman was in la-la-land and Trudy attached the electrodes to his chest and forehead. She rubbed her hands together and smiled with sinister glee as she started to manipulate the dials. This went on for several minutes.
“Any minute now,” she snickered to herself. Suddenly, Herman popped open his eyes,
looked at her and around the room and then smiled graciously at her.
“I feel simply marvelous,” he said with a somewhat British accent.
Trudy was taken aback a bit at first, but he seemed so happy that she assumed that this was just an unusual side effect. He rose quickly, bowed gracefully, grabbed her hand and kissed it.
“What a charming princess you are, my dear,” he said, and he took her into his arms and waltzed her around the room.
“What happened to the shy young man who was at my door a few minutes ago?” she panted with delighted exhaustion.
“Why, he has been changed into your most ardent lover and slave, madam. Please sit
down so I may attend to your every need and desire.”
She sat down a bit perplexed. He stroked her hair and face. She smiled as she contemplated her plan working so effectively. He continued to stroke her temples, and then suddenly he pressed her temples hard and she passed out. He attached the electrodes to her and walked over to the console.
“Now, let me make a few adjustments here and soon I will have my very own Stepford woman. Ha! Who wants a brilliant woman? No, I have a much better use for you, my dear ditz.
Writing Rich, Money Poor
"I have to concede that if you want to get rich, in monetary sense, you should probably do something besides write. But for me, it's enough that writing makes me rich in other ways. I was poor when I wasn't writing, when I didn't trust the value of taking time to put my heart and mind on paper, when I thought that because I wasn't already published, my desire to write was dilettantish. It wasn't until I started taking writing classes that I began to from out of the poverty of not trusting myself as a writer. In those early classes, I recognized that I felt better on days I wrote than days I didn't write." Sheila Bender
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
At The Pool
By Carol Keene
Betty flipped through an album of how the view had looked one year ago; shots of the pool, looking down from her third floor balcony to the decking below. How things had changed.
Photo #1. SpongeBoy TanPants: a pre-pubescent chunk-of-a-child whose blubber lounged just within the hemlines of a plain blue beach towel. He created an entertaining illusion, akin to the licensed graphic of a cartoon character. His right-arm flexed so his hand arced between a bag of something salty/crunchy, to his open mouth. His left arm cradled a Big Gulp with a Tygon-tubing straw. Brown liquid ebbed and flowed with every sip.
Photo #2. Skirted Myrtle: middle-aged caregiver, snack provider to SpongeBoy TanPants, pulled a wheeled crate to the deck chair close to the kid. She opened the lid, tore open a new bag, replaced his empty one with something chewy/sweet this time. She seemed to know the shortest way to the dear boy's heart—attack.
Photo #3. Speedo Guido: sleek as a seal, wriggled himself like a needle, quilting an azure block with calculated movements, perfectly spaced, perfectly paced, sparse at the surface, gliding through the batting, turning—repeating.
Photo #4. Ike and Mike: candy-colored trunks on wiener-shaped siblings, one left handed, one right, with an invisible tether between their useless sides, acted as a unit in all they did. Like conjoined twins, severed early enough, through flesh and organs that didn't much matter. They shook out a double wide towel of fruity stripes, reclined themselves in unison, index fingers connecting across the lime stripe.
Photo #5. Frail Dale: a hunching shrimp in the shell, leaned into his walker, tennis ball feet skimming the decking as he eeked his way through shade the temperature of his own body, toward the warmth of...
Photo #6. Sun-drenched Sue: scanty at best, mostly naked, apart from the thong and two threads tied in a bow across her back. She was slippery in her valleys and her mounds, attracting stares like metal filings on a Wooly Willy magnetic toy.
Photo #7. Frail Dale: scooted behind his walker faster than his chicken bone legs were able, toward the warmth of his oasis in the desert—Sun-drenched Sue. His wheels smacked the rim of the swimming pool, and lunged his shrimpish hunch into the fluid blue pool—on top of Speedo Guido.
Photo #8. Guido: snapped in the neck and spine by two struts of Dale's walker.
Photo #9. Paramedic Paul: failed every attempt at pumping chlorinated pool water from Frail Dale's bony chest.
Photo #10. Paramedic Pete: pronounces Guido, bent in directions unbecoming a spine.
Photo #11. Sun-drenched Sue: maven of music, iPod booming through ear buds plugged-in to two of her many inviting openings, was oblivious to the disturbance she had caused; long past the removal of the bodies, and Skirted Myrtle's hasty exit with Sponge Boy, Mike and Ike.
Photo #12. Sun-burned Sue: blistered carcass baked to a crisp was carried out by the same shift of paramedics, one of whom found her suicide note: Pills.
Photo #13. Insurance adjuster.
Photo #14. Jack hammer.
Photo #15. Bulldozer.
Photo #16. Lawnmower cutting the grass where the pool once was.
Betty flipped through an album of how the view had looked one year ago; shots of the pool, looking down from her third floor balcony to the decking below. How things had changed.
Photo #1. SpongeBoy TanPants: a pre-pubescent chunk-of-a-child whose blubber lounged just within the hemlines of a plain blue beach towel. He created an entertaining illusion, akin to the licensed graphic of a cartoon character. His right-arm flexed so his hand arced between a bag of something salty/crunchy, to his open mouth. His left arm cradled a Big Gulp with a Tygon-tubing straw. Brown liquid ebbed and flowed with every sip.
Photo #2. Skirted Myrtle: middle-aged caregiver, snack provider to SpongeBoy TanPants, pulled a wheeled crate to the deck chair close to the kid. She opened the lid, tore open a new bag, replaced his empty one with something chewy/sweet this time. She seemed to know the shortest way to the dear boy's heart—attack.
Photo #3. Speedo Guido: sleek as a seal, wriggled himself like a needle, quilting an azure block with calculated movements, perfectly spaced, perfectly paced, sparse at the surface, gliding through the batting, turning—repeating.
Photo #4. Ike and Mike: candy-colored trunks on wiener-shaped siblings, one left handed, one right, with an invisible tether between their useless sides, acted as a unit in all they did. Like conjoined twins, severed early enough, through flesh and organs that didn't much matter. They shook out a double wide towel of fruity stripes, reclined themselves in unison, index fingers connecting across the lime stripe.
Photo #5. Frail Dale: a hunching shrimp in the shell, leaned into his walker, tennis ball feet skimming the decking as he eeked his way through shade the temperature of his own body, toward the warmth of...
Photo #6. Sun-drenched Sue: scanty at best, mostly naked, apart from the thong and two threads tied in a bow across her back. She was slippery in her valleys and her mounds, attracting stares like metal filings on a Wooly Willy magnetic toy.
Photo #7. Frail Dale: scooted behind his walker faster than his chicken bone legs were able, toward the warmth of his oasis in the desert—Sun-drenched Sue. His wheels smacked the rim of the swimming pool, and lunged his shrimpish hunch into the fluid blue pool—on top of Speedo Guido.
Photo #8. Guido: snapped in the neck and spine by two struts of Dale's walker.
Photo #9. Paramedic Paul: failed every attempt at pumping chlorinated pool water from Frail Dale's bony chest.
Photo #10. Paramedic Pete: pronounces Guido, bent in directions unbecoming a spine.
Photo #11. Sun-drenched Sue: maven of music, iPod booming through ear buds plugged-in to two of her many inviting openings, was oblivious to the disturbance she had caused; long past the removal of the bodies, and Skirted Myrtle's hasty exit with Sponge Boy, Mike and Ike.
Photo #12. Sun-burned Sue: blistered carcass baked to a crisp was carried out by the same shift of paramedics, one of whom found her suicide note: Pills.
Photo #13. Insurance adjuster.
Photo #14. Jack hammer.
Photo #15. Bulldozer.
Photo #16. Lawnmower cutting the grass where the pool once was.
Excuses, Excuses
Do you love to write but think that you "just don't have time" or "don't know where to start" or "are stuck where you are with the story.” So often I hear writers make excuses for not writing. It's a great way to get away with not doing it when frankly you should JUST DO IT!
That exact sentiment is written about in a frank and funny non fictional guide titled, Bird By Bird, by Anne Lamott. The book is inspiring, insightful and interesting.
You can compare the act of writing like getting up for a job you have to go to every day. You work nine to five and set your alarm at 6:00 a.m. so you can be at work at 9:00 a.m. Each task you do when you wake up is one task closer to getting to work. You shower, brush your teeth, get dressed, eat breakfast, grab your car keys, etc., and head out the door.
Think of writing in the same way. Setting your alarm could be equal to making a time on your calendar to write. Showering could be pulling your hair back in a ponytail or getting into something comfortable. Instead of brushing your teeth you grab a glass of something warm or cold to drink. Then instead of grabbing you car keys grab that door knob and go into your office and turn on the computer and DRIVE to work and WRITE.
That exact sentiment is written about in a frank and funny non fictional guide titled, Bird By Bird, by Anne Lamott. The book is inspiring, insightful and interesting.
You can compare the act of writing like getting up for a job you have to go to every day. You work nine to five and set your alarm at 6:00 a.m. so you can be at work at 9:00 a.m. Each task you do when you wake up is one task closer to getting to work. You shower, brush your teeth, get dressed, eat breakfast, grab your car keys, etc., and head out the door.
Think of writing in the same way. Setting your alarm could be equal to making a time on your calendar to write. Showering could be pulling your hair back in a ponytail or getting into something comfortable. Instead of brushing your teeth you grab a glass of something warm or cold to drink. Then instead of grabbing you car keys grab that door knob and go into your office and turn on the computer and DRIVE to work and WRITE.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
A Writer's Fingers Dance
The writer’s fingers dance the keyboard for the sounds of the tap, tap, tap rhythm their fingers make as a story is born.
Hour after hour, days and weeks stretch out as the writer raises their story. Word after word fills the pages, then changed, erased and re-written yet again.
Then as the writer holds her breath it is sent off into the world, hoping against hope someone will like what she has made.
Hour after hour, days and weeks stretch out as the writer raises their story. Word after word fills the pages, then changed, erased and re-written yet again.
Then as the writer holds her breath it is sent off into the world, hoping against hope someone will like what she has made.
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