One of the hardest things I run into while trying to write a novel (other than losing focus on where I was going with the story), is re-reading and feeling that it is inadequate, that it sounds fake and like a five-year old wrote it.
Well, I got confirmation of that yesterday.
I was cleaning out some papers and ran across a book I had started writing earlier this year. We had travelled to Ohio shortly after I started, and I had thought that I left it up there. I had decided to chuck the idea after I first thought I left it up there since I didn't cherish the idea of trying to re-write the whole first two chapters by memory. Well, it turns out I did not leave it in Ohio and someone read it.
This person, whom I have only seen twice and didn't really meet at all, left me a fantastic note which she titled "feedback" that says not only is this the dumbest book she's ever read, but she could write a better book taking a crap. That's literally what she said.
That was an incredible boost to my writer's confidence. Yes.
Makes me want to keep writing.
Insert sarcastic face here.
Friday, December 7, 2012
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
The Longest Night
The reasons that caused the argument would become inconsequential as the situation progressed, dragging hearts like cans tied to the back of a car. The outcome would be so much more important.
They were not a violent couple. You would not see them duking it out in the front yard or hear the sound of hand hitting face. They imagined they fought in average quantities for a couple living together, although, during their arguments it seemed to them that they argued all the time.
The beginning was a normal Saturday afternoon: kids running around the house, football on t.v., everyone getting ready for the weekend shopping trip. But an incident caused a rip in their fabric. The man, like many other men, wanted to ignore the situation, just stop talking about it, pretend like it never happened. The woman, like many other women, wanted validation of their relationship, an (honest) apology, a resolution before forgiving and forgetting. Neither one was giving in.
Sometimes, when one person has such greater emotional needs than the other person, or so it seems to them, and the other person refuses to acknowledge their own feelings, much less those of their partner's, and their partner is stuck between needing emotional comfort and being pushed up against a wall of distrust... Violent ends come to pass.
The tears wouldn't come this time. Somewhere, deep inside her beyond where even she could consciously fathom, something had changed. Or died. But she couldn't cry. She was hurting... It felt like her heart was being stretched out from her center, like a piece of Laffy Taffy, and was at the point of tearing apart. There was a tight burning in her chest that she couldn't describe if she wanted to, and a bitter tension in her belly. She was hurting, and she wanted him to hurt like he had hurt her.
In her mind, though, she believed he had no feelings. His heart was cold and small and existed only as a mechanism for pumping blood through his frosty veins. So she lashed out in the only way she knew how.
She threw the remote at him.
The back of the remote popped off, and the four AAA batteries scattered across the floor, hiding under toys and the couch. Later, she would find one in the bedroom, though how it ended up there no one would ever know. He laid there and smiled the rictus of a demon, daring her to do it again. She wanted to, but she couldn't find the other battery. He stopped smiling and stood up.
"I'm sorry. I won't do it again," he said, and tried to wrap his arms around her. But she'd heard it before, she didn't want to hear it again. She was sure he asked her at some point what she wanted him to do to make it all better, but she couldn't think of anything except "fix it." But that would entail going back in time and just not doing it to begin with. She wanted him to say an honest apology and not a shut-up apology. And yes, somewhere inside, she wanted him to hurt like he had hurt her.
So, she punched him in the chest.
Moments later, she was on the chair against the wall, and he was above her, on her, choking her, screaming at her. She fought him for a second, but an anger and sorrow cocktail is a strange and mysterious source of adrenaline, and she barely noticed his hands around her neck. He released her and went through their bedroom and into the master bathroom, where he began pulling his clothes out of the closet. She followed him. There were quite a few minutes of "you need to fix this," and "I already apologized," and "how am I supposed to trust you when you'd already promised not to do this again?"
As angry as she was, the woman could not fathom wanting him to leave, so she blocked his way in the narrow bathroom. He threw his clothes down and threatened to leave through the window, she grabbed his wrist and told him he couldn't leave...they had kids. There was pushing and shoving, and once again, his hands found themselves around her neck and this time she was up on the bathroom sink and against the mirror.
"You've just hurt me like that and now you're going to hurt me like this?" she tried to scream, though his fingers caught some of the projection.
"You just can't let anything go, even after I apologized. Then you strike me?" At that point, she got the strength to throw him off of her.
"Yes! Yes! I want you to hurt like you've hurt me," which was followed by a lengthy string of obscenities from both their lips. Hard to believe those lips kissed each other passionately, dropped "I love you"s on a regular basis, or talked gently to each other at all.
They stared at each other for a moment; perhaps in that moment, one or both of them were about to give in, but their pride and emotions had forged a wall around each respectively, and he forcibly removed her from his path, and left.
Even if he had said he was going leave before, he never had. In the initial moments after watching him drive away, she was in denial. She was certain he'd drive around the block and come back home and just go to sleep and ignore her for the rest of the night, which was standard in particularly heated debates. Their middle child, a toddler, held his daddy's shirt and cried for him. When he didn't come back around the block, she thought, well, maybe he drove into the city and he'll be back.
As the minutes passed, she began to suspect he wasn't coming back.
As coincidence or fate would have it, as she was pulling out money from an ATM to try to save some for her and the kids in case he didn't come back, he was at another ATM pulling out money, and they both walked away with about half.
The hours passed. The three children played on the floor at her feet in the living room, and how can a mother not smile when her children are so joyous? But the tears finally threatened to come, and the fear grew with each passing minute.
"He's just gone driving," she thought, followed by "or perhaps he went driving then grocery shopping, and he'll walk in any minute now carrying diapers and milk." But he didn't.
The children watched Disney movies, pretended to read books to each other, made the little baby giggle, and kept a distant smile on their mother's face. When she went outside to see if he was parked and just stewing in the driveway, they followed her, mostly unaware of what was going on.
The kids went to bed. She sat alone outside, praying endless just one sentence: "bring him home."
Her mom stayed, sitting in the living room, and listened for the kids, while she went out for a few hours, looking in the parking lots of hotels, motels, bars, and restaurants. She came home lost, without answers. Shouldn't he have called, even if just to check how the kids were doing?
"He's gone shopping, then maybe he went to a bar to play some pool," she thought, though he'd never done this before. As the night burned away, she waited for closing time, then time for a drunk man to get home, and finally, some time after 4 a.m., she fell into a fitful sleep.
"I'll watch the kids if you want to go look again," her mother said as she sat crying as quietly as she could on the couch around 7:30. She bust out crying harder and thanked her mom, slipping her feet into her shoes and grabbing her purse. After another round of searching, she went home shaking. Every truck she saw that resembled his, she had to turn and study. Fearing getting into an accident, she had given up.
Somewhere, in the vicinity of where she had gone looking the night before, at a faceless bar that played Tejano music, he sat. He played some pool with some strangers to pass the time, take his mind off of the events that had transpired, but after a few games, he sat back in his corner, and drank the night into oblivion.
Somewhere, in the vicinity of where she had been driving around, around the time she had been looking, he pulled into a gas station, pulled out some money for a hotel room.
Not long after she got home, he walked in the door. He picked up one of the children and looked at her. She couldn't move for a moment. She couldn't tell if he was still mad, if he had come to pack his things and leave, or if he was calm. Moments passed.
"What have you done?" she whispered.
"What do you mean what have I done? I drank." He put the one child down and picked up another one. She got up, shell shocked, grabbed her cigarettes, and walked outside. He rarely followed her, so she thought she was safe to cry. But as soon as she began to sob against the rail of the porch, she heard the screen door open behind her. She tried to look away, but he leaned in to look at her.
"We need to talk," he said.
They wonder if they've broken something, mended something, or something else. 18 hours is a black hole for one partner to have no proof of fidelity from the other. For the meantime, they're grateful it didn't go farther than it did, and that when the day came back around, they were back in each other's arms. Their mundane doesn't seem so inconsequential anymore, as the notion of taking each other for granted as been, at least temporarily, suspended. Only time will tell if it does, indeed, mend broken hearts.
They were not a violent couple. You would not see them duking it out in the front yard or hear the sound of hand hitting face. They imagined they fought in average quantities for a couple living together, although, during their arguments it seemed to them that they argued all the time.
The beginning was a normal Saturday afternoon: kids running around the house, football on t.v., everyone getting ready for the weekend shopping trip. But an incident caused a rip in their fabric. The man, like many other men, wanted to ignore the situation, just stop talking about it, pretend like it never happened. The woman, like many other women, wanted validation of their relationship, an (honest) apology, a resolution before forgiving and forgetting. Neither one was giving in.
Sometimes, when one person has such greater emotional needs than the other person, or so it seems to them, and the other person refuses to acknowledge their own feelings, much less those of their partner's, and their partner is stuck between needing emotional comfort and being pushed up against a wall of distrust... Violent ends come to pass.
The tears wouldn't come this time. Somewhere, deep inside her beyond where even she could consciously fathom, something had changed. Or died. But she couldn't cry. She was hurting... It felt like her heart was being stretched out from her center, like a piece of Laffy Taffy, and was at the point of tearing apart. There was a tight burning in her chest that she couldn't describe if she wanted to, and a bitter tension in her belly. She was hurting, and she wanted him to hurt like he had hurt her.
In her mind, though, she believed he had no feelings. His heart was cold and small and existed only as a mechanism for pumping blood through his frosty veins. So she lashed out in the only way she knew how.
She threw the remote at him.
The back of the remote popped off, and the four AAA batteries scattered across the floor, hiding under toys and the couch. Later, she would find one in the bedroom, though how it ended up there no one would ever know. He laid there and smiled the rictus of a demon, daring her to do it again. She wanted to, but she couldn't find the other battery. He stopped smiling and stood up.
"I'm sorry. I won't do it again," he said, and tried to wrap his arms around her. But she'd heard it before, she didn't want to hear it again. She was sure he asked her at some point what she wanted him to do to make it all better, but she couldn't think of anything except "fix it." But that would entail going back in time and just not doing it to begin with. She wanted him to say an honest apology and not a shut-up apology. And yes, somewhere inside, she wanted him to hurt like he had hurt her.
So, she punched him in the chest.
Moments later, she was on the chair against the wall, and he was above her, on her, choking her, screaming at her. She fought him for a second, but an anger and sorrow cocktail is a strange and mysterious source of adrenaline, and she barely noticed his hands around her neck. He released her and went through their bedroom and into the master bathroom, where he began pulling his clothes out of the closet. She followed him. There were quite a few minutes of "you need to fix this," and "I already apologized," and "how am I supposed to trust you when you'd already promised not to do this again?"
As angry as she was, the woman could not fathom wanting him to leave, so she blocked his way in the narrow bathroom. He threw his clothes down and threatened to leave through the window, she grabbed his wrist and told him he couldn't leave...they had kids. There was pushing and shoving, and once again, his hands found themselves around her neck and this time she was up on the bathroom sink and against the mirror.
"You've just hurt me like that and now you're going to hurt me like this?" she tried to scream, though his fingers caught some of the projection.
"You just can't let anything go, even after I apologized. Then you strike me?" At that point, she got the strength to throw him off of her.
"Yes! Yes! I want you to hurt like you've hurt me," which was followed by a lengthy string of obscenities from both their lips. Hard to believe those lips kissed each other passionately, dropped "I love you"s on a regular basis, or talked gently to each other at all.
They stared at each other for a moment; perhaps in that moment, one or both of them were about to give in, but their pride and emotions had forged a wall around each respectively, and he forcibly removed her from his path, and left.
Even if he had said he was going leave before, he never had. In the initial moments after watching him drive away, she was in denial. She was certain he'd drive around the block and come back home and just go to sleep and ignore her for the rest of the night, which was standard in particularly heated debates. Their middle child, a toddler, held his daddy's shirt and cried for him. When he didn't come back around the block, she thought, well, maybe he drove into the city and he'll be back.
As the minutes passed, she began to suspect he wasn't coming back.
As coincidence or fate would have it, as she was pulling out money from an ATM to try to save some for her and the kids in case he didn't come back, he was at another ATM pulling out money, and they both walked away with about half.
The hours passed. The three children played on the floor at her feet in the living room, and how can a mother not smile when her children are so joyous? But the tears finally threatened to come, and the fear grew with each passing minute.
"He's just gone driving," she thought, followed by "or perhaps he went driving then grocery shopping, and he'll walk in any minute now carrying diapers and milk." But he didn't.
The children watched Disney movies, pretended to read books to each other, made the little baby giggle, and kept a distant smile on their mother's face. When she went outside to see if he was parked and just stewing in the driveway, they followed her, mostly unaware of what was going on.
The kids went to bed. She sat alone outside, praying endless just one sentence: "bring him home."
Her mom stayed, sitting in the living room, and listened for the kids, while she went out for a few hours, looking in the parking lots of hotels, motels, bars, and restaurants. She came home lost, without answers. Shouldn't he have called, even if just to check how the kids were doing?
"He's gone shopping, then maybe he went to a bar to play some pool," she thought, though he'd never done this before. As the night burned away, she waited for closing time, then time for a drunk man to get home, and finally, some time after 4 a.m., she fell into a fitful sleep.
"I'll watch the kids if you want to go look again," her mother said as she sat crying as quietly as she could on the couch around 7:30. She bust out crying harder and thanked her mom, slipping her feet into her shoes and grabbing her purse. After another round of searching, she went home shaking. Every truck she saw that resembled his, she had to turn and study. Fearing getting into an accident, she had given up.
Somewhere, in the vicinity of where she had gone looking the night before, at a faceless bar that played Tejano music, he sat. He played some pool with some strangers to pass the time, take his mind off of the events that had transpired, but after a few games, he sat back in his corner, and drank the night into oblivion.
Somewhere, in the vicinity of where she had been driving around, around the time she had been looking, he pulled into a gas station, pulled out some money for a hotel room.
Not long after she got home, he walked in the door. He picked up one of the children and looked at her. She couldn't move for a moment. She couldn't tell if he was still mad, if he had come to pack his things and leave, or if he was calm. Moments passed.
"What have you done?" she whispered.
"What do you mean what have I done? I drank." He put the one child down and picked up another one. She got up, shell shocked, grabbed her cigarettes, and walked outside. He rarely followed her, so she thought she was safe to cry. But as soon as she began to sob against the rail of the porch, she heard the screen door open behind her. She tried to look away, but he leaned in to look at her.
"We need to talk," he said.
They wonder if they've broken something, mended something, or something else. 18 hours is a black hole for one partner to have no proof of fidelity from the other. For the meantime, they're grateful it didn't go farther than it did, and that when the day came back around, they were back in each other's arms. Their mundane doesn't seem so inconsequential anymore, as the notion of taking each other for granted as been, at least temporarily, suspended. Only time will tell if it does, indeed, mend broken hearts.
Monday, November 26, 2012
11/26/2012 - Struggling
I am now two weeks behind in my short stories, and I have not posted anything new for a while. We've been extremely busy at work, which is the place I use the internet to post these (I refuse to get internet at home, thank you). I have also been using a little of my time for Christmas and birthday shopping.
I am going to try to get back into the swing of things, though the holiday season is getting pretty crazy for me.
Also, the lack of response to...anything at all that I post is kind of killing my dreams here. But, that's okay, I guess.
So, the poem I read today was Untangle the Tangle by Blackpooljimmy. He wrote this as an entry to a contest with a picture prompt. I thought it was fantastic. It's a writer's piece, which you'll understand when you read it, which I recommend you do.
I also read The Pleiades at Midnight by Johannes Carsten Hauch. I never grew out of my fascination with night and stars and space, so...the title appealed to me. The poem itself is incredible. It links the stars and time and emotion with incredible fluidity. Highly recommended.
The short story I read was An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge by Ambrose Bierce. Bierce has a way of keeping readers reading. What seems to start out as a mundane scene turns out to be intriguing. In this case, the hanging of a man on the bridge. Quite interesting. In fact, it was turned into an episode of The Twilight Zone.
The essay I read was Of Comets and Meteors by Fred Whipple. I don't even know where to start with this. First of all, this man is the more genius version of Taylor Swift. His accomplishments make the rest of us look lazy and slothful. I was completely impressed by the essay, perhaps to a fault because, as I stated above, I never grew out of a fascination with the darkness beyond. He has made military contributions in the form of inventions, and he has discovered some interesting things in his lifetime. I definitely recommend reading this essay. I loved it.
I am going to try to get back into the swing of things, though the holiday season is getting pretty crazy for me.
Also, the lack of response to...anything at all that I post is kind of killing my dreams here. But, that's okay, I guess.
So, the poem I read today was Untangle the Tangle by Blackpooljimmy. He wrote this as an entry to a contest with a picture prompt. I thought it was fantastic. It's a writer's piece, which you'll understand when you read it, which I recommend you do.
I also read The Pleiades at Midnight by Johannes Carsten Hauch. I never grew out of my fascination with night and stars and space, so...the title appealed to me. The poem itself is incredible. It links the stars and time and emotion with incredible fluidity. Highly recommended.
The short story I read was An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge by Ambrose Bierce. Bierce has a way of keeping readers reading. What seems to start out as a mundane scene turns out to be intriguing. In this case, the hanging of a man on the bridge. Quite interesting. In fact, it was turned into an episode of The Twilight Zone.
The essay I read was Of Comets and Meteors by Fred Whipple. I don't even know where to start with this. First of all, this man is the more genius version of Taylor Swift. His accomplishments make the rest of us look lazy and slothful. I was completely impressed by the essay, perhaps to a fault because, as I stated above, I never grew out of a fascination with the darkness beyond. He has made military contributions in the form of inventions, and he has discovered some interesting things in his lifetime. I definitely recommend reading this essay. I loved it.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
11/14/2012
My deepest apologies for the delayed posts, and the lack of a short story so far for week three. I am currently trying to finish the story I began on Monday, November 12, 2012, but I got stuck. How...me.
Today, the first thing I read was The Great Power Outage by emoxninjaxgone. What a mouthful of a name, huh? His name is actually Joshua Rogers (according to his author page). I was struck by the imagery and the word choices in this. I thought it was a nice tale about the war between, as he puts it, Mr. Brain and Mr. Heart.
The flow was somewhat jarred in the last third of the poem. I can't quite place my finger on why. But I absolutely adored the fifth stanza. I thought it was most powerful. There are deep emotions in this. Great read.
I have to say, though, I think every mention of something being monochromatic is always going to remind me of Erin Morgenstern's Night Circus.
I also read Song of Poplars by Aldous Huxley, who most of you probably know more for his book Brave New World as opposed to his poetry. I have to say, I was completely impressed with his book in high school, and I am completely impressed over a decade later with his poetry. I may be a bit late on this, but I am glad I ran across it.
I just adore the imagery in this. He gives a life and emotion to the poplar. Also, did I mention I adore the imagery in this?
That's all I did today. I was very busy, but I did get to post a new story, The Many Suicidal Deaths of Daphne Sprague, which I hope you enjoy. It's my first attempt at any kind of horror.
Today, the first thing I read was The Great Power Outage by emoxninjaxgone. What a mouthful of a name, huh? His name is actually Joshua Rogers (according to his author page). I was struck by the imagery and the word choices in this. I thought it was a nice tale about the war between, as he puts it, Mr. Brain and Mr. Heart.
The flow was somewhat jarred in the last third of the poem. I can't quite place my finger on why. But I absolutely adored the fifth stanza. I thought it was most powerful. There are deep emotions in this. Great read.
I have to say, though, I think every mention of something being monochromatic is always going to remind me of Erin Morgenstern's Night Circus.
I also read Song of Poplars by Aldous Huxley, who most of you probably know more for his book Brave New World as opposed to his poetry. I have to say, I was completely impressed with his book in high school, and I am completely impressed over a decade later with his poetry. I may be a bit late on this, but I am glad I ran across it.
I just adore the imagery in this. He gives a life and emotion to the poplar. Also, did I mention I adore the imagery in this?
That's all I did today. I was very busy, but I did get to post a new story, The Many Suicidal Deaths of Daphne Sprague, which I hope you enjoy. It's my first attempt at any kind of horror.
Friday, November 9, 2012
11/09/2012
If this is your first time visiting my blog, please read the reason behind it here.
Today, I began with a poem. I read The Boy Made of Paper by Vex Darkly. I rather like his author page... But that is of no consequence. I do love the poem. I, like others before me, kept returning to the fourth stanza in the piece, for it held a stinging amount of emotion, especially to a mother of 3 boys. It was a fantastic, powerful poem with beautiful imagery and masterful metaphors. If you haven't read any of the other poems I have read and blogged about, read this one. Read it anyway.
Okay. So, via this article on the Scientific American website, I linked to FQXi's 2012 Essay Contest. The topic? The Nature of Time. Whew. I could already tell that whichever essay I chose (for it was a contest), that I would probably not understand a word of it.
The thing is, even though it is an essay, the title means a lot to me. I skipped over the titles "Things Happen" and "Time is Local," eventually choosing A Mystic Dream of Four. I was right, I did not understand most of it. I got that there are two theories that are incompatible. Honestly, this is 10 pages long, and I was lost by the second paragraph.
So. What I am going to do is print it out, read it, have my phone beside me to look up strange words, theories, etc., and get back to you on that. Probably not anytime soon.
Another Oscar Wilde story, anyone? No? I didn't think so.
Today, I chose to read Thank You M'am by Langston Hughes. It was a sweet story about a kid who tries to steal the purse off of a woman. I have to say, whoever put the story up on the website, though, did a lousy job of editing it.
The classic poem I read was A Clear Midnight by Walt Whitman. I must admit that Whitman, like Shakespeare, is one of those writers whom the idea of which is greater to me than the writing. I cannot bring myself to enjoy deciphering their language in order to enjoy the writing. Blasphemy, again. My insincere apologies.
Today, I began with a poem. I read The Boy Made of Paper by Vex Darkly. I rather like his author page... But that is of no consequence. I do love the poem. I, like others before me, kept returning to the fourth stanza in the piece, for it held a stinging amount of emotion, especially to a mother of 3 boys. It was a fantastic, powerful poem with beautiful imagery and masterful metaphors. If you haven't read any of the other poems I have read and blogged about, read this one. Read it anyway.
Okay. So, via this article on the Scientific American website, I linked to FQXi's 2012 Essay Contest. The topic? The Nature of Time. Whew. I could already tell that whichever essay I chose (for it was a contest), that I would probably not understand a word of it.
The thing is, even though it is an essay, the title means a lot to me. I skipped over the titles "Things Happen" and "Time is Local," eventually choosing A Mystic Dream of Four. I was right, I did not understand most of it. I got that there are two theories that are incompatible. Honestly, this is 10 pages long, and I was lost by the second paragraph.
So. What I am going to do is print it out, read it, have my phone beside me to look up strange words, theories, etc., and get back to you on that. Probably not anytime soon.
Another Oscar Wilde story, anyone? No? I didn't think so.
Today, I chose to read Thank You M'am by Langston Hughes. It was a sweet story about a kid who tries to steal the purse off of a woman. I have to say, whoever put the story up on the website, though, did a lousy job of editing it.
The classic poem I read was A Clear Midnight by Walt Whitman. I must admit that Whitman, like Shakespeare, is one of those writers whom the idea of which is greater to me than the writing. I cannot bring myself to enjoy deciphering their language in order to enjoy the writing. Blasphemy, again. My insincere apologies.
Thursday, November 8, 2012
11/08/2012
I don't know where my days are disappearing to, but I am trying to keep up with this along with my full-time job, trying to get overtime to pay for bills and get ahead on Christmas, my three sons, and now, the possibility that one of them, my youngest, may have asthma.
The essay I read today was Short Essay on Asthma. Honestly, this was really more for me to get a better understanding of what we may go through as opposed to any advancement for this blog, so I'm not going to comment on it.
The poem I read was For Whom my Heart was Made by The Rebel Cloud. I clicked on this poem because it was listed in the Featured for Comments section of AllPoetry. I've never read him before or even heard of him. Probably because I don't spend too much time there anymore except for this blog.
I loved the title (don't you?). The poem was also fantastic. He is, apparently, also a musician whose music can be found on SoundCloud, though I have not had a chance to listen, yet. It's a beautiful poem of love. Don't mistake that as being cliche. It was a beautiful read. Great imagery.
I read A Poison Tree by William Blake. It's a well-told warning about the dangers of bottling your anger inside. I have to say, however, as a first hand witness to people who don't bottle their anger and let it out every single day, they don't appear to be any better for the wear than someone who might bottle things inside. On the other hand, I may be wrong. Health seems to be in good condition. Physical, anyway...
I returned to the short story The Model Millionaire by Oscar Wilde yesterday as I watched The Raven. As Edgar was riding away from Emily's father to find her and rescue her, I thought I bet her father will let Edgar marry Emily now, which led my mind back to the story. Though this was more heroic than some eccentric fellow giving someone $10000 pounds to buy his lover's father's acceptance...
So I decided to read another Wilde story. I chose The Nightingale and the Rose. It seems to me that Wilde was a very dark person. His humor seems to extend from the desire to build someone up on expectation, then drop them from quite a height. This is a perfect example of why I don't like Oscar Wilde. Even more than the last story, which had some redemptive qualities, this story had a wretched ending that made me wish I had not read the thing at all. For the entire build up was fantastic. Indeed, as I was reading it, my mind was changing about Wilde like a slowly opening rose bud. But, like the rose in the story, he threw my hope in front of a carriage and it was trampled upon. I'm sure he's laughing is his musty grave.
I also want to add that I watched The Raven last night, which is a (fictionalized) movie about the last days of Edgar Allan Poe, which speculates that he had a copycat murderer who used his stories as inspiration for murders. I loved it. I love his stories, I love the movies that are inspired by his stories (i.e., Murders in the Rue Morgue, 1932). This was every Poe fan's dream. Speculative fiction that incorporated his stories into the plot. Agh! I was so happy.
The essay I read today was Short Essay on Asthma. Honestly, this was really more for me to get a better understanding of what we may go through as opposed to any advancement for this blog, so I'm not going to comment on it.
The poem I read was For Whom my Heart was Made by The Rebel Cloud. I clicked on this poem because it was listed in the Featured for Comments section of AllPoetry. I've never read him before or even heard of him. Probably because I don't spend too much time there anymore except for this blog.
I loved the title (don't you?). The poem was also fantastic. He is, apparently, also a musician whose music can be found on SoundCloud, though I have not had a chance to listen, yet. It's a beautiful poem of love. Don't mistake that as being cliche. It was a beautiful read. Great imagery.
I read A Poison Tree by William Blake. It's a well-told warning about the dangers of bottling your anger inside. I have to say, however, as a first hand witness to people who don't bottle their anger and let it out every single day, they don't appear to be any better for the wear than someone who might bottle things inside. On the other hand, I may be wrong. Health seems to be in good condition. Physical, anyway...
I returned to the short story The Model Millionaire by Oscar Wilde yesterday as I watched The Raven. As Edgar was riding away from Emily's father to find her and rescue her, I thought I bet her father will let Edgar marry Emily now, which led my mind back to the story. Though this was more heroic than some eccentric fellow giving someone $10000 pounds to buy his lover's father's acceptance...
So I decided to read another Wilde story. I chose The Nightingale and the Rose. It seems to me that Wilde was a very dark person. His humor seems to extend from the desire to build someone up on expectation, then drop them from quite a height. This is a perfect example of why I don't like Oscar Wilde. Even more than the last story, which had some redemptive qualities, this story had a wretched ending that made me wish I had not read the thing at all. For the entire build up was fantastic. Indeed, as I was reading it, my mind was changing about Wilde like a slowly opening rose bud. But, like the rose in the story, he threw my hope in front of a carriage and it was trampled upon. I'm sure he's laughing is his musty grave.
I also want to add that I watched The Raven last night, which is a (fictionalized) movie about the last days of Edgar Allan Poe, which speculates that he had a copycat murderer who used his stories as inspiration for murders. I loved it. I love his stories, I love the movies that are inspired by his stories (i.e., Murders in the Rue Morgue, 1932). This was every Poe fan's dream. Speculative fiction that incorporated his stories into the plot. Agh! I was so happy.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
11/06/2012
I finished reading Inkheart this weekend, and have posted the review here, on my To Judge a Book blahg. I also started reading The Night Circus by Emily Morgenstern. I love it already.
I have also posted my second (!! squeeee !!) short story, Of Books and Daisies. I would appreciate honest feedback (such as...you need to fix this or you spelled this wrong or your grammar sucks...). But if you liked it, I would love to know that, too. Wink, wink.
I read Why TV Lost by Paul Graham. Before reading this essay, I had not realized that television was in it to win it for anything. However, I can see how the essay makes sense, or rather, how the author would think so. In short, the internet is going to kill tv the way CDs killed cassettes, cell phones killed land lines. He throws up some strong arguments, such as almost everything on tv can also be found online. However, I think that this is less an extermination as it is an addition to. More like music video killed radio. Because, as we all know, they didn't really. I still listen to radio. There are new types of radio, such as Sirius, iHeartRadio, and Pandora. Radios still come standard in vehicles. Plus, as far as I know, while many people I know no longer have land lines, I don't know a single person who has opted to throw out their 52" Flat Screen HDTV because they can watch all their shows on their 18" computer monitor or their 15" laptop monitor. So, nice try.
Zenith Star by pabruce is the poem I read. It was one of those tale poems. Don't get me wrong, it was not long at all, but it was a poem that told a story rather than an emotion. I liked the poem, with it's rhyme and almost-rhyme and it's imagery. However, I have never been able to identify with story poems like I do with emotion poems. I like my stories in prose, even poetic prose, but prose nonetheless.
I read The Temple by J D C Fellow. I've never read him or heard of him before (or her). I looked this person up on Google and found nothing. The poem was fantastic. It's about a tree. Great imagery. I wish I knew who this person was so I could read more. Any information would be appreciated. Mentioned, too, if you like, in a subsequent blog. I feel like I'm offering a bounty...
I started reading The Model Millionaire by Oscar Wilde. Blasphemy be damned, I have never had a thing for Oscar Wilde, and this certainly didn't change my view any. I was going to stop after the first few sentences, but decided to give him the whole enchilada to redeem himself.
:: Jeopardy theme song while I read the rest ::
You can't see me making a face right now at the computer screen as I write this. I still don't much care for Wilde, no matter how great this story was, or the fact that it had a moral. I can imagine him laughing as he wrote this. However, I cannot deny it ended up being quite a nice story, even though meanness still has a strong voice in this. I know I should choose a more poetic word rather than "meanness," but that's all that came to mind, and I am not going to thesaurus.com it just to make this more flowery.
I have also posted my second (!! squeeee !!) short story, Of Books and Daisies. I would appreciate honest feedback (such as...you need to fix this or you spelled this wrong or your grammar sucks...). But if you liked it, I would love to know that, too. Wink, wink.
I read Why TV Lost by Paul Graham. Before reading this essay, I had not realized that television was in it to win it for anything. However, I can see how the essay makes sense, or rather, how the author would think so. In short, the internet is going to kill tv the way CDs killed cassettes, cell phones killed land lines. He throws up some strong arguments, such as almost everything on tv can also be found online. However, I think that this is less an extermination as it is an addition to. More like music video killed radio. Because, as we all know, they didn't really. I still listen to radio. There are new types of radio, such as Sirius, iHeartRadio, and Pandora. Radios still come standard in vehicles. Plus, as far as I know, while many people I know no longer have land lines, I don't know a single person who has opted to throw out their 52" Flat Screen HDTV because they can watch all their shows on their 18" computer monitor or their 15" laptop monitor. So, nice try.
Zenith Star by pabruce is the poem I read. It was one of those tale poems. Don't get me wrong, it was not long at all, but it was a poem that told a story rather than an emotion. I liked the poem, with it's rhyme and almost-rhyme and it's imagery. However, I have never been able to identify with story poems like I do with emotion poems. I like my stories in prose, even poetic prose, but prose nonetheless.
I read The Temple by J D C Fellow. I've never read him or heard of him before (or her). I looked this person up on Google and found nothing. The poem was fantastic. It's about a tree. Great imagery. I wish I knew who this person was so I could read more. Any information would be appreciated. Mentioned, too, if you like, in a subsequent blog. I feel like I'm offering a bounty...
I started reading The Model Millionaire by Oscar Wilde. Blasphemy be damned, I have never had a thing for Oscar Wilde, and this certainly didn't change my view any. I was going to stop after the first few sentences, but decided to give him the whole enchilada to redeem himself.
:: Jeopardy theme song while I read the rest ::
You can't see me making a face right now at the computer screen as I write this. I still don't much care for Wilde, no matter how great this story was, or the fact that it had a moral. I can imagine him laughing as he wrote this. However, I cannot deny it ended up being quite a nice story, even though meanness still has a strong voice in this. I know I should choose a more poetic word rather than "meanness," but that's all that came to mind, and I am not going to thesaurus.com it just to make this more flowery.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
11/03/2012
Today, I read Newspapers as Historical Sources by James Ford Rhodes. I didn't get all the way through it, I'm sorry. My attention span is wanting today. I was busy ordering Night Circus for my Nook and looking up the cheapest but best quality versions of Inkspell and Inkdeath, for I am in the final chapters of Inkheart.
I did read a good portion of the essay, though. It seems to me it is a perfect example of how nothing changes. People will read a certain paper or watch a certain news channel because they align with their political views and not watch another because they don't; people whine and moan about the biased opinions of others but pay no mind to their own biases. The essay was mainly about how, regardless of biases, newspapers are still excellent sources of history.
The poem I read was incredible. I loved it. I recommend reading it, so you can see how the author, Mark, or, Cerulean, made something painfully mundane into something poetic and personal. It's incredible. Dear Death.
I also read If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda. I suppose saying "it's Pablo Neruda" is insufficient in a blog. It's a wonderful piece about love, albeit in a way I prefer not to think of it. The subject's love for another is clearly dependent on that person's love for him. I think that's a sad way to consider it, however I am sure that it is more real than my fairy tale, pink-glasses version that I prefer to believe.
I am not going to read a short story today. I mainly use the internet at my job, or on my phone at home if I have to. I am on a short day since it is Saturday, so... I will (maybe) review two short stories tomorrow, though most like I will review one plus give my response to Inkheart.
Have a spectacular Saturday!!!
I did read a good portion of the essay, though. It seems to me it is a perfect example of how nothing changes. People will read a certain paper or watch a certain news channel because they align with their political views and not watch another because they don't; people whine and moan about the biased opinions of others but pay no mind to their own biases. The essay was mainly about how, regardless of biases, newspapers are still excellent sources of history.
The poem I read was incredible. I loved it. I recommend reading it, so you can see how the author, Mark, or, Cerulean, made something painfully mundane into something poetic and personal. It's incredible. Dear Death.
I also read If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda. I suppose saying "it's Pablo Neruda" is insufficient in a blog. It's a wonderful piece about love, albeit in a way I prefer not to think of it. The subject's love for another is clearly dependent on that person's love for him. I think that's a sad way to consider it, however I am sure that it is more real than my fairy tale, pink-glasses version that I prefer to believe.
I am not going to read a short story today. I mainly use the internet at my job, or on my phone at home if I have to. I am on a short day since it is Saturday, so... I will (maybe) review two short stories tomorrow, though most like I will review one plus give my response to Inkheart.
Have a spectacular Saturday!!!
Friday, November 2, 2012
11/02/2012
Good morning! I have recently updated my other blogs, if you'd like to take a gander. I find myself mildly amusing. (Actually, I was laughing at my own jokes on my way to work and glancing sideways at other drivers to see if they thought I was having a mental breakdown.)
Lost in the Shuffle. This is my personal blog about me. Today...it was about a bloody highway. That's right. A bloody highway.
React/Respond. This is basically just my blahg on current events.
Dreams. An ongoing dream journal. Feel free to peruse my crazy nightscapes.
So, I didn't post yesterday. I was feeling down since no one responded to my first short story. Not a single person. Kind of dampened my spirits, but... Hey. I'm back. I get knocked down! But I get up again!
The essay/article I read was Raising Successful Children by Madeline Levine. I have my own theories on psychology, but we'll leave those out for now. I don't know why I chose this essay, I just couldn't think of any other subjects to look in (my head is cloudy with lack of sleep and a stubborn cold). It was good. I agree with most of what is in it. All of it, actually. I didn't disagree with anything. I don't really have too much to say about it, though. Sorry.
I read The crumbling silhouette by Ephemerality. What a powerful write. I ended up almost crying at my desk again. It's also very personal.
Today, I read various poems by Leonard Cohen. I am a huge fan of his newer stuff. I am not too much of a fan of his younger music. I don't know why. I don't think he had a golden voice in his youth, but I am definitely glad he never stopped singing. I can't wait to get his new album, Old Ideas. If you know Cohen at all, you know he can be one dirty dog, but even when he's being so, he always does it with...class? Something that resembles it, anyway, for I can't equate being a dirty dog with being classy, no matter how hard I try. One of my favorites, though, was Poem 1 from Book of Mercy...being about angels granting a voice.
For a short story, I read The Star by Esther Claes. It was a pre-dystopian read about the day leading up to the end. It was a good read about a horrible person. I imagine that there are people out there like this, and that thought is deeply disturbing.
I got my first short story up after the end of the first week, and as we are nearing the end of the second week, I still haven't started my second short story. I am chalking this up to having 3 boys, a full time job, and being helplessly addicted to Inkheart, which I am currently reading, but not being able to read it fast, because I am chewing it over slowly, savoring it to the fullest extend. After reading reviews of the book, it seems I am alone in my thinking, as people seem to like the quotes in the book and the idea of the book rather than the book itself, but I love it. I can't wait to get Inkspell and Inkdeath. Every cell that remained of my childhood in me loves the book and you can't change that.
Stay tuned for the To Judge a Book blahg on it.
Yes, I am fully aware that I am spelling blog wrong. But...
Blah blah blah + blog = Blagh. So there.
Lost in the Shuffle. This is my personal blog about me. Today...it was about a bloody highway. That's right. A bloody highway.
React/Respond. This is basically just my blahg on current events.
Dreams. An ongoing dream journal. Feel free to peruse my crazy nightscapes.
So, I didn't post yesterday. I was feeling down since no one responded to my first short story. Not a single person. Kind of dampened my spirits, but... Hey. I'm back. I get knocked down! But I get up again!
The essay/article I read was Raising Successful Children by Madeline Levine. I have my own theories on psychology, but we'll leave those out for now. I don't know why I chose this essay, I just couldn't think of any other subjects to look in (my head is cloudy with lack of sleep and a stubborn cold). It was good. I agree with most of what is in it. All of it, actually. I didn't disagree with anything. I don't really have too much to say about it, though. Sorry.
I read The crumbling silhouette by Ephemerality. What a powerful write. I ended up almost crying at my desk again. It's also very personal.
Today, I read various poems by Leonard Cohen. I am a huge fan of his newer stuff. I am not too much of a fan of his younger music. I don't know why. I don't think he had a golden voice in his youth, but I am definitely glad he never stopped singing. I can't wait to get his new album, Old Ideas. If you know Cohen at all, you know he can be one dirty dog, but even when he's being so, he always does it with...class? Something that resembles it, anyway, for I can't equate being a dirty dog with being classy, no matter how hard I try. One of my favorites, though, was Poem 1 from Book of Mercy...being about angels granting a voice.
For a short story, I read The Star by Esther Claes. It was a pre-dystopian read about the day leading up to the end. It was a good read about a horrible person. I imagine that there are people out there like this, and that thought is deeply disturbing.
I got my first short story up after the end of the first week, and as we are nearing the end of the second week, I still haven't started my second short story. I am chalking this up to having 3 boys, a full time job, and being helplessly addicted to Inkheart, which I am currently reading, but not being able to read it fast, because I am chewing it over slowly, savoring it to the fullest extend. After reading reviews of the book, it seems I am alone in my thinking, as people seem to like the quotes in the book and the idea of the book rather than the book itself, but I love it. I can't wait to get Inkspell and Inkdeath. Every cell that remained of my childhood in me loves the book and you can't change that.
Stay tuned for the To Judge a Book blahg on it.
Yes, I am fully aware that I am spelling blog wrong. But...
Blah blah blah + blog = Blagh. So there.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
10/30/2012
It's a chilly day here in San Antonio. It seemed to me the world held its breath this morning upon awakening until scanning the television, newspaper, internet, and social media for word on friends and family on the East coast after the devestation of superstorm Sandy. I myself received a text from a friend in Maine last night after going to bed, reporting that the winds were up to 65 mph where she was at. That's incredible, and terrifying, considering the space between where Sandy hit and where my friend lives. So, for all on the Eastern Seaboard, I hope you're safe and prepared to ride it out.
Speaking of news and social media, I read an essay called The Trouble with Twitter by Melissa Hart. I have to admit, I can completely see the logic in her essay. She teaches journalism, and we've seen far too many printed medium crash and burn in this new age of instechnology. See what I did there? I combined instant and technology...? Please, stop me if I'm trying too hard.
As a Twitter and FaceBook user, I can see my own hypocrisy in agreeing with everything she wrote. I love reading articles. I love getting all the information. In fact, sometimes I even go back after reading the article to see if the investigation of a story lead to any outcome. For example, there was the story of the mysterious orange goo in Alaska that intrigued me. I had to search after the fact to find out it was a fungus called rust. Still, I do appreciate the microblogs and microreports generated on both Twitter and FaceBook. I like up to date information on important matters, such as what's going on with the storm on the east coast and what those two nefarious characters running for president are up to.
This does not mean that I enjoy reading full-length articles any less. But I did not realize that it was costing people their jobs. Or, at least I did not consciously realize it. It makes sense, since newspapers and other prints are closing down. As a reader, I can appreciate the horror the journalists are experiencing. I finally broke down a few years ago and got a Nook, which I love, but I cannot fathom giving up my masses of accumulated printed volumes of book smelling books. I love them. I even have old issues of magazines and newspapers. The idea of a world without them makes no sense to me.
But we've reached the point of no return and not only crossed it, but dove into the endzone and did a gangnam dance in it. There is no turning back, unless something crashes the entire world system of computers, networks, servers... I'm getting into an area I barely understand, but suffice it to say, we're not going back unless the apocalypse rains upon us. But it was an excellent, eye-opening essay, and I definitely recommend reading it.
Today, I read 55 Days by Black Narcissus. I'm a huge fan of his writing. But I am also a huge fan of Christmas and the image of a personified Christmas was rough for me. However, it felt mildly like A Christmas Carol in its creepy factor and it was a fantastic write. I loved it. Read it, read it, read it. He wrote it on a word bank, and I have to say bravo because my poem from that same word bank would not have been anywhere near this.
The classic poem I read was Not Ideas About the Thing But the Thing Itself by Wallace Stevens. I had never heard of him before, but I am definitely going to be OCD on the page for a while scouring his works because I loved this. The imagery in this was profound. I can honestly say I felt on the verge of an epiphany reading this. It reminded me of late winter mornings in Maine; made me long for them again. Ooh. Chills.
Malingerers by Anton Chekhov is the short story I read. At first I was thrown off by the verbiage. It's not language or words I don't know, just a lot of words seldom used nowadays put together. But I kept reading, and it was a pretty good story. I think the author was poking fun at homeopathic practices. In fact, I'm sure he was. In the end, it was quite an amusing story. I felt kind of bad for Marfa...
...
If you are visiting for the first time, please read why I am doing this blog here.
Speaking of news and social media, I read an essay called The Trouble with Twitter by Melissa Hart. I have to admit, I can completely see the logic in her essay. She teaches journalism, and we've seen far too many printed medium crash and burn in this new age of instechnology. See what I did there? I combined instant and technology...? Please, stop me if I'm trying too hard.
As a Twitter and FaceBook user, I can see my own hypocrisy in agreeing with everything she wrote. I love reading articles. I love getting all the information. In fact, sometimes I even go back after reading the article to see if the investigation of a story lead to any outcome. For example, there was the story of the mysterious orange goo in Alaska that intrigued me. I had to search after the fact to find out it was a fungus called rust. Still, I do appreciate the microblogs and microreports generated on both Twitter and FaceBook. I like up to date information on important matters, such as what's going on with the storm on the east coast and what those two nefarious characters running for president are up to.
This does not mean that I enjoy reading full-length articles any less. But I did not realize that it was costing people their jobs. Or, at least I did not consciously realize it. It makes sense, since newspapers and other prints are closing down. As a reader, I can appreciate the horror the journalists are experiencing. I finally broke down a few years ago and got a Nook, which I love, but I cannot fathom giving up my masses of accumulated printed volumes of book smelling books. I love them. I even have old issues of magazines and newspapers. The idea of a world without them makes no sense to me.
But we've reached the point of no return and not only crossed it, but dove into the endzone and did a gangnam dance in it. There is no turning back, unless something crashes the entire world system of computers, networks, servers... I'm getting into an area I barely understand, but suffice it to say, we're not going back unless the apocalypse rains upon us. But it was an excellent, eye-opening essay, and I definitely recommend reading it.
Today, I read 55 Days by Black Narcissus. I'm a huge fan of his writing. But I am also a huge fan of Christmas and the image of a personified Christmas was rough for me. However, it felt mildly like A Christmas Carol in its creepy factor and it was a fantastic write. I loved it. Read it, read it, read it. He wrote it on a word bank, and I have to say bravo because my poem from that same word bank would not have been anywhere near this.
The classic poem I read was Not Ideas About the Thing But the Thing Itself by Wallace Stevens. I had never heard of him before, but I am definitely going to be OCD on the page for a while scouring his works because I loved this. The imagery in this was profound. I can honestly say I felt on the verge of an epiphany reading this. It reminded me of late winter mornings in Maine; made me long for them again. Ooh. Chills.
Malingerers by Anton Chekhov is the short story I read. At first I was thrown off by the verbiage. It's not language or words I don't know, just a lot of words seldom used nowadays put together. But I kept reading, and it was a pretty good story. I think the author was poking fun at homeopathic practices. In fact, I'm sure he was. In the end, it was quite an amusing story. I felt kind of bad for Marfa...
...
If you are visiting for the first time, please read why I am doing this blog here.
Monday, October 29, 2012
10/29/2012
I had a fantastic weekend, thank you.
Today, I decided to read an essay first, and not continue to any other ingredient in the cocktail until I'd read and discussed an essay. That way, I am not tempted to just fore go the essay part of this. So, I read an essay on Teen Ink called Better Barbie by Jesse K. out of Grand Ledge, Michigan. As I was reading it, I thought, why do we feel the need to make references to things when talking (or writing) about ourselves? To form similes and metaphors and analogies about the greatness or lack thereof of our lives? As a poet, I'm sure this is blasphemous, but it was just a thought that crossed my mind.
I thought it was a great essay. I loved the imagery the writer incorporated into her piece; the sepia-toned memories, the muted through words emotions. It was more than I was expecting from a piece that had Barbie in the title. In fact, the author did a fantastic job of showing that she is both travelled and educated, which should have been my sign. I got to the last paragraph and almost lost my mind and my breakfast. Of course this was turning into a feministic "women must have wild dreams of travel and education to be real women and not want to be moms" kind of thing.
I'm sorry. I've just read too much of this lately. The author threw in the names of Emerson, Thoreau, Carroll, Angelou, and a well-placed reference to Rip Van Winkle, as if those of us who chose the path of wife and mother could not possible have the brains enough to know those names, much less have them on our bookshelves. Indeed, what bookshelves? This person cannot possibly fathom that I have so many books on almost every subject in my house that my husband is building me a new bookshelf in the bathroom so that they won't keep falling off the back of the toilet, and so I can move some of the stacks from the kitchen, dining room, and living room onto the shelf. She cannot appreciate the endless hours put between my full-time job, which I both adore and despise, as I long to be home with my children, then being home with my three sons, two of whom are under 2 and still in diapers, and the slightly sad relief when they go to bed and I have a little while to read whatever book I happen to have my nose in at the time.
No, choosing to be a wife and mother is not indicative of a lack of brains or dreams. I dream of being a writer, which is why I started this blog. I dream of moving to a more Norther-ly place where my children can see snow, before they are too old to appreciate the magical, mysterious quality of a quiet snowfall, the glittering, sparkling morning after. I dream of sitting on a porch, old and gray, with my husband, rocking in our chairs and drinking hard lemonade and laughing at memories. I dream of taking my kids to places that I've never been to, to instill some culture in them. I dream of passing on to them my love of literature and history. I also dream of my sons finding nice, caring, loving wives, but according to our current American society, this is a horrible thing to wish upon a woman.
The short story I read was The Brass Teapot by Tim Macy. Oh my goodness. At first, I thought it was sweet how these two elderly people still cared about each other after years of being together and raising children. The husband accidentally slams the wife's fingers in the trunk and he tries to kiss them. I just thought that was so sweet. But then greed sets in and it just soured my stomach how these two treated each other at the prospect of money. The ending seemed abrupt and unfinished, but this is definitely not a story I will soon forget. It's not too long, so, read it if you get a chance.
There is even a whole website on The Brass Teapot with more stories and links. How fun!
I read Wicked Weed by Dark Butterfly. I have to say, the rhyming threw me off a bit, but I did like the overall piece. I can't, however, say I entirely understand what the author was trying to convey. I would have liked to have read the piece before the owner of the site got hold of the poem and ripped it to shreds, which he is oh-so-famous for. Someone commented and mentioned "all that a man can offer," which I did not get at all.
If you were coming in the fall by Emily Dickinson is the classic poem I read today. If you were to ask me why, I could not fathom an answer for why Dickinson was one of my least favorite poets. This poem seemed genuine enough in itself, the subject appearing to pine for a lover... Yet, at the same time it felt like a farce, something conjured up to fill empty space on blank pages. For those of you who adore Dickinson, please forgive my honest opinion here, and refrain from throwing the tomatoes.
Today, I decided to read an essay first, and not continue to any other ingredient in the cocktail until I'd read and discussed an essay. That way, I am not tempted to just fore go the essay part of this. So, I read an essay on Teen Ink called Better Barbie by Jesse K. out of Grand Ledge, Michigan. As I was reading it, I thought, why do we feel the need to make references to things when talking (or writing) about ourselves? To form similes and metaphors and analogies about the greatness or lack thereof of our lives? As a poet, I'm sure this is blasphemous, but it was just a thought that crossed my mind.
I thought it was a great essay. I loved the imagery the writer incorporated into her piece; the sepia-toned memories, the muted through words emotions. It was more than I was expecting from a piece that had Barbie in the title. In fact, the author did a fantastic job of showing that she is both travelled and educated, which should have been my sign. I got to the last paragraph and almost lost my mind and my breakfast. Of course this was turning into a feministic "women must have wild dreams of travel and education to be real women and not want to be moms" kind of thing.
I'm sorry. I've just read too much of this lately. The author threw in the names of Emerson, Thoreau, Carroll, Angelou, and a well-placed reference to Rip Van Winkle, as if those of us who chose the path of wife and mother could not possible have the brains enough to know those names, much less have them on our bookshelves. Indeed, what bookshelves? This person cannot possibly fathom that I have so many books on almost every subject in my house that my husband is building me a new bookshelf in the bathroom so that they won't keep falling off the back of the toilet, and so I can move some of the stacks from the kitchen, dining room, and living room onto the shelf. She cannot appreciate the endless hours put between my full-time job, which I both adore and despise, as I long to be home with my children, then being home with my three sons, two of whom are under 2 and still in diapers, and the slightly sad relief when they go to bed and I have a little while to read whatever book I happen to have my nose in at the time.
No, choosing to be a wife and mother is not indicative of a lack of brains or dreams. I dream of being a writer, which is why I started this blog. I dream of moving to a more Norther-ly place where my children can see snow, before they are too old to appreciate the magical, mysterious quality of a quiet snowfall, the glittering, sparkling morning after. I dream of sitting on a porch, old and gray, with my husband, rocking in our chairs and drinking hard lemonade and laughing at memories. I dream of taking my kids to places that I've never been to, to instill some culture in them. I dream of passing on to them my love of literature and history. I also dream of my sons finding nice, caring, loving wives, but according to our current American society, this is a horrible thing to wish upon a woman.
The short story I read was The Brass Teapot by Tim Macy. Oh my goodness. At first, I thought it was sweet how these two elderly people still cared about each other after years of being together and raising children. The husband accidentally slams the wife's fingers in the trunk and he tries to kiss them. I just thought that was so sweet. But then greed sets in and it just soured my stomach how these two treated each other at the prospect of money. The ending seemed abrupt and unfinished, but this is definitely not a story I will soon forget. It's not too long, so, read it if you get a chance.
There is even a whole website on The Brass Teapot with more stories and links. How fun!
I read Wicked Weed by Dark Butterfly. I have to say, the rhyming threw me off a bit, but I did like the overall piece. I can't, however, say I entirely understand what the author was trying to convey. I would have liked to have read the piece before the owner of the site got hold of the poem and ripped it to shreds, which he is oh-so-famous for. Someone commented and mentioned "all that a man can offer," which I did not get at all.
If you were coming in the fall by Emily Dickinson is the classic poem I read today. If you were to ask me why, I could not fathom an answer for why Dickinson was one of my least favorite poets. This poem seemed genuine enough in itself, the subject appearing to pine for a lover... Yet, at the same time it felt like a farce, something conjured up to fill empty space on blank pages. For those of you who adore Dickinson, please forgive my honest opinion here, and refrain from throwing the tomatoes.
Saturday, October 27, 2012
10/27/2012
Today I read Story of an Obstinate Corpse by Elia W. Peattie. I chose it because of the name, being in a Halloween-y mood. It was, indeed, a short story. Shorter than the others I've read to date on this quest for literary enlightenment. I did favor it, though. It was mildly spooky, and I rather liked the photographer. To me, he seemed like an anti-photographer, not being prone to mysteries and such. Highly recommended. Great for those in a Halloween-y mood, such as myself.
I read Show Me an Unseen Dream by cosera. It seemed deeply personal and it had profound imagery in it, but for some reason it felt uncomfortable. I don't quite know how to describe it. It felt...too poetic. Forced.
I also read Candy Man by Roald Dahl. I'm a big fan of his work. I loved his books, and one of my favorites as a child was The BFG. I had a hard time reading this, though. To me, if a poem rhymes, there also has to be meter to it, consistency. This seemed wildly erratic and the change in the middle of the stanzas through me off. I feel like a heretic criticizing Dahl's work, so I am going to stop there...
The essay I read today (do I get a cookie for actually reading one??) was Lower Tropospheric Relative Humidity by meteorologist Jeff Haby. I can tell two things from this website (Haby's Weather Forecasting Hints): First, I am going to love this website because I am quite a fan of weather. Especially inclimate or stormy weather. Second, I am going to have to keep a separate window up for Google to look up all the terms I don't know.
I used to be one of those people who would go to the library and stay there for hours and hours just to read various books on various subjects; not because I had nothing better to do, but because I loved learning about random things. That was when I was in middle school, high school, even after I graduated high school. I think I would have done really well in college. This particular essay was about how relative humidity affects precipitation at various levels. At least I think that's what it was about... I will have to re-read it, click on all the links to other areas explaining the terms I don't know.
But wow!
There are 360 topics! I'll be a weather expert yet! Yeah, buddy!
I read Show Me an Unseen Dream by cosera. It seemed deeply personal and it had profound imagery in it, but for some reason it felt uncomfortable. I don't quite know how to describe it. It felt...too poetic. Forced.
I also read Candy Man by Roald Dahl. I'm a big fan of his work. I loved his books, and one of my favorites as a child was The BFG. I had a hard time reading this, though. To me, if a poem rhymes, there also has to be meter to it, consistency. This seemed wildly erratic and the change in the middle of the stanzas through me off. I feel like a heretic criticizing Dahl's work, so I am going to stop there...
The essay I read today (do I get a cookie for actually reading one??) was Lower Tropospheric Relative Humidity by meteorologist Jeff Haby. I can tell two things from this website (Haby's Weather Forecasting Hints): First, I am going to love this website because I am quite a fan of weather. Especially inclimate or stormy weather. Second, I am going to have to keep a separate window up for Google to look up all the terms I don't know.
I used to be one of those people who would go to the library and stay there for hours and hours just to read various books on various subjects; not because I had nothing better to do, but because I loved learning about random things. That was when I was in middle school, high school, even after I graduated high school. I think I would have done really well in college. This particular essay was about how relative humidity affects precipitation at various levels. At least I think that's what it was about... I will have to re-read it, click on all the links to other areas explaining the terms I don't know.
But wow!
There are 360 topics! I'll be a weather expert yet! Yeah, buddy!
Friday, October 26, 2012
10/26/2012
Yes, I am fully aware I did not post an entry yesterday. I was off, so I spent my day chasing my kids and finding a Halloween costume for my oldest son.
Today, I read Death by Scrabble by Charlie Fish. I chose the story because my husband and I play Scrabble. Among a lot of other board games, card games...mind games...
[Pause for effect.]
Anyway. I am not exactly sure what I was expecting from the story by the title, but I should have expected what I got. It was clever. The author did a great job portraying a mundane event in his life that adds to a discomfort and hatred that has to have been building for a very long time between him and his wife. I can't put too much more because I would give away the story and I really suggest reading it. He (the husband) is crazy and he is funny and he is disturbed and the ending is vindictively fantastic.
It did bother me a bit, and I am going to have to pay more attention to the words my husband uses when we play Scrabble.
The poem I read was when the sky cracked by -Ink Artist-. As an aside, and an explanation for my following statement, it is raining here. I love the rain, but it puts me in the mood for dark. So, she was my last resort after starting and failing to read about 30 other poems. I love how she alludes to the seasons in her writing (I've read quite a bit of her work), or at least the time of year. She fills the reader's head with imagery and emotion, and leaves you wondering how she did with so few words. The last stanza was really powerful after having read the rest of the poem. It was....haunting. It felt like...a very hurtful argument between loved ones. But I may have interpreted it wrong.
Today's classic poem was Alone by Edgar Allan Poe. I have always adored this poem. If you could take a minute to absorb it and truly try to understand it instead of getting lost in the rhythm... It's the poem of an outcast. Someone different, who never saw things the same as everyone else. I always identified with this. Especially since he speaks of the tint of light and of storms, which I've always been particularly keen on enjoying as far as their beauty. I'm sure someone will say it's cliché because it's dark and Poe and blah. Well, you know what? Your saying it's cliché is cliché. So there.
[Blows raspberries.]
I am failing the essay portion of this assignment. Today was busy here at work, so that's my main excuse today. The other half would be I spend the time I could have spent reading an essay, I spent searching for one... So...
Today, I read Death by Scrabble by Charlie Fish. I chose the story because my husband and I play Scrabble. Among a lot of other board games, card games...mind games...
[Pause for effect.]
Anyway. I am not exactly sure what I was expecting from the story by the title, but I should have expected what I got. It was clever. The author did a great job portraying a mundane event in his life that adds to a discomfort and hatred that has to have been building for a very long time between him and his wife. I can't put too much more because I would give away the story and I really suggest reading it. He (the husband) is crazy and he is funny and he is disturbed and the ending is vindictively fantastic.
It did bother me a bit, and I am going to have to pay more attention to the words my husband uses when we play Scrabble.
The poem I read was when the sky cracked by -Ink Artist-. As an aside, and an explanation for my following statement, it is raining here. I love the rain, but it puts me in the mood for dark. So, she was my last resort after starting and failing to read about 30 other poems. I love how she alludes to the seasons in her writing (I've read quite a bit of her work), or at least the time of year. She fills the reader's head with imagery and emotion, and leaves you wondering how she did with so few words. The last stanza was really powerful after having read the rest of the poem. It was....haunting. It felt like...a very hurtful argument between loved ones. But I may have interpreted it wrong.
Today's classic poem was Alone by Edgar Allan Poe. I have always adored this poem. If you could take a minute to absorb it and truly try to understand it instead of getting lost in the rhythm... It's the poem of an outcast. Someone different, who never saw things the same as everyone else. I always identified with this. Especially since he speaks of the tint of light and of storms, which I've always been particularly keen on enjoying as far as their beauty. I'm sure someone will say it's cliché because it's dark and Poe and blah. Well, you know what? Your saying it's cliché is cliché. So there.
[Blows raspberries.]
I am failing the essay portion of this assignment. Today was busy here at work, so that's my main excuse today. The other half would be I spend the time I could have spent reading an essay, I spent searching for one... So...
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
10/24/2012
I begin this tired. I will end this tired. It has pulsed through my veins and been absorbed into my bones, this weariness. I cannot shed it. I write this, and I am tired.
I have, however, thrown up something as far as writing, but not what I was hoping for. This is day 3 of my year long journey and I have four days left to write a short story. I haven't written a single word. No, today I wrote a poem.
Today I read The Lost Ship by W. W. Jacobs. I love stories about ships and sailors and maritime folklore, so I picked it for the name. It was a fantastic beginning. It was full of emotion, and the imagery was ripe with phrases like "kissed their grimy hands to receding Tetby" and "bearing on its wings the sound of the waves as they came crashing ashore."
There was a moment of hope in it, about the lost ship. The ending, though, was what I fear when I write short stories, or any story for that matter. It felt like the ending rushed up on me like a ghoul in a haunted house. I felt it could have been meatier. Or perhaps it was the longing I felt along with the village people, who had anticipated more of their own stories. All in all, I give it 4 out of 5 stars.
The poem I read today was a shortie. black ink on blue lines by Aine Callipygian. I find it mildly amusing that I keep randomly clicking on links that pertain to my current goal. (Such as yesterday's article by dr b.) While this is noticeably short, I found it powerful in both its universally themed imagery of ink on blank paper, as well as the final line, which is my plight. Well worth the read.
The classic poem I read was I Stand Alone by Du Fu, which I chose based off the preview (first two lines). It was definitely full of imagery, nature themed, which generally, to me anyway, brings a sense of uplifting and muted joy. However, with this poem, the imagery lent to the melancholic mood. I adored it. It seems to fit my current state of mind.
The essay I read, Following the Light: Opening Doors to Science in Tunisia by Zohra Ben Lakhdar, was amazing and it brought me out of my funk. I have to say, with the first few sentences I was about to dump it and this was going to be "The essay I attempted to read" instead. I have my own personal views on feminism and I thought this was going to be a long-suffering, boring read about how women are kept underfoot. However, I am coming to realize my own prejudices, and I decided to read the article anyway.
I'm glad I did. I underestimate the hurdles women in some countries have to jump over to achieve their dreams. My dream? I have variously dreamt of being a marine biologist, a writer, a journalist, a photographer, among other things, but my honest dream now is to be the best mother I can be to my kids. But is this because I already have them?
This "essay," which felt more like an article to me, made me realize, indeed, remember, dreams from before I had children. So why not? For women without children, there is nothing to stop them from pursuing their dreams. I can honestly say I did not realize my dream was to be World's Best Mother before I had kids, but that does not make my dream any less valid than a woman whose dream is to be an astronaut. But I digress.
She is one fascinating, strong, and smart woman. I don't think that molecular science was of any interest to me before reading this, but the idea of looking through a telescope at plant tissue to identify pollutants sounds like a lot of fun.
But that's not all she did. She got a lot of education and she is still fighting to get funding for her projects in Tunisia. It's really a great read and I can't recommend it enough.
I have, however, thrown up something as far as writing, but not what I was hoping for. This is day 3 of my year long journey and I have four days left to write a short story. I haven't written a single word. No, today I wrote a poem.
Today I read The Lost Ship by W. W. Jacobs. I love stories about ships and sailors and maritime folklore, so I picked it for the name. It was a fantastic beginning. It was full of emotion, and the imagery was ripe with phrases like "kissed their grimy hands to receding Tetby" and "bearing on its wings the sound of the waves as they came crashing ashore."
There was a moment of hope in it, about the lost ship. The ending, though, was what I fear when I write short stories, or any story for that matter. It felt like the ending rushed up on me like a ghoul in a haunted house. I felt it could have been meatier. Or perhaps it was the longing I felt along with the village people, who had anticipated more of their own stories. All in all, I give it 4 out of 5 stars.
The poem I read today was a shortie. black ink on blue lines by Aine Callipygian. I find it mildly amusing that I keep randomly clicking on links that pertain to my current goal. (Such as yesterday's article by dr b.) While this is noticeably short, I found it powerful in both its universally themed imagery of ink on blank paper, as well as the final line, which is my plight. Well worth the read.
The classic poem I read was I Stand Alone by Du Fu, which I chose based off the preview (first two lines). It was definitely full of imagery, nature themed, which generally, to me anyway, brings a sense of uplifting and muted joy. However, with this poem, the imagery lent to the melancholic mood. I adored it. It seems to fit my current state of mind.
The essay I read, Following the Light: Opening Doors to Science in Tunisia by Zohra Ben Lakhdar, was amazing and it brought me out of my funk. I have to say, with the first few sentences I was about to dump it and this was going to be "The essay I attempted to read" instead. I have my own personal views on feminism and I thought this was going to be a long-suffering, boring read about how women are kept underfoot. However, I am coming to realize my own prejudices, and I decided to read the article anyway.
I'm glad I did. I underestimate the hurdles women in some countries have to jump over to achieve their dreams. My dream? I have variously dreamt of being a marine biologist, a writer, a journalist, a photographer, among other things, but my honest dream now is to be the best mother I can be to my kids. But is this because I already have them?
This "essay," which felt more like an article to me, made me realize, indeed, remember, dreams from before I had children. So why not? For women without children, there is nothing to stop them from pursuing their dreams. I can honestly say I did not realize my dream was to be World's Best Mother before I had kids, but that does not make my dream any less valid than a woman whose dream is to be an astronaut. But I digress.
She is one fascinating, strong, and smart woman. I don't think that molecular science was of any interest to me before reading this, but the idea of looking through a telescope at plant tissue to identify pollutants sounds like a lot of fun.
But that's not all she did. She got a lot of education and she is still fighting to get funding for her projects in Tunisia. It's really a great read and I can't recommend it enough.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
Coherancy Problems
So, I'm reading an article by dr b on bookriot, which is a fantastically addicting website, and I had a self-discovery, epiphany, light bulb moment about myself and my writing. I'm reading the fourth heading down, "Sometimes the essay murders the idea." I really like this article. I love Winnie the Pooh, I love the link to life the writer is portraying by comparing quotes to their lit classes. But then, from one nano second to the next, I don't so much like this particular paragraph.
Why?
Don't get me wrong. Her whole article was fantastic and I loved it. It was because I suddenly understand my problem with getting my ideas on paper, and for all the newfound knowledge, it brings me no closer solving it.
And I have a great analogy for it, too. It's like trying to write a dream. You know when you're dreaming a dream, it makes such complete sense. Even when you wake up, the feeling it left you with leaves no room fr questioning, whether it be fear, sorrow, just plain weirdness... But then when you try to tell someone, or write it down, you start having problems properly explaining what happened in the dream, and suddenly someone is looking at you like you just went cross-eyed and started talking in lost languages.
The only response you have to that is "well, you know how dreams are," at which point the person, who is already looking at you with suspicious, googly eyes, then raises one suspicious, googly eyebrow.
I have kept a dream journal before in my efforts to wrangle some sense out of my constant nightmares, which I have had since I was at least five, and which I can recall all the way to stated age. That can't be normal, right? I am quite obsessed with dreams, in fact. But I won't go down that dark alley right now.
My point was, that's what it feels like. I can see the story in my head, I can feel how I want it to turn out, but I cannot translate it from my head to coherent writing. For those of you who have never tried writing and have never dreamt (as some people claim when I ask them about their dreams), the only other thing I can compare it to is trying to get the room to stop spinning when you're so drunk your only two options are to throw up or pass out.
Why?
Don't get me wrong. Her whole article was fantastic and I loved it. It was because I suddenly understand my problem with getting my ideas on paper, and for all the newfound knowledge, it brings me no closer solving it.
And I have a great analogy for it, too. It's like trying to write a dream. You know when you're dreaming a dream, it makes such complete sense. Even when you wake up, the feeling it left you with leaves no room fr questioning, whether it be fear, sorrow, just plain weirdness... But then when you try to tell someone, or write it down, you start having problems properly explaining what happened in the dream, and suddenly someone is looking at you like you just went cross-eyed and started talking in lost languages.
The only response you have to that is "well, you know how dreams are," at which point the person, who is already looking at you with suspicious, googly eyes, then raises one suspicious, googly eyebrow.
I have kept a dream journal before in my efforts to wrangle some sense out of my constant nightmares, which I have had since I was at least five, and which I can recall all the way to stated age. That can't be normal, right? I am quite obsessed with dreams, in fact. But I won't go down that dark alley right now.
My point was, that's what it feels like. I can see the story in my head, I can feel how I want it to turn out, but I cannot translate it from my head to coherent writing. For those of you who have never tried writing and have never dreamt (as some people claim when I ask them about their dreams), the only other thing I can compare it to is trying to get the room to stop spinning when you're so drunk your only two options are to throw up or pass out.
10/23/2012
Short story: The Glass Dog by L. Frank Baum. I am a huge fan of this man. The Wizard of Oz series was incredible (and her shoes were silver, not ruby). So when I ran across his name on this short story website, American Literature, I had to read something. He's got quite a few short stories, as it turns out, including some about Oz, which made me giddy. But I chose this one because it was not about Oz. He seems to have a penchant for glass and clocks. Clocks and glass.
I loved this. How strange it would have the same theme on a variant as the short story I read yesterday. Today, though, it had a less favorable ending, albeit more believable. Magicians, glass-blowers, rich women, and barking glass dogs. What more could I ask for in a story? Truly a piece worth reading. I might start printing some of these stories I read so that I may read them to my children.
The poem I read today was The Elephant Who Exaggerated by Dunkle Deed, who real name is David Martin. He's a poet, children's author and illustrator from the UK. This poem is actually one of his two children's book. The book is more fantastic, as it is illustrated. He's like the new Seuss, in a way.
I love the first two lines because they remind me of my son and my husband. No further comment on that... It's just so fun to read this. You can actually purchase this book and his other book here.
The classic poem I read was Alabaster by Sarojini Naidu. I just adore this poem. The imagery in it is beautiful, showing similes can be just as powerful and effective as metaphors. Incredible feeling in the brevity, and I could almost smell the cinnamon. Fun fact, Ms. Naidu's birthday is celebrated as Women's Day.
The essay I read today (and yes, I read the whole essay today), was Antidote for Melancholy by T. S. Arthur. I have to admit, it was a bit of a switch reading short stories and poems and then moving to an essay. They are vastly variant forms of writing. I had to re-read the first few paragraphs as the switch as well as the language difference (times, no doubt), had me feeling a bit off put.
It was well worth the read, though, and I think that it is something that we all know to be true in our heart of hearts. Simply states, the best way to get over being sad, depressed, forlorn, indeed, melancholic is to go out and make it a point to help others in need. Donating your money is not enough. You never get to see, meet, listen to, or understand the people you are helping. Not that I am in any way, shape or form against donating. I donate a tiny amount of each paycheck to various charities. But the real happiness, the real change, comes in going out and getting your hands dirty cleaning up other people's sorrows.
Truly worth a look, if you have time.
On a side note, or bottom note or parallel dimensional note, you read through this without pause, without hesitation. The truth, though, is that as I wrote this, I laid back a lot in my office chair at my desk at work, wishing I were at home, sleeping, as my youngest child, Vincent Paul, who is 5 months old, was extra fussy last night. I got up a lot, and therefore woke up extra tired. I also had to get up earlier than usual as I took them to daycare at my job this morning. I tried to stay away from the coffee today, as I am, once again, pregnant, but I could not.
I loved this. How strange it would have the same theme on a variant as the short story I read yesterday. Today, though, it had a less favorable ending, albeit more believable. Magicians, glass-blowers, rich women, and barking glass dogs. What more could I ask for in a story? Truly a piece worth reading. I might start printing some of these stories I read so that I may read them to my children.
The poem I read today was The Elephant Who Exaggerated by Dunkle Deed, who real name is David Martin. He's a poet, children's author and illustrator from the UK. This poem is actually one of his two children's book. The book is more fantastic, as it is illustrated. He's like the new Seuss, in a way.
I love the first two lines because they remind me of my son and my husband. No further comment on that... It's just so fun to read this. You can actually purchase this book and his other book here.
The classic poem I read was Alabaster by Sarojini Naidu. I just adore this poem. The imagery in it is beautiful, showing similes can be just as powerful and effective as metaphors. Incredible feeling in the brevity, and I could almost smell the cinnamon. Fun fact, Ms. Naidu's birthday is celebrated as Women's Day.
The essay I read today (and yes, I read the whole essay today), was Antidote for Melancholy by T. S. Arthur. I have to admit, it was a bit of a switch reading short stories and poems and then moving to an essay. They are vastly variant forms of writing. I had to re-read the first few paragraphs as the switch as well as the language difference (times, no doubt), had me feeling a bit off put.
It was well worth the read, though, and I think that it is something that we all know to be true in our heart of hearts. Simply states, the best way to get over being sad, depressed, forlorn, indeed, melancholic is to go out and make it a point to help others in need. Donating your money is not enough. You never get to see, meet, listen to, or understand the people you are helping. Not that I am in any way, shape or form against donating. I donate a tiny amount of each paycheck to various charities. But the real happiness, the real change, comes in going out and getting your hands dirty cleaning up other people's sorrows.
Truly worth a look, if you have time.
On a side note, or bottom note or parallel dimensional note, you read through this without pause, without hesitation. The truth, though, is that as I wrote this, I laid back a lot in my office chair at my desk at work, wishing I were at home, sleeping, as my youngest child, Vincent Paul, who is 5 months old, was extra fussy last night. I got up a lot, and therefore woke up extra tired. I also had to get up earlier than usual as I took them to daycare at my job this morning. I tried to stay away from the coffee today, as I am, once again, pregnant, but I could not.
Monday, October 22, 2012
10/22/2012
Today's short story that I read was The Wicker Husband by Ursula Wills-Jones at East of the Web. I chose it because the thought of looking through dozens and hundreds of stories to try to pick one I would like seemed exhausting and a waste of time I don't have. I was completely surprised with the piece. It was fantastic.
Quick synopsis: An ugly girl lives in a small village. She hires a basket-maker to make her a husband. The women in the village get jealous and the men get mad because the women want their husbands to do what the wicker husband does. It's a great story about love and what the whispers of people around us can make us believe. It's not an all-out fairy tale, as there is some heartache, but it makes for a great one nonetheless.
The "unknown" poem I read was The Tao of Poets by M. Douglas, who I originally knew as Dark Geometry. His poetry is both raw and refined, ugly and beautiful, powerful but by no means meek. He is one of the very few reasons I cannot leave my post at AllPoetry.
The poem is very brutal in its honesty about poets. We love the lies as long as they sound pretty coming out of your mouth. We'll use our anger and sorrow later to write about you in ways you will never see in a mirror.
The classic poem I read was In Time of Silver Rain by Langston Hughes. I like the idealism behind the poem. It seems to be very optimistic, very innocent, very light-hearted. Perhaps I am just not in a light-hearted way today but it was just too sunny for me with the rainbows and the butterflies. Perhaps I just read it at the wrong time of year, as it is a piece about Spring, and I am in the throes of Autumn. Well, so far as I can be in the great state of (central) Texas where we really only have two seasons: cool and hell.
The essay I attempted to read today was Thunderbolts by Grant Allen. I say attempted because I could not get past the first paragraph. I'm going to be, well, mean here. I was unimpressed by the names he threw out that I did not recognize (i.e., Prester John) nor bother to Google. I also disagreed with his whole premise that thunderbolts are so exciting and enigmatic to us for the simple fact that they do not exist and that lightning is a weary subject as is anything that has been scientifically proven.
Perhaps I am just on the opposite end of the spectrum here. Our views vary with such voracity it made me somewhat naseous reading the piece. I find lightning endlessly stunning and worthy of study, but not Mr. Allen. No. He thinks that anything scientific is "dull...priggish" and believes Greek mythology "infinitely grander, more fearsome, and more mysterious." I have to say, having science prove something does not make something dull. He even throws in ghosts and vampires. To me, things that can not be proven are of no consequence to me, and therefore, not really worthy of adoration, obsession and study. I stick by the adage truth is stranger than fiction and am happy to continue to collection of odd facts about real things.
Like the fact that lightning is about 5 times hotter than our Sun.
...
If you are visiting for the first time, please read why I am doing this blog here.
Quick synopsis: An ugly girl lives in a small village. She hires a basket-maker to make her a husband. The women in the village get jealous and the men get mad because the women want their husbands to do what the wicker husband does. It's a great story about love and what the whispers of people around us can make us believe. It's not an all-out fairy tale, as there is some heartache, but it makes for a great one nonetheless.
The "unknown" poem I read was The Tao of Poets by M. Douglas, who I originally knew as Dark Geometry. His poetry is both raw and refined, ugly and beautiful, powerful but by no means meek. He is one of the very few reasons I cannot leave my post at AllPoetry.
The poem is very brutal in its honesty about poets. We love the lies as long as they sound pretty coming out of your mouth. We'll use our anger and sorrow later to write about you in ways you will never see in a mirror.
The classic poem I read was In Time of Silver Rain by Langston Hughes. I like the idealism behind the poem. It seems to be very optimistic, very innocent, very light-hearted. Perhaps I am just not in a light-hearted way today but it was just too sunny for me with the rainbows and the butterflies. Perhaps I just read it at the wrong time of year, as it is a piece about Spring, and I am in the throes of Autumn. Well, so far as I can be in the great state of (central) Texas where we really only have two seasons: cool and hell.
The essay I attempted to read today was Thunderbolts by Grant Allen. I say attempted because I could not get past the first paragraph. I'm going to be, well, mean here. I was unimpressed by the names he threw out that I did not recognize (i.e., Prester John) nor bother to Google. I also disagreed with his whole premise that thunderbolts are so exciting and enigmatic to us for the simple fact that they do not exist and that lightning is a weary subject as is anything that has been scientifically proven.
Perhaps I am just on the opposite end of the spectrum here. Our views vary with such voracity it made me somewhat naseous reading the piece. I find lightning endlessly stunning and worthy of study, but not Mr. Allen. No. He thinks that anything scientific is "dull...priggish" and believes Greek mythology "infinitely grander, more fearsome, and more mysterious." I have to say, having science prove something does not make something dull. He even throws in ghosts and vampires. To me, things that can not be proven are of no consequence to me, and therefore, not really worthy of adoration, obsession and study. I stick by the adage truth is stranger than fiction and am happy to continue to collection of odd facts about real things.
Like the fact that lightning is about 5 times hotter than our Sun.
...
If you are visiting for the first time, please read why I am doing this blog here.
Day One, Ground Zero, et.al.
I am a procrastinator. Worse than that. I am also a project-starter. Have you seen The Ref? You know the part where Spacey's character is berating his wife for starting all kinds of projects and classes that she never finishes? That's me. Lisa Simpson being told she's going to end up as a bookstore manager? That's me, too. I have at least fifteen books that I have started (novels, not poetry books, for those that are aware that I write poetry) laying around on either laptops, usb drives, notebooks, blogs...
I decided to do something about it. I decided to get advice from the best. So I started using the Twitter account I set up years ago. Circa 2008. I think I had tweeted maybe 20 or 30 times but found it lackluster because no one RT me, no one starred my posts, and I think I had maybe 5 followers; what was the point? Ah, yes, I am a birdwalker as well. So, the point is, I re-joined Twitter, which basically meant I requested a password reset, and I followed every author, journalist, blogger, and photographer I could find. I found this helpful because the people I follow tend to tweet articles relating to writing, how to better your writing, what writers are writing about writing.
Apparently, I've been going about this the wrong way. I get an idea in my head, and I try to put it down on paper in the most coherent way possible, but it doesn't get lost in translation. No. It gets stuck, mangled, decapitated, and emerges hopeless. I usually get a couple of chapters in, then forget where I am going with the story. Chuck Wendig, who I believe I followed because someone else I followed suggested I follow him, has a blog, Terrible Minds on which he has a specific posting: 25 Things You Should Do Before Starting Your Next Novel.
According to Wendig, I should have the ending figured out. Well, that makes sense. So I tried it. I got about two pages into the last chapter of one of my books, and my train of thought collided with an 18-wheeler carrying fuel and exploded.
Okay, on to something else. Short stories. Chuck Wendig (whose name is so close to Wendigo I keep having to backspace the "o" I constantly put at the end of his name) is not the only one who recommends writing short stories. Ray Bradbury has some great advice for writers as well. He actually gives a cocktail of stuff to read on a daily basis to keep your creative juices flowing. But he also recommends writing a short story per week for a whole year. That sounds like a challenge, Mr. Bradbury. One I fully intend to take on, along with your reading gumbo.
So, this is my first entry in what will (hopefully, but unlikely) be 365 days of what I read with maybe some input on how I felt about what I read, but at least you'll get 52 entries of short stories. Wish me luck, as with 3 boys and a full-time job, this seems daunting to say the least.
Footnote: Reaching for the phoenix galaxy. Why on earth did I choose that mouthful for the title of this blog? Because Reach for the Sky or Shoot for the Stars was too cliché and probably already taken. Also, they have recently discovered the Phoenix Galaxy. That's a nice little...tidbit of knowledge.
Footnote 2: For those who are wondering why someone so obsessed with spelling and grammar that she has a book called Comma Sutra on her bookshelf would go under the handle "SpydurPoet." Well, I was in high school, "spiderpoet" was already taken on the social forum I posted my poetry on, and I used it so often I had it tattooed on my left shoulder blade when I was 17. So, yeah. Make sure your thoroughly think things out before you get inked, kids.
I decided to do something about it. I decided to get advice from the best. So I started using the Twitter account I set up years ago. Circa 2008. I think I had tweeted maybe 20 or 30 times but found it lackluster because no one RT me, no one starred my posts, and I think I had maybe 5 followers; what was the point? Ah, yes, I am a birdwalker as well. So, the point is, I re-joined Twitter, which basically meant I requested a password reset, and I followed every author, journalist, blogger, and photographer I could find. I found this helpful because the people I follow tend to tweet articles relating to writing, how to better your writing, what writers are writing about writing.
Apparently, I've been going about this the wrong way. I get an idea in my head, and I try to put it down on paper in the most coherent way possible, but it doesn't get lost in translation. No. It gets stuck, mangled, decapitated, and emerges hopeless. I usually get a couple of chapters in, then forget where I am going with the story. Chuck Wendig, who I believe I followed because someone else I followed suggested I follow him, has a blog, Terrible Minds on which he has a specific posting: 25 Things You Should Do Before Starting Your Next Novel.
According to Wendig, I should have the ending figured out. Well, that makes sense. So I tried it. I got about two pages into the last chapter of one of my books, and my train of thought collided with an 18-wheeler carrying fuel and exploded.
Okay, on to something else. Short stories. Chuck Wendig (whose name is so close to Wendigo I keep having to backspace the "o" I constantly put at the end of his name) is not the only one who recommends writing short stories. Ray Bradbury has some great advice for writers as well. He actually gives a cocktail of stuff to read on a daily basis to keep your creative juices flowing. But he also recommends writing a short story per week for a whole year. That sounds like a challenge, Mr. Bradbury. One I fully intend to take on, along with your reading gumbo.
So, this is my first entry in what will (hopefully, but unlikely) be 365 days of what I read with maybe some input on how I felt about what I read, but at least you'll get 52 entries of short stories. Wish me luck, as with 3 boys and a full-time job, this seems daunting to say the least.
Footnote: Reaching for the phoenix galaxy. Why on earth did I choose that mouthful for the title of this blog? Because Reach for the Sky or Shoot for the Stars was too cliché and probably already taken. Also, they have recently discovered the Phoenix Galaxy. That's a nice little...tidbit of knowledge.
Footnote 2: For those who are wondering why someone so obsessed with spelling and grammar that she has a book called Comma Sutra on her bookshelf would go under the handle "SpydurPoet." Well, I was in high school, "spiderpoet" was already taken on the social forum I posted my poetry on, and I used it so often I had it tattooed on my left shoulder blade when I was 17. So, yeah. Make sure your thoroughly think things out before you get inked, kids.
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