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.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
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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