Okay, I had to offer this up to all of you. I love reading Kelly's posts at http://dysfunctionallyfun.blogspot.com/. I found her via the April A to Z Challange and have been checking back ever since.
Today, she linked to http://www.flyingplatypi.com/2013/05/i-dont-care-how-much-floral-print-girl.html by Valerie Nunez (sorry about not inserting the little linky things - I'm writing this at work and don't have all the cool bloggity bells and whistles. Fucking cheap ass government). I read it and literally choked on my coffee - no shit. I had to get a roll of paper towels to clean off my keyboard.
See, my husband HATES Taylor Swift. Now, you've probably read my discussion about using the word "hate" and are aware I rarely succumb to it's tidal pull. So, while The Man Behind The Curtain harbors deep, abiding malice towards her person, I merely experience momentary periods of intense discomfort and the urge to puncture my ear drums. That's not hate - that's just annoyance.
So when I read this - I knew I had to share it. I knew I had to broadcast it to the world. Go - read. Laugh your ass off. I did. And I feel better - really. And I will now proceed to burn every floral print article of clothing in my wardrobe. TTFN!
Showing posts with label A to Z Blog Hop. Show all posts
Showing posts with label A to Z Blog Hop. Show all posts
Friday, May 17, 2013
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Z?
Z. Zero. Zenith. Zen. Interesting, three words with related concepts.
Zero: denoting the absence of magnitude or quantity. A state of total absence or neutrality.
Zenith: a culminating point, the highest point reached or reachable.
Zen: neither the absence nor the culmination of achievement. Zen is transcendent of measure and evaluation.
Here, at the end of the A to Z Blog Challenge, I have found a sort of Zen. I am no longer at the beginning, but I am not at the end, either. I have not reached the heights of the blogosphere, nor have I fallen into the pit of disdain.
I am, actually, in a pleasant place where I have followers, friends and visitors stopping by frequently enough to satisfy my ego (and yes, we all have one), but not so frequently as to be difficult to keep up with. I'm still able to personally address each comment and answer emails or tweets from my faithful few, without being so overwhelmed that I run from all social media with my hands in the air. It's a pleasant place to be.
The A to Z has been all that it's name implies: a challenge. I was truly surprised by the difficulty of blogging every day, to a specific subject, even though the only guidelines are the alphabet. I under appreciated the time and commitment it would take to prepare and post each and every day. And I wanted each post to matter. To amuse, enlighten, enrich and enable any and all who stopped by to read it. I wanted you to know the thought that went into each post. I fear, unfortunately, there were a few days when I let you down, but I also believe, overall you were pleased with what you found.
My little blog went from three dedicated followers to eighteen. From a little under two-hundred hits to well over a thousand. From a few desultory, self-indulgent posts to over thirty (hopefully) well written anecdotes.
I have found friends and followers around the globe, in places I never expected: South Africa, Spain, Ireland and Malaysia for a few.
And the posts with the most hits and comments? See for yourself:
Posts
Zero: denoting the absence of magnitude or quantity. A state of total absence or neutrality.
Zenith: a culminating point, the highest point reached or reachable.
Zen: neither the absence nor the culmination of achievement. Zen is transcendent of measure and evaluation.
Here, at the end of the A to Z Blog Challenge, I have found a sort of Zen. I am no longer at the beginning, but I am not at the end, either. I have not reached the heights of the blogosphere, nor have I fallen into the pit of disdain.
I am, actually, in a pleasant place where I have followers, friends and visitors stopping by frequently enough to satisfy my ego (and yes, we all have one), but not so frequently as to be difficult to keep up with. I'm still able to personally address each comment and answer emails or tweets from my faithful few, without being so overwhelmed that I run from all social media with my hands in the air. It's a pleasant place to be.
The A to Z has been all that it's name implies: a challenge. I was truly surprised by the difficulty of blogging every day, to a specific subject, even though the only guidelines are the alphabet. I under appreciated the time and commitment it would take to prepare and post each and every day. And I wanted each post to matter. To amuse, enlighten, enrich and enable any and all who stopped by to read it. I wanted you to know the thought that went into each post. I fear, unfortunately, there were a few days when I let you down, but I also believe, overall you were pleased with what you found.
My little blog went from three dedicated followers to eighteen. From a little under two-hundred hits to well over a thousand. From a few desultory, self-indulgent posts to over thirty (hopefully) well written anecdotes.
I have found friends and followers around the globe, in places I never expected: South Africa, Spain, Ireland and Malaysia for a few.
And the posts with the most hits and comments? See for yourself:
Posts
| Entry | Pageviews |
|---|---|
Apr 25, 2013,
|
45
|
Apr 19, 2013,
|
31
|
Apr 23, 2013,
|
26
|
Apr 15, 2013,
|
23
|
Apr 21, 2013,
|
22
|
So, yes; it's been a Zen like experience. One I hope to repeat and grow better at. I hope you'll stick around for the ride. I really do. Because I like hearing from you, I like meeting you, and I really, really like writing for you.
Warmly,
 |
| Barbara and "The Man Behind the Curtain" (No, I am not married to Mike Ditka or any of his relations!) |
Monday, April 29, 2013
Yesterdays ...
I am, at heart, an optimist. I am also a realist, a dreamer, a romantic and (likely) the most direct person you've ever met in your life. I am all of these things at various times - rarely do they combine and reside in my personality concurrently.
But above all things, I am not a regretter.
I've been asked a number of times (always to my surprise) if I have regrets of any sort. I invariably answer "no." I am fortunate (I think) to be able to look back on my life at this mid-century point, and answer so concisely.
This does not mean, however; that there are decisions and choices I would change if given the chance. That't the thing about regret that most people do not understand. Regret is not the acknowledgement of things you would do differently. Regret is the resentment, sorrow or anxiety of the decisions once they are made. And I have none of those symptoms.
Obviously, with the clarity of hindsight and the knowledge gained from many yesterdays I would likely select options and opportunities I didn't realize at the time they were presented. But I have to ask myself, what would I have missed if I did?
Would I have missed my son, who has grown to one of the finest young men and fathers I've known?
Would I have missed the great love and agonizing loss of a husband who prepared me for a greater love, years down the road?
Would I have missed a career that, although it took me far and long from home, provided me opportunity few women have had and travel beyond my wildest dreams?
Would I have missed a passion for music, art and culture beyond my years as a young girl, preparing me in ways I am only beginning to realize?
Would I have missed the birth of my own grandchildren, so small and bright, so delicate and heart-shatteringly delightful?
For that is the problem with regret: If you would choose to do over those things you resent or mourn for, you would never hold in your hand all that have now. You would never know today because of giving up some yesterday. You would never appreciate the flavor of the life you've lived, because you never would have lived it, you would never be here, now, if it weren't for yesterday.
But above all things, I am not a regretter.
I've been asked a number of times (always to my surprise) if I have regrets of any sort. I invariably answer "no." I am fortunate (I think) to be able to look back on my life at this mid-century point, and answer so concisely.
This does not mean, however; that there are decisions and choices I would change if given the chance. That't the thing about regret that most people do not understand. Regret is not the acknowledgement of things you would do differently. Regret is the resentment, sorrow or anxiety of the decisions once they are made. And I have none of those symptoms.
Obviously, with the clarity of hindsight and the knowledge gained from many yesterdays I would likely select options and opportunities I didn't realize at the time they were presented. But I have to ask myself, what would I have missed if I did?
Would I have missed my son, who has grown to one of the finest young men and fathers I've known?
Would I have missed the great love and agonizing loss of a husband who prepared me for a greater love, years down the road?
Would I have missed a career that, although it took me far and long from home, provided me opportunity few women have had and travel beyond my wildest dreams?
Would I have missed a passion for music, art and culture beyond my years as a young girl, preparing me in ways I am only beginning to realize?
Would I have missed the birth of my own grandchildren, so small and bright, so delicate and heart-shatteringly delightful?
For that is the problem with regret: If you would choose to do over those things you resent or mourn for, you would never hold in your hand all that have now. You would never know today because of giving up some yesterday. You would never appreciate the flavor of the life you've lived, because you never would have lived it, you would never be here, now, if it weren't for yesterday.
Thursday, April 25, 2013
Whiskey... (For Steve - can we do Norfolk again?)
I mean, really? If you've been following me for ANY amount of time, are you surprised at today's topic?
You know I love my scotch. It is the second pillar of my existence (after coffee). It makes me so much nicer than I am in real life. It soothes and calms, de-jangles nerves and whispers sweet nothings that entice me to speak sweetly to my husband, pet the dog, smile at the neighbor and survive another day at work.
I'll drink any kind of whiskey, too. Bourbon (American or Kentucky whiskey), Irish, Canadian. It's all good. But my sweet spot, my heart and soul - ah, now you are talking SCOTCH.
There are over 4 million "hits" on Google for "quotes about scotch." I've included a few of my favorites below. But here's why I love the stuff: it melts over my tongue like liquid gold, gently warming and infusing me with it's mellow, round, fullness. It instills a sense of well-being and tranquility with it's soft smokey character and round, peaty essence. It never makes me sick, gives me a headache or has me asking where I left the car, the purse, the ... well, never mind.
It's just good!
My preference is single malt; Oban or Glenlivet. In fact, the Glenlivet 15 (French Oak aged) is my hands-down favorite. I've had top shelf, bottom shelf and everything in between, but I have yet to find anything that beats the half-empty bottle of Haig & Pinch I inherited from my Grandfather.
It had to be at least thirty years old when I got it, the paper label peeling, the wire cage around the glass tarnished. I don't remember ever seeing him pour from it, but slowly, ever so slowly the liquid was consumed. Only after he had died did I learn he sipped once a year, on some unknown anniversary or otherwise special event and he never, never shared. It was the first, the finest and the most memorable Scotch I ever drank. And I've yet to find another that compares.
When it became my very own, my darling, my PRECIOUS - oh, how I coveted and safeguarded! I would hide it away in the deep dark corner of the closet, not letting any fellow Scotch drinkers know of it's existence. It was mine, MINE! And I would walk to the gates of Mordor to keep it safe...
Wait - that's another story.
So, Scotch. Yeah. I'm having a nice tall one now. No one ever said which two fingers to use when pouring a dram, right? And it's so simple; no mixing, stirring, blending or shaking.
A glass. A bottle. And me.
Happy Friday to all and as my good friends in Scotland would say Sláinte!
You know I love my scotch. It is the second pillar of my existence (after coffee). It makes me so much nicer than I am in real life. It soothes and calms, de-jangles nerves and whispers sweet nothings that entice me to speak sweetly to my husband, pet the dog, smile at the neighbor and survive another day at work.
I'll drink any kind of whiskey, too. Bourbon (American or Kentucky whiskey), Irish, Canadian. It's all good. But my sweet spot, my heart and soul - ah, now you are talking SCOTCH.
There are over 4 million "hits" on Google for "quotes about scotch." I've included a few of my favorites below. But here's why I love the stuff: it melts over my tongue like liquid gold, gently warming and infusing me with it's mellow, round, fullness. It instills a sense of well-being and tranquility with it's soft smokey character and round, peaty essence. It never makes me sick, gives me a headache or has me asking where I left the car, the purse, the ... well, never mind.
It's just good!
My preference is single malt; Oban or Glenlivet. In fact, the Glenlivet 15 (French Oak aged) is my hands-down favorite. I've had top shelf, bottom shelf and everything in between, but I have yet to find anything that beats the half-empty bottle of Haig & Pinch I inherited from my Grandfather.
It had to be at least thirty years old when I got it, the paper label peeling, the wire cage around the glass tarnished. I don't remember ever seeing him pour from it, but slowly, ever so slowly the liquid was consumed. Only after he had died did I learn he sipped once a year, on some unknown anniversary or otherwise special event and he never, never shared. It was the first, the finest and the most memorable Scotch I ever drank. And I've yet to find another that compares.
When it became my very own, my darling, my PRECIOUS - oh, how I coveted and safeguarded! I would hide it away in the deep dark corner of the closet, not letting any fellow Scotch drinkers know of it's existence. It was mine, MINE! And I would walk to the gates of Mordor to keep it safe...
Wait - that's another story.
So, Scotch. Yeah. I'm having a nice tall one now. No one ever said which two fingers to use when pouring a dram, right? And it's so simple; no mixing, stirring, blending or shaking.
A glass. A bottle. And me.
Happy Friday to all and as my good friends in Scotland would say Sláinte!
“She poured us some more Scotch. It didn't seem to affect her any more than water affects Boulder Dam.”
- Raymond Chandler
- Raymond Chandler
"There were years when I was a beer and tequila guy, then I got real fat. And then I found that you could actually go on a diet and drink scotch. Then I got hooked on scotch, and if you get hooked on scotch, then everything else just tastes wrong."
- Ron White
"Whenever someone asks me if I want water with my Scotch, I say I'm thirsty, not dirty."
-Joe E. Lewis
"Too much of anything is bad, but too much of good whiskey is barely enough."
Mark Twain.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Victory can be found in rejection...
So, Victory. It's not always what you expect.
I sent my first novel out on query in January. I received several partials and one request for a full submission. I was stunned. Floored. Ecstatic. Doing the happy dance all over the house.
And I submitted. And I re-read what I submitted. And lo, the work was subpar and not ready for submission. And I retracted. And the agent said "Let me see thy work when you have revised."
And I went forth and revised. But I failed to send for critique by worthy readers. I failed to let the work sit and ferment in it's own digestive stew. I failed to follow all the things the great writerly apostles tell us to do:
I sent my first novel out on query in January. I received several partials and one request for a full submission. I was stunned. Floored. Ecstatic. Doing the happy dance all over the house.
And I submitted. And I re-read what I submitted. And lo, the work was subpar and not ready for submission. And I retracted. And the agent said "Let me see thy work when you have revised."
And I went forth and revised. But I failed to send for critique by worthy readers. I failed to let the work sit and ferment in it's own digestive stew. I failed to follow all the things the great writerly apostles tell us to do:
- Read it out loud.
- Let it sit for a week or two
- Read it again
- Let others read it
- Revise, revise, revise,
- Repeat steps (1) through (5)
And I resubmitted against these commandments. And thus, I was smote down by the hand of the agent (not really, she was super nice and gave me some really good feedback) and I was laid low in the land of "Nod Ready for Publishing."
And now I turn my eyes to heaven and search for the divine writer/author to pronounce my penance and lead me back to the land of editorial might, that I may sit at the foot of wit and wisdom and find those words and ways that will ensure my favor in the literary eye.
And I'm okay with that. I'm okay with being rejected. I'm okay with being told what's wrong with my book. If no one told me what was wrong, I would keep doing the same things over and over again and never improve.
Sure, it stings (a little), but the fact that I had doubts and misgivings of my own mean it really wasn't ready to submit. It really wasn't even ready to query. As excited as I was to finish it, to get it 'out there' in the hands of agents and publishers, part of me knew it needed more work. So I violated my own principals by sending it out anyway. Silly me.
So in the end, my rejection is a victory. For one thing, someone in the profession actually took the time to not only respond to my query (so the query itself must have been good), they loved the premise (so I must be writing about the right stuff) and they read the whole thing (so it must not be that awful).
It's a win, a victory, in my book, because I've been validated as an author. Like yesterday's post said, I don't need to be published to be read. But being read definitely provides validation. And being read by some of the toughest folks in the business and being encouraged to continue writing, that's a victory I'll celebrate any time.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Unpublished does not mean Unread
I am, regretfully, unpublished.
I am not, however, unread.
The two are not mutually exclusive. Many people have read my work. In fact, you read it now.
Thank you!
Yet, I remain unfulfilled.
It may be unctuous to believe others, not interested in blogs and such, would wish to read my unpublished prose, yet I persevere, unwilling to give up.
And other unwitting accomplices provide praise and feedback of an uproarious nature to ensure I am uninterrupted in my pursuit of unequivocal praise and fandom.
They soothe my unalloyed fears of utter anonymity on the great halls and annals of unrealized potential.
They are a uniform front of family, friends and coworkers, willing to read unedited and unrevised manuscript printed on unbleached, recycled and unbound pages.
They uniformly provide uncensored and uninhibited feedback, though never of the unthinking and unstudied sort.
They unstick me, unstring me, and leave me unrestrained and unselfconscious as I rip, strip, edit, revise, reword and resubmit.
They are unreserved, undeserved and undeniable and I will never be unread as long as I have them in my lives.
And that, my friends, is enough.
Time...our most precious commodity
I'm sure lot's of us "A to Z" Challange participants are blogging about time today. It's our most precious commodity and one of the most plastic concepts we live with.
Time drags and surges, runs out and extends before us like a road to be travelled. It's here, now; there in the past and also there in the future. We yearn for more as often as we wait anxiously, toe tapping on cold tile for it to pass faster.
Time's funny like that. She can be a harsh mistress and a gentle reminder of our frailty and transiency.
Time for me yesterday was like a chain holding me back and pulling me forward concurrently. I had four meetings stacked on top of each other like bricks in a wall. All of them important, all of them needed my attendence and attention. Unfortunately, I can only be in one place at one time - so I had to forgo three of them, ending up in one that took the entire day. I spent twelve and a half hours at work yesterday and I was in the same meeting for ten of those hours.
By the time I got home, all I wanted was a drink and a few hours to relax. But I didn't have time - you see, there are other claims on my time: husband, son, dog, etc.
So I decided to push back on time, try to move needs and tasks to today. Like writing this post. Hopefully, somehow I will find a way to squeeze more than 24 hours into today, meaning I've already exceeded my time limits for today!
Time drags and surges, runs out and extends before us like a road to be travelled. It's here, now; there in the past and also there in the future. We yearn for more as often as we wait anxiously, toe tapping on cold tile for it to pass faster.
Time's funny like that. She can be a harsh mistress and a gentle reminder of our frailty and transiency.
Time for me yesterday was like a chain holding me back and pulling me forward concurrently. I had four meetings stacked on top of each other like bricks in a wall. All of them important, all of them needed my attendence and attention. Unfortunately, I can only be in one place at one time - so I had to forgo three of them, ending up in one that took the entire day. I spent twelve and a half hours at work yesterday and I was in the same meeting for ten of those hours.
By the time I got home, all I wanted was a drink and a few hours to relax. But I didn't have time - you see, there are other claims on my time: husband, son, dog, etc.
So I decided to push back on time, try to move needs and tasks to today. Like writing this post. Hopefully, somehow I will find a way to squeeze more than 24 hours into today, meaning I've already exceeded my time limits for today!
Sunday, April 21, 2013
Surprising success and an early "S" post
I have been nominated by both MadelineAnn of "Reincarnated as a Writer" and Bridgina Molloy of "The Wicked Writer" - many thanks to both of you!
The Liebster Award is passed around from one blog to another, with the following rules:
- I have to give 11 random facts about me
- I have to answer the 11 questions the presenter of the award has asked
- I have to nominate 11 new bloggers to receive the award, they must have fewer than 200 followers
- I have to ask my nominees 11 new questions of my own
- I believe coffee, scotch, chocolate and popcorn constitute a well rounded diet.
- I knew how to fly a small plane before I knew how to drive.
- Tall, dark and built with a scottish accent will get me to do almost anything.
- Although a native Californian, people think I'm from Canada All. The. Time. Something with my "o's" being too round.
- I've been married more times than I'd like to admit.
- I ran my first half marathon at the age of - OLD.
- I'm a sucker for anything small and furry with big eyes - including the odd child.
- I was the first female Quality Manager of a major shipyard - ANYWHERE
- I really don't have a filter between my brain and my mouth - ask my husband, mother, child and boss.
- I returned to writing fiction after a 20+ year absence and am finding reasonable success.
- I've been accused of being fearless, but I do have a few fears: being on a precipice, the dark and cockroaches. Especially cockroaches. And Janet Reid.
MadelineAnn's questions:
- How much do you like your steak cooked? Uh, dead?
- Tea, coffee or something else? Oh, please - you know the answer to this: Coffee, with scotch. Often.
- How much was your first pay -packet for, and what was the job? Gawd! Okay, I think around $30 - delivering pizza. I got fired immediately. It's hard to deliver hot pizza when you don't know your way around town.
- Favourite film, and why? Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure - I swear, all they did was film me and my friends while we were in High School - and Hello? Keanu Reeves much?
- How long does it take you to read an average length novel? This is almost embarrassing - around 2 days.
- Was your school co-educational or single sex, and do you think that was the better option? Oh, definitely co-ed. We all had sex more than a single time - wait - did I misinterpret?
- Which emotion do you feel the most easily/most often? Do you enjoy it? Wow - tough one...I'm pretty happy and upbeat, though come across as cynical. I'll go with happy.
- Has anything out-of-the-ordinary wonderful ever happened to you? Can you tell us about it? More than I can say - but most people wouldn't believe me if I told them. And I'd have to kill you, what with working for the government and all.
- Left or right handed? I'm so right-handed, I can't even brush my hair with my left.
- What's your favourite kind of holiday? Anything with a beach, warm weather, water and Cabana Boys bearing endless adult beverages. Or is that an endless bearing of Adult Cabana Boys?
- Do you have a pet, what is it, or if not, why not? Hmm, I'm guessing you mean of the four-legged kind? Yes - Charlie. My Terra-shit. Read my post "Meet Charlie - a Terrorist". He's also the fuzz face mascot on this site. But I do love me some two legged pet as well!
- If there was any one point in history you would like to visit, where and what would it be? Tell us why in a couple of sentences. My thirties - most historical times really suck for women. I like my own "when" and can't imagine me surviving very long in a previous time (that whole "no filter" thing would have been a real problem in, say, the inquisition).
- Tell us the name of someone that has inspired you in your life or craft, living or dead and in a couple of sentences explain why? Oh, wow - my husband. Really - not being "sweet" - it's not in my nature. He always said I should write a book, always loved my writing and encourages me. I couldn't do it without him. In fact, I couldn't do much of anything without him. He's my glue.
- What is your most favourite item of clothing? Why (in a couple of sentences)? Yoga pants. They're comfortable. They look reasonably good. They go everywhere. They don't show sweat/coffee/chocolate or scotch stains. They hold the jiggly parts in.
- Where is your favourite place to write (sofa, bed, bath, desk, library, cafe...etc.,)? My office at home - with music blaring, window open and Charlie at my feet.
- Are you a morning person or a night person? I am soooo NOT a morning person! But, my job requires me to be up at 0330 (GAWD, right?) - so for this part of my life I guess I'm neither!
- Has your life turned out the way you had imagined it would as a child? Um, I don't think I really thought about it then.
- How do you stay motivated when writing your blog/novel/short story/article/poetry etc.? Music, laughter and scotch.
- Are you a planner or a seat of the pants(er)? Definitely a pantster.
- What was the first music record/tape/cd you bought? Rod Stewart - I forget the album.
- What is your favourite Genre to write and read? Why (in a couple of Sentences)? I don't really have a favorite...I guess I lean more towards fiction with some romantic element, though not definitively romance.
- What is your pet Peeve? Stupid people. We all have brains, but few of us use them.
Now, for my nominees: Um - this is hard!
- Susan Adrian at Susan Adrian - she's just too damned funny, especially on Twitter!
- Susan Scott of Garden of Eden - amazing new friend who has an absolutely ethereal way with words.
- L.G. Keitner of Warped Nerdversity - Okay, beside the cool blog name, she has trippy stuff to play with on her blog!
- Sporkchop at ROFL Initiative - He (?) just makes me roll on the floor (and LMFAO)!
- Burkester at Seethethingaboutthatis - Really - you have to ask? She has bright, shiny THINGS and I, oh - grab. Missed, grab again - where was I?
- Kristina Pinto at Mother Running Rampant - Okay - I've been known to run. I've been known to cuss. I've been known to do many things Kristina does, just not as well as her. I have a feeling she may not qualify, as I'm sure she has more than 200 followers, but still...
- My friend and CP, CP! at n00bishdelight - she's cool. I like that.
- Rhondi at Ya Gotta Laugh About It - I swear, she must be my brotha from anotha motha! Except we're both girls. Still, you get the point.
- Lisa Zadok at Whatthefeminist - if I have to explain, you clearly have never met me or read my blog.
- Networked Twins at This May Cost Me an Appliance - okay, the name intrigued me, the snark made me a fan.
- Ummm - honestly, can't find another one. See, I have this problem - I think most people are too pompous and full of shit to write a truly amusing blog. I struggled to find these 10 - and I'm sure there are 10 more out there, let alone 1. But, I almost puked at the sweet, kind, flower and butterfly laden sites I found, so - there ya go.
- How old would you be if you could pick any age? Why?
- When you close your eyes, do you look like the person you see in the mirror or someone else? Who?
- Describe yourself with four words that begin with the same letter. Why did you pick that letter?
- What book has had the greatest impact on you/your life and why?
- What makes you laugh-out-loud-snort-coffee-out-your-nose?
- What makes you squirm with embarrassment?
- (a) Girls: Christian Bale or Hugh Jackman and why? (b) Boys: Halle Berry or Jessica Alba and why?
- All - Bad boy/girl with a heart of gold or Good boy/girl with a wicked streak?
- Tattoos? What and where?
- Best, last drunk?
- If it were up to you, the Wicked Smaht award would go to?
Saturday, April 20, 2013
Research
Have you had to do research for something you're writing? I mean, aside from school or some sort of work related task? How did you go about it? Where did you draw your information? How did you cite it? Did you create a bibliography, using parenthetical notation or some other methodology? Did you even credit to your sources?
I have an ongoing research project for a trilogy I'm working on. I've used Wikipedia, but mainly as a source for articles, journals and books to reference. I've used Google-Maps to print large scale and detailed closeups of the area where a significant portion of the story occurs. I've also downloaded hundreds of pictures of the terrain, flora, fauna and architecture so I can accurately describe the region.
I used the local library to find countless reference books and more journal articles, copying, transcribing and committing to memory the parts I needed. And I have sorely abused my husbands trust in our financial management by ordering book after book after book from Amazon.
And here's what I learned: research can do funny things to the book you think you're writing. I started off with a very clear vision in my head, but the more I researched and made notes, the more the story grew and expanded. The more I thought I cleared plot lines, the more I realized I had to go back and perform MORE research.
Things like not being able to accurately depict how a soldier would act in a specific situation when it's abundantly clear how much society has changed in the past hundred years. It's impossible for someone from our generation to really understand the psyche of a soldier from World War I or even World War II. We are a different country, a different people, a different world.
I didn't realize this until I read the following:
"The hard truth was that human beings had never been slaughtered in such numbers or so rapidly as in this hideous war. Nor with less to show for it. The machine gun, automatic rifles, massed artillery, poison gas, flamethrowers, the airplane, and the tank made a mockery of old-style textbook stratagems and old-style battlefield heroics."
(McCullough, David. Truman. New York: Simon and Schuster, 1992).
I finally realized, research has a means beyond our immediate goals. It transcends the basic need to flush out dialogue, scenery, time, place, etc. It becomes more than the background - it becomes the heart, soul and body of many of our stories. Not all, certainly. Not every story. But for me, it became so much more than my original concept. So much more than I had dreamed of. It became it's own story, and I'm simply the device transcribing it for the masses.
Research. It does some interesting things to your head - and your plot line!
Have a great weekend!
Friday, April 19, 2013
Quality in Writing
Quality n. 1. (degree of) excellence. 2. characteristic, something that is special in a person or thing.
I've worked in the field of Quality for over thirty years. I've been responsible for the quality of valves used in the oil industry, the quality of cans and tubes used for dispensing medicine and the quality of advertising media. The most important job I've had, and my area of specialty, is in the quality of work performed on ships of the U.S. Navy. It's the subject I know best, the job I've held longest and the one that really matters to me.
When I watch a ship we've worked on sail away, all the equipment operating, all the sailors safe and confident in their ability to perform, I derive a deep sense of satisfaction. It's important to me to have a job that matters. So, when it comes to the Quality of the written word, I take inordinate pride in both my own writing and the writing of others. Most of my writing is policy, most of my reading is fiction. Somewhere in between I decided to marry the two and now I spend all my free time trying to become a Quality Writer.
We writers are a funny bunch. We can tear apart a sentence, paragraph, or novel until nothing remains but the shred of meaning that fomented it's creation. We can toss up grammar, punctuation, syntax and plot errors that no one else would think about. And we are our own worst critics - in both the best and worst ways. We recognize Quality, whether we can define it or not. We demand it in others, fight for it in ourselves and cringe at it's absence in both.
Quality in writing is, minimally, the accuracy of the use of those rules we learned in school. Every sentence needs a subject. Semi-colons must have a complete, relatable sentence on either side. Dangling participles will condemn you to hell. And we break many of those rules willingly.
Sometimes we break these rules for "effect;" to convey a mood, pacing or other nuance to the reader. Sometimes we break them without intent, because in the heat of the moment we don't pause to think about the structure of our writing (raises hand guiltily on both counts). Regardless of the violation, do these violations constitute Poor Quality?
I don't believe they do, and here's why: true Quality lies not in the accuracy of the written word. True, if you have enough errors in all of the rules, you will frustrate and lose your reader. If you have significant violations, either in quantity or severity, your writing will lose impact. But if you have reasonably accurate adherance and follow basic principles of plot, pacing, character development and subject, you can have high quality writing concurrent with grammatical error.
And that's the key: Quality writing is about the amalgamation of the words, sentences, punctuation and placement. It's the difficult to describe element that grabs the reader by the gut, makes them care about the subject of the story and keeps them turning the pages. It's the ability to relate to the people or the circumstance that you are writing about. Good writers of all genres may be grammatically accurate, providing "Quality" manuscripts. Great writers, truly Quality writers have developed sufficient style and dialogue skills, world-creating description and compelling plot-lines that allow them to break some of these rules and bend others to keep us moving to the end, leaving us wanting more.
Quality, then, is less a definitive degree of accuracy and more a managing of the intangible elements of our art. It's in the margins, in the nuance and subtext, and in the heart of the writer and the reader.
Go forth, ye writers, and create great Quality of written word!
I've worked in the field of Quality for over thirty years. I've been responsible for the quality of valves used in the oil industry, the quality of cans and tubes used for dispensing medicine and the quality of advertising media. The most important job I've had, and my area of specialty, is in the quality of work performed on ships of the U.S. Navy. It's the subject I know best, the job I've held longest and the one that really matters to me.
When I watch a ship we've worked on sail away, all the equipment operating, all the sailors safe and confident in their ability to perform, I derive a deep sense of satisfaction. It's important to me to have a job that matters. So, when it comes to the Quality of the written word, I take inordinate pride in both my own writing and the writing of others. Most of my writing is policy, most of my reading is fiction. Somewhere in between I decided to marry the two and now I spend all my free time trying to become a Quality Writer.
We writers are a funny bunch. We can tear apart a sentence, paragraph, or novel until nothing remains but the shred of meaning that fomented it's creation. We can toss up grammar, punctuation, syntax and plot errors that no one else would think about. And we are our own worst critics - in both the best and worst ways. We recognize Quality, whether we can define it or not. We demand it in others, fight for it in ourselves and cringe at it's absence in both.
Quality in writing is, minimally, the accuracy of the use of those rules we learned in school. Every sentence needs a subject. Semi-colons must have a complete, relatable sentence on either side. Dangling participles will condemn you to hell. And we break many of those rules willingly.
Sometimes we break these rules for "effect;" to convey a mood, pacing or other nuance to the reader. Sometimes we break them without intent, because in the heat of the moment we don't pause to think about the structure of our writing (raises hand guiltily on both counts). Regardless of the violation, do these violations constitute Poor Quality?
I don't believe they do, and here's why: true Quality lies not in the accuracy of the written word. True, if you have enough errors in all of the rules, you will frustrate and lose your reader. If you have significant violations, either in quantity or severity, your writing will lose impact. But if you have reasonably accurate adherance and follow basic principles of plot, pacing, character development and subject, you can have high quality writing concurrent with grammatical error.
And that's the key: Quality writing is about the amalgamation of the words, sentences, punctuation and placement. It's the difficult to describe element that grabs the reader by the gut, makes them care about the subject of the story and keeps them turning the pages. It's the ability to relate to the people or the circumstance that you are writing about. Good writers of all genres may be grammatically accurate, providing "Quality" manuscripts. Great writers, truly Quality writers have developed sufficient style and dialogue skills, world-creating description and compelling plot-lines that allow them to break some of these rules and bend others to keep us moving to the end, leaving us wanting more.
Quality, then, is less a definitive degree of accuracy and more a managing of the intangible elements of our art. It's in the margins, in the nuance and subtext, and in the heart of the writer and the reader.
Go forth, ye writers, and create great Quality of written word!
“Raise your quality standards as high as you can live with, avoid wasting your time on routine problems, and always try to work as closely as possible at the boundary of your abilities. Do this, because it is the only way of discovering how that boundary should be moved forward.”
― Edsger W. Dijkstra
― Edsger W. Dijkstra
Wednesday, April 17, 2013
On the mountain...
Something different for today...
On the mountain, the clouds lay shadows like giant thumbprints on freshly kneaded bread.
The gray-green fuzz of new growth from spring rains soften and mellow the harsh, rocky outlines; inviting me to walk among the sage and Tecate Cypress, which grows nowhere else.
On the mountain, the air is clean, scented only with the brush and bloom of the season. The sun is strong and harsh, making the dips and curves of the trails that take me into shadow and shade feel cool and damp by comparison.
On the ridges, among the cactus and the scrub oak; the wind scours the rocks into weird hollows and crevices that match the burrows and hives of the insects and reptiles, the bobcat and burrowing owls.
On the trail leading from Dog House Junction near Dulzura, to the peak overlooking the ocean; the Coronado Islands and the mountains of northern Baja, you challenge yourself for words, for air, for water. You climb upward on a twisting, turning, dusty truck road. Unpaved, barely marked, no billboards or phones or people distract you. And you wonder why you are there, on the mountain.
And when you reach the peak, no one waits for you there. No one slaps you on the back, hands you a drink or a banner or a ride back down. No one disturbs you as you turn, silently, your breath having returned only to be taken again at the view of all that lies below you, on the mountain.
Or no view at all, the clouds rolling in from the Pacific; cool grey fingers of moisture and solitude seeking to penetrate this hot, dry place. The lake lies below you, somewhere, in all that mist. The city too, dark spires of buildings poking through incongruously detached from the streets below. The noise and the crowds and the quickening pace of traffic are far below and you sit, the sun setting lower as the seconds slip by, enjoying the feel of sweat drying and heart beating and brain relaxing as you find yourself.
On the mountain.
On the mountain, the clouds lay shadows like giant thumbprints on freshly kneaded bread.
The gray-green fuzz of new growth from spring rains soften and mellow the harsh, rocky outlines; inviting me to walk among the sage and Tecate Cypress, which grows nowhere else.
On the mountain, the air is clean, scented only with the brush and bloom of the season. The sun is strong and harsh, making the dips and curves of the trails that take me into shadow and shade feel cool and damp by comparison.
On the ridges, among the cactus and the scrub oak; the wind scours the rocks into weird hollows and crevices that match the burrows and hives of the insects and reptiles, the bobcat and burrowing owls.
On the trail leading from Dog House Junction near Dulzura, to the peak overlooking the ocean; the Coronado Islands and the mountains of northern Baja, you challenge yourself for words, for air, for water. You climb upward on a twisting, turning, dusty truck road. Unpaved, barely marked, no billboards or phones or people distract you. And you wonder why you are there, on the mountain.
And when you reach the peak, no one waits for you there. No one slaps you on the back, hands you a drink or a banner or a ride back down. No one disturbs you as you turn, silently, your breath having returned only to be taken again at the view of all that lies below you, on the mountain.
Or no view at all, the clouds rolling in from the Pacific; cool grey fingers of moisture and solitude seeking to penetrate this hot, dry place. The lake lies below you, somewhere, in all that mist. The city too, dark spires of buildings poking through incongruously detached from the streets below. The noise and the crowds and the quickening pace of traffic are far below and you sit, the sun setting lower as the seconds slip by, enjoying the feel of sweat drying and heart beating and brain relaxing as you find yourself.
On the mountain. Monday, April 15, 2013
Nihilism and the Boston Marathon...My A to Z post for Tuesday.
I was going to right about being nominated. I was nominated earlier today for a Blog Award. It made me feel good. It made me feel happy. I was excited and couldn't wait to sit down and chat with you, my friends and readers about it.
And then the day got ugly. Ugly with the kind of fear and terror and worry and fright that only senseless harm and destruction can cause. Ugly that someone, singular or plural, would willingly take a wonderful, harmless, dream and turn it into a nightmare.
I only found out about it because I was checking Twitter. And you, my Twitter friends, were so gracious, so moved and hurt and caring and touched by what happened that you stopped talking about books. You stopped talking about writing and finding an agent and getting published and all the ordinary, mundane aggravations of your day. You stopped talking about what you were doing for lunch or whether I should read this book over that or whether publishers who steal from writers should be sent to jail.
You turned to what really mattered, to the news and to the agony and the worry and the sorrow of the people who where there, or who watched it, or who waited; like me, to see if a friend was okay. You turned to what you could do to help, to calm and to share news and prayers and hugs and handkerchiefs. You turned to what a community, electronic or otherwise, really is: a group of people who seek to provide for the greater good of even the least of us.
My thanks and my everlasting friendship and respect go to Susan Adrian (@susan_adrian) who shared a prayer with me for a co-worker running this morning. My thanks to Sarah Wendell (@SmartBitches) who immediately tweeted about donating blood. To Barry Lyga (@barrylyga) who's first thoughts were for the marathoners he flew with from Minnesota the other day. And to the hundreds, if not thousands of others who shared news, grief, hope and prayer for Boston today.
And now? Now I'm just plain mad. I'm freakin' pissed. I'm more pissed than I've been in a long, long time. And let me tell you, this is not a good place for me to be. I'm not a nice person when I'm pissed. I can't even pretend to be nice when I'm pissed. I'm every bit as ugly as the people who did this to us.
I lived in New York during the original terrorist attack on the World Trade Center. I have a "Sailor of the Year" plaque awarded to me almost exactly ten years before the WTC fell. I lost a dear friend, who I had ENCOURAGED to stay in the Navy and seek commissioning, the day the USS COLE was bombed. I have lost more friends, co-workers and fellow service members then I wish to count to the war on terrorism. And I sleep, every night, with a man who is still chased by shadows of things he should never have seen during 22 years serving this country.
And for what? So some Nihilist punks can make us afraid to spend the day challenging our own doubts? So some fucked up punks who don't like their lives, our lives or someone elses lives can take the chicken shit road to perdition? Really? REALLY?
My dictionary defines Nihilism as "a viewpoint that traditional values and beliefs are unfounded and that existence is senseless and useless and that denies any objective ground of truth and especially of moral truths."
It goes on to say that it is also "a doctrine or belief that conditions in the social organization are so bad as to make destruction desirable for its own sake independent of any constructive program or possibility."
And yet, they kill the innocent. They steal our sense of security and destroy the GOOD things we all look forward to. A baseball game. A trip to Disneyland. A good, long run.
Mother Fuckers. They need to spend a little time looking in the mirror. A little time looking deep inside themselves, at the darkness and senselessness of their own actions. But they won't. They're too cowardly to do that. Too frightened. Too small.
And us? What do we need to do? We need to KEEP going to ball games and Disneyland and movie theaters and marathons. We need to keep tweeting and blogging and writing stories and reaching out to each other, though our arms may never be long enough and our only connection is the small bit of energy found between our computers. We need to keep doing what WE want to do, when WE want to do it.
We might be scared. We might be worried. We might be frightened and cowering and looking over our shoulders. But we can't give up. We can never give up. We can never let them change our lives, our hopes or our dreams.
Because if we do, if we give them that least little bit of credibility, they win. And they can never win. Never.
(I should probably apologize for the cursing and the language and the general attitude in this post. But I won't. I can't. I'm still mad. And JulieAnne would be mad at me. Good run, Jules! God bless and I can't wait to see you with your BAA medal around your neck!)
And then the day got ugly. Ugly with the kind of fear and terror and worry and fright that only senseless harm and destruction can cause. Ugly that someone, singular or plural, would willingly take a wonderful, harmless, dream and turn it into a nightmare.
I only found out about it because I was checking Twitter. And you, my Twitter friends, were so gracious, so moved and hurt and caring and touched by what happened that you stopped talking about books. You stopped talking about writing and finding an agent and getting published and all the ordinary, mundane aggravations of your day. You stopped talking about what you were doing for lunch or whether I should read this book over that or whether publishers who steal from writers should be sent to jail.
You turned to what really mattered, to the news and to the agony and the worry and the sorrow of the people who where there, or who watched it, or who waited; like me, to see if a friend was okay. You turned to what you could do to help, to calm and to share news and prayers and hugs and handkerchiefs. You turned to what a community, electronic or otherwise, really is: a group of people who seek to provide for the greater good of even the least of us.
My thanks and my everlasting friendship and respect go to Susan Adrian (@susan_adrian) who shared a prayer with me for a co-worker running this morning. My thanks to Sarah Wendell (@SmartBitches) who immediately tweeted about donating blood. To Barry Lyga (@barrylyga) who's first thoughts were for the marathoners he flew with from Minnesota the other day. And to the hundreds, if not thousands of others who shared news, grief, hope and prayer for Boston today.
And now? Now I'm just plain mad. I'm freakin' pissed. I'm more pissed than I've been in a long, long time. And let me tell you, this is not a good place for me to be. I'm not a nice person when I'm pissed. I can't even pretend to be nice when I'm pissed. I'm every bit as ugly as the people who did this to us.
I lived in New York during the original terrorist attack on the World Trade Center. I have a "Sailor of the Year" plaque awarded to me almost exactly ten years before the WTC fell. I lost a dear friend, who I had ENCOURAGED to stay in the Navy and seek commissioning, the day the USS COLE was bombed. I have lost more friends, co-workers and fellow service members then I wish to count to the war on terrorism. And I sleep, every night, with a man who is still chased by shadows of things he should never have seen during 22 years serving this country.
And for what? So some Nihilist punks can make us afraid to spend the day challenging our own doubts? So some fucked up punks who don't like their lives, our lives or someone elses lives can take the chicken shit road to perdition? Really? REALLY?
My dictionary defines Nihilism as "a viewpoint that traditional values and beliefs are unfounded and that existence is senseless and useless and that denies any objective ground of truth and especially of moral truths."
It goes on to say that it is also "a doctrine or belief that conditions in the social organization are so bad as to make destruction desirable for its own sake independent of any constructive program or possibility."
And yet, they kill the innocent. They steal our sense of security and destroy the GOOD things we all look forward to. A baseball game. A trip to Disneyland. A good, long run.
Mother Fuckers. They need to spend a little time looking in the mirror. A little time looking deep inside themselves, at the darkness and senselessness of their own actions. But they won't. They're too cowardly to do that. Too frightened. Too small.
And us? What do we need to do? We need to KEEP going to ball games and Disneyland and movie theaters and marathons. We need to keep tweeting and blogging and writing stories and reaching out to each other, though our arms may never be long enough and our only connection is the small bit of energy found between our computers. We need to keep doing what WE want to do, when WE want to do it.
We might be scared. We might be worried. We might be frightened and cowering and looking over our shoulders. But we can't give up. We can never give up. We can never let them change our lives, our hopes or our dreams.
Because if we do, if we give them that least little bit of credibility, they win. And they can never win. Never.
(I should probably apologize for the cursing and the language and the general attitude in this post. But I won't. I can't. I'm still mad. And JulieAnne would be mad at me. Good run, Jules! God bless and I can't wait to see you with your BAA medal around your neck!)
Minding the Muse...
Ah, Monday. Day of new beginnings, of a return to the relative peace, rhythm and sanity of work. A day when I get up early to go to the office, while my muse sleeps off another wild weekend.
Really - what is her problem? She's been particularly difficult to live with lately. Staying out all hours of the night. Drinking whiskey like there's no tomorrow. Hitting on all the cute guys and leaving her lipstick smeared on their shirt collars. I'm beginning to think she's a regular tart.
Uh, wait. She is.
My muse is a perpetually intoxicated, scantily clad, overly flirtatious and violently charming bit of wit and humor who scarcely stays in place long enough to be of real help to me. She is much that I used to be (in my younger days) and all that I wish I still were.
She doesn't look very muse-like, either. More like a Valkyrie with a pen instead of a sword. Cuz really, words can do more damage then long, sharp, pointy things.
Yeah - my muse is a bad-ass.
She's short (like me), has dark hair (like me) and green eyes (also like me). She's wicked smart, has a truly evil and childlike sense of humor (think eight year old boy jokes) and refuses to eat anything green or hairy. She has a penchant for black leather, silver piercings and too many tattoos. She likes bad boys, good scotch and warm beds. Other than that, we're nothing alike.
Okay, we both love watching The Voice. Because really, who wouldn't want to be caught between Blake and Adam? But that's as far as our similarities go. Honestly.
Her head never pounds with the thread of regret from an evening too well enjoyed. Her joints never argue with her, regardless of weather or position, no matter the ridiculous pose she tries to hold. She never picks her bra off the lamp shade or her panties off the floor. She never even worries about clean underwear. If she doesn't have any, she goes without.
Yeah - commando style. No wonder the guys love her. Even my husband loves her, because he knows when she's around, I'll loosen up, relax, unwind and have some fun. With him. She does that to me. She kicks me in the head with a story idea so stunning and original, I fly up the stairs and let it rain from my fingers to the keyboard.
When I finally get it committed to paper, I am still so wound up I turn to him for the kind of release only he can grant. The easing of ache and tense muscle and highly awakened, rapidly firing neurons only he can soothe.
Oh, come on - your mind is in the gutter again. Back rub, people, back rub! Geesh - what, you think I'm like my muse? Oh, wait. I am :-) And now I've enthralled Ya'll~ Hooyah!
Really - what is her problem? She's been particularly difficult to live with lately. Staying out all hours of the night. Drinking whiskey like there's no tomorrow. Hitting on all the cute guys and leaving her lipstick smeared on their shirt collars. I'm beginning to think she's a regular tart.
Uh, wait. She is.
My muse is a perpetually intoxicated, scantily clad, overly flirtatious and violently charming bit of wit and humor who scarcely stays in place long enough to be of real help to me. She is much that I used to be (in my younger days) and all that I wish I still were.
She doesn't look very muse-like, either. More like a Valkyrie with a pen instead of a sword. Cuz really, words can do more damage then long, sharp, pointy things.
Yeah - my muse is a bad-ass.
She's short (like me), has dark hair (like me) and green eyes (also like me). She's wicked smart, has a truly evil and childlike sense of humor (think eight year old boy jokes) and refuses to eat anything green or hairy. She has a penchant for black leather, silver piercings and too many tattoos. She likes bad boys, good scotch and warm beds. Other than that, we're nothing alike.
Okay, we both love watching The Voice. Because really, who wouldn't want to be caught between Blake and Adam? But that's as far as our similarities go. Honestly.
Her head never pounds with the thread of regret from an evening too well enjoyed. Her joints never argue with her, regardless of weather or position, no matter the ridiculous pose she tries to hold. She never picks her bra off the lamp shade or her panties off the floor. She never even worries about clean underwear. If she doesn't have any, she goes without.
Yeah - commando style. No wonder the guys love her. Even my husband loves her, because he knows when she's around, I'll loosen up, relax, unwind and have some fun. With him. She does that to me. She kicks me in the head with a story idea so stunning and original, I fly up the stairs and let it rain from my fingers to the keyboard.
When I finally get it committed to paper, I am still so wound up I turn to him for the kind of release only he can grant. The easing of ache and tense muscle and highly awakened, rapidly firing neurons only he can soothe.
Oh, come on - your mind is in the gutter again. Back rub, people, back rub! Geesh - what, you think I'm like my muse? Oh, wait. I am :-) And now I've enthralled Ya'll~ Hooyah!
Friday, April 12, 2013
Keepers of the faith... I dare you not to smile!!!!
Okay, "K" words are hard to find. Seriously.
Have you looked in the dictionary? Seems like most of the entries I find under 'k' are names. Names of plants, birds, places and people.
And I started thinking, aren't names a way of 'keeping' things organized? I mean, aren't they really a device we use to specify which person, place or thing we are referring too?
We have time-keepers, lion-keepers, goal-keepers and house-keepers. There are zoo-keepers, greens-keepers and lighthouse keepers. There are those who refuse to be their brother's keepers and keepers of the faith. Keepers of myth and keepers of promises. My husband is a keeper; I wouldn't let him slip away for anything. He might even feel the same way about me.
Writers are keepers. We are keepers of written lore, of dreams and fantasies, of hope realized and of faith undeterred. We are keepers of the magic that is the human spirit; unselfish, unbroken and unsullied despite rejection and criticism. Because we just keep writing.
How sad would be the world without writers! Writers of prose and poem, of fiction and fact, of words and notes in song and harmony. How said would be the world without the following; written by a keeper of beauty and light, performed by the best word in the whole dictionary; KIDS :
Happy Friday!!! Bet I made you smile!
Have you looked in the dictionary? Seems like most of the entries I find under 'k' are names. Names of plants, birds, places and people.
And I started thinking, aren't names a way of 'keeping' things organized? I mean, aren't they really a device we use to specify which person, place or thing we are referring too?
We have time-keepers, lion-keepers, goal-keepers and house-keepers. There are zoo-keepers, greens-keepers and lighthouse keepers. There are those who refuse to be their brother's keepers and keepers of the faith. Keepers of myth and keepers of promises. My husband is a keeper; I wouldn't let him slip away for anything. He might even feel the same way about me.
Writers are keepers. We are keepers of written lore, of dreams and fantasies, of hope realized and of faith undeterred. We are keepers of the magic that is the human spirit; unselfish, unbroken and unsullied despite rejection and criticism. Because we just keep writing.
How sad would be the world without writers! Writers of prose and poem, of fiction and fact, of words and notes in song and harmony. How said would be the world without the following; written by a keeper of beauty and light, performed by the best word in the whole dictionary; KIDS :
Happy Friday!!! Bet I made you smile!
Thursday, April 11, 2013
"J" is for Mom ...
The letter "J" is the first letter of my mother's name. Although she goes by "Jacky," her full name is Jacqueline Eileen. I've always thought it the most beautiful, sensuous and mysterious name - there was Jacqueline Kennedy, Jacqueline Bisset, and Mom. With her thick, black, curly hair, her deep brown eyes and statuesque figure, she has been and will always be all that I find elegant in my mind.
I'm fortunate that my mother is alive and well, with a busier social calendar than me at age 76. I am fortunate that I can count her one of my dearest friends, a stalwart supporter and a source of not only wisdom, but clear and honest feedback. She's never minced words, parsed phrases or held back on any question I asked her. But she's also never, ever, in my entire life said "I told you so."
I left Mom for many years, wandering the globe while serving in the U.S. Navy and then after, while trying to find my way in the civilian workforce. From 1984 until December of 2005, I was never home for more than a week or two. I missed her. I missed her a lot. I wasn't there for her when she needed me, though she was always there when I needed her.
When my husband was killed in a car accident, she was there.
When I didn't have money for rent, she was there.
When I finally went back to college and earned my B.S., she was there.
And she never made me feel guilty for not being there for her. When my father died. When her father died. And her mother. She never once asked when I was coming home to help her. She never once asked when I was going to be there for her to lean on. She never once said "I told you so."
It took me many years, a few failed attempts at marriage and a helluva lot of late night phone calls for me to realize what an amazing woman she is. How strong and smart she is. How vital and witty and friendly and talented she is.
My Mom's an artist. She paints and she sculpts. She does pottery and needlework. She makes the most amazing Lemon Meringue Pie you ever ate in your life. Not too sweet, not too tart, meringue peaks perfectly golden and curled on the top like a made for TV soft-serve cone. She gave up smoking without a look back, drank one of my boyfriends under the table once while proudly telling him she was the daughter of a Boiler-maker and that was all she knew how to drink. She'll roundly whip your ass at cards, help you with your colicky newborn and drove an eighteen-wheeler for years with Dad.
I got the chance to spend a week in London with her three years ago. She'd already been traveling for three weeks. She was already tired and foot sore. She didn't care. We walked our feet off, got lost, got found, spent a whole day off our "plan" in the Victoria & Albert Museum, ate horrible Chinese food and wonderful Fish and Chips, drank a different beer every night and my only regret of the trip is that we couldn't stay longer. She was game for anything I wanted to see, do, eat, watch.
She's backed every stupid, lame-brained, crazy-assed idea I ever had; welcomed every boyfriend, husband, lover I brought home and still refuses to say "I told you so." She loves to read what I write, reminds me to use a napkin and keep my elbows off the table and doesn't mind (much) when I curse.
Though one time she did say "Barbara, really?"
She's my Mom. She's amazing. And I'm so glad I finally moved back to CA to be with her. Just, not too close.
I love you, Mom!
I'm fortunate that my mother is alive and well, with a busier social calendar than me at age 76. I am fortunate that I can count her one of my dearest friends, a stalwart supporter and a source of not only wisdom, but clear and honest feedback. She's never minced words, parsed phrases or held back on any question I asked her. But she's also never, ever, in my entire life said "I told you so."
I left Mom for many years, wandering the globe while serving in the U.S. Navy and then after, while trying to find my way in the civilian workforce. From 1984 until December of 2005, I was never home for more than a week or two. I missed her. I missed her a lot. I wasn't there for her when she needed me, though she was always there when I needed her.
When my husband was killed in a car accident, she was there.
When I didn't have money for rent, she was there.
When I finally went back to college and earned my B.S., she was there.
And she never made me feel guilty for not being there for her. When my father died. When her father died. And her mother. She never once asked when I was coming home to help her. She never once asked when I was going to be there for her to lean on. She never once said "I told you so."
It took me many years, a few failed attempts at marriage and a helluva lot of late night phone calls for me to realize what an amazing woman she is. How strong and smart she is. How vital and witty and friendly and talented she is.
My Mom's an artist. She paints and she sculpts. She does pottery and needlework. She makes the most amazing Lemon Meringue Pie you ever ate in your life. Not too sweet, not too tart, meringue peaks perfectly golden and curled on the top like a made for TV soft-serve cone. She gave up smoking without a look back, drank one of my boyfriends under the table once while proudly telling him she was the daughter of a Boiler-maker and that was all she knew how to drink. She'll roundly whip your ass at cards, help you with your colicky newborn and drove an eighteen-wheeler for years with Dad.
I got the chance to spend a week in London with her three years ago. She'd already been traveling for three weeks. She was already tired and foot sore. She didn't care. We walked our feet off, got lost, got found, spent a whole day off our "plan" in the Victoria & Albert Museum, ate horrible Chinese food and wonderful Fish and Chips, drank a different beer every night and my only regret of the trip is that we couldn't stay longer. She was game for anything I wanted to see, do, eat, watch.
She's backed every stupid, lame-brained, crazy-assed idea I ever had; welcomed every boyfriend, husband, lover I brought home and still refuses to say "I told you so." She loves to read what I write, reminds me to use a napkin and keep my elbows off the table and doesn't mind (much) when I curse.
Though one time she did say "Barbara, really?"
 |
| Me and Mom! |
I love you, Mom!
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
"I Sing the Body Electric..."
Walt Whitman wrote these words in 1867. He added them to his Magnum Opus; Leaves of Grass, which was first published in 1855.
Funny thing about old Walt - he kept tinkering with those poems until his death in 1892.
Walt knew a thing or two about writing. And about using your Imagination. Think about it: when he wrote those words, electricity was a rarity - a wondrous new phenomenon barely tamed or employed.
Yet Whitman caught on to the wonder of it, the beauty of lightening across a summer sky and the great possibility of taming something so wild. And others caught on to Whitman.
I often wonder where he first found his Inspiration for this and so many other magnificent phrases he strung together. He used words like we use table salt - to add flavor and depth few of us can hope to achieve.
Yet, for all that, he was fired from his job, his writing deemed "obscene" and banned by many of the major retailers of his day.
But he kept writing. He kept revising. He kept editing. And he kept true to his vision.
"I sing the body electric..."
Thrilling, strumming, alive and fiery, the poem gives homage to the liveliness and grace of the human body. Men, women, old, young, at war and at peace, in repose and working. Can you read it and not get caught up in the rhythm? Can you read it and not SEE the words come to life? Can you read it and not want to write like that? I can't. Not a bit.
I give you, then, the beginning and a link to the full version of "I Sing the Body Electric"
Funny thing about old Walt - he kept tinkering with those poems until his death in 1892.
Walt knew a thing or two about writing. And about using your Imagination. Think about it: when he wrote those words, electricity was a rarity - a wondrous new phenomenon barely tamed or employed.
Yet Whitman caught on to the wonder of it, the beauty of lightening across a summer sky and the great possibility of taming something so wild. And others caught on to Whitman.
I often wonder where he first found his Inspiration for this and so many other magnificent phrases he strung together. He used words like we use table salt - to add flavor and depth few of us can hope to achieve.
Yet, for all that, he was fired from his job, his writing deemed "obscene" and banned by many of the major retailers of his day.
But he kept writing. He kept revising. He kept editing. And he kept true to his vision.
"I sing the body electric..."
Thrilling, strumming, alive and fiery, the poem gives homage to the liveliness and grace of the human body. Men, women, old, young, at war and at peace, in repose and working. Can you read it and not get caught up in the rhythm? Can you read it and not SEE the words come to life? Can you read it and not want to write like that? I can't. Not a bit.
Especially this part: "Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march in line with the firemen, and pause, listen, count." Ah! It makes me want to dance and sway and move to the rhythm of the wind! How can you not FEEL these words? How can you not be inspired to at least TRY and write something comparable?
I give you, then, the beginning and a link to the full version of "I Sing the Body Electric"
1
I sing the body electric,
The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them,
They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them,
And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul.
Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves?
And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile the dead?
And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul?
And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul?
2
The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body itself balks account,
That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect.
The expression of the face balks account,
But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face,
It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists,
It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees, dress does not hide him,
The strong sweet quality he has strikes through the cotton and broadcloth,
To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more,
You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side.
The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of women, the folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street, the contour of their shape downwards,
The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims through the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face up and rolls silently to and fro in the heave of the water,
The bending forward and backward of rowers in row-boats, the horseman in his saddle,
Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances,
The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their open dinner-kettles, and their wives waiting,
The female soothing a child, the farmer’s daughter in the garden or cow-yard,
The young fellow hoeing corn, the sleigh-driver driving his six horses through the crowd,
The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown, lusty, good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot at sun-down after work,
The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love and resistance,
The upper-hold and under-hold, the hair rumpled over and blinding the eyes;
The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play of masculine muscle through clean-setting trowsers and waist-straps,
The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell strikes suddenly again, and the listening on the alert,
The natural, perfect, varied attitudes, the bent head, the curv’d neck and the counting;
Such-like I love—I loosen myself, pass freely, am at the mother’s breast with the little child,
Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march in line with the firemen, and pause, listen, count.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Don't be a HATER ...
So, it took me a while to decide what to write about today. "H" is such an interesting letter. Lot's of beautiful words like Hunger, Haunt, Holy, Humane.
And then there's HATE.
One of the ugliest words I know of. Short. Harsh. Mean in every way. It's not just the sound of the word, it's everything it stands for. It's the degree to which it is employed and misused. The very ease with which it trips from our tongues, without regard to it's real agenda.
Too hate any person, place, thing or action is to loathe it's very existence. To abominate it's reality. To despair of it's presence or influence. We use the word itself too freely, to gratuitously. We say we hate something when what we really mean is we dislike it, feel uncomfortable with it or find it painful. We rarely feel such overwhelming revulsion as to really "hate" anyone or thing.
To HATE is to feel a tendency towards deepseated prejudice and resentment, to be willing to do ANYTHING to ensure it's removal.
Elie Wiesel once said "“The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference."
Anais Nin said "Everything with me is either worship and passion or pity and understanding. I hate rarely, though when I hate, I hate murderously."
And Orson Scott Card said it best, without ever using the dreaded "H" word: “In the moment when I truly understand my enemy, understand him well enough to defeat him, then in that very moment I also love him. I think it’s impossible to really understand somebody, what they want, what they believe, and not love them the way they love themselves. And then, in that very moment when I love them.... I destroy them.”
And then there's HATE.
One of the ugliest words I know of. Short. Harsh. Mean in every way. It's not just the sound of the word, it's everything it stands for. It's the degree to which it is employed and misused. The very ease with which it trips from our tongues, without regard to it's real agenda.
Too hate any person, place, thing or action is to loathe it's very existence. To abominate it's reality. To despair of it's presence or influence. We use the word itself too freely, to gratuitously. We say we hate something when what we really mean is we dislike it, feel uncomfortable with it or find it painful. We rarely feel such overwhelming revulsion as to really "hate" anyone or thing.
To HATE is to feel a tendency towards deepseated prejudice and resentment, to be willing to do ANYTHING to ensure it's removal.
Elie Wiesel once said "“The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference."
Anais Nin said "Everything with me is either worship and passion or pity and understanding. I hate rarely, though when I hate, I hate murderously."
And Orson Scott Card said it best, without ever using the dreaded "H" word: “In the moment when I truly understand my enemy, understand him well enough to defeat him, then in that very moment I also love him. I think it’s impossible to really understand somebody, what they want, what they believe, and not love them the way they love themselves. And then, in that very moment when I love them.... I destroy them.”
Monday, April 8, 2013
Finding your "G" Spot while Blogging from A to Z
Aww, come on now - we all have one. We all either know where it is or want to know where it is. Most of us are glad we found it, or hope someone can help us find it. Some of us are intrepid (brave) enough to search for it on our own.
Get yer mind out of the gutter! What do you think I'm talking about? Geography, you wanton pack of lust-bunnies! Geeze, do I have to spell everything out?
Geography is essential in all story telling, whether Sci-Fi, Romance, YA, Memoir. It doesn't matter (unless your writing some do-it-yourself guidebook) what the genre - the character has to live somewhere. The events have to happen somewhere. The journey takes you somewhere.
You may not talk much about the location, or you may give a full and complete description of time, place, culture. You may hint at generalities or be quite specific; down to the type of house, the foliage and the decor. But it's still there, underpinning the events, dialogue and dilemma's that your character(s) are dealing with.
In my first book, geography is key. The MC spends six years traveling the country, looking for something she can't identify, only to find it in the same kind of small town she left at the beginning. My second book, although taking place in a specific location, could really occur anywhere. Some stories need a concise "point" on the map, some don't.
Think about it: would Steinbeck's "Of Mice and Men" worked anywhere other than Weed, California? How about "To Kill a Mockingbird"? No, they needed the precise place and time of their creation to carry the impact of the language, the events and the perspective with which we observe them.
But what about Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants?" Do we really need to know that it occurs along the Ebro River of Spain? No, not so much. In fact, I alway's pictured it somewhere in the arid regions of Northern Africa or the Middle East. Or even in the desert southwest, where I'm from. Because the setting is the backdrop. The geography is important because of the mood it invokes, as given in the title - not the actual map-coordinate.
Now, what if you took the hills away? And the train station? And the bar? Would it be the same story? Not likely. The bar creates the scene, the hills create the since of longing and the train station slows the pace, as both the reader and the characters wait, wait, wait for a train that represents a monumental shift in their relationship and how we perceive them.
Again - geography. Make your G-spot matter!
Many thanks to the gifted and talented Susan Scott for the late night inspiration (dare!) to go with the topic! You can visit her at: http://www.gardenofedenblog.
Get yer mind out of the gutter! What do you think I'm talking about? Geography, you wanton pack of lust-bunnies! Geeze, do I have to spell everything out?
Geography is essential in all story telling, whether Sci-Fi, Romance, YA, Memoir. It doesn't matter (unless your writing some do-it-yourself guidebook) what the genre - the character has to live somewhere. The events have to happen somewhere. The journey takes you somewhere.
You may not talk much about the location, or you may give a full and complete description of time, place, culture. You may hint at generalities or be quite specific; down to the type of house, the foliage and the decor. But it's still there, underpinning the events, dialogue and dilemma's that your character(s) are dealing with.
In my first book, geography is key. The MC spends six years traveling the country, looking for something she can't identify, only to find it in the same kind of small town she left at the beginning. My second book, although taking place in a specific location, could really occur anywhere. Some stories need a concise "point" on the map, some don't.
Think about it: would Steinbeck's "Of Mice and Men" worked anywhere other than Weed, California? How about "To Kill a Mockingbird"? No, they needed the precise place and time of their creation to carry the impact of the language, the events and the perspective with which we observe them.
But what about Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants?" Do we really need to know that it occurs along the Ebro River of Spain? No, not so much. In fact, I alway's pictured it somewhere in the arid regions of Northern Africa or the Middle East. Or even in the desert southwest, where I'm from. Because the setting is the backdrop. The geography is important because of the mood it invokes, as given in the title - not the actual map-coordinate.
Now, what if you took the hills away? And the train station? And the bar? Would it be the same story? Not likely. The bar creates the scene, the hills create the since of longing and the train station slows the pace, as both the reader and the characters wait, wait, wait for a train that represents a monumental shift in their relationship and how we perceive them.
Again - geography. Make your G-spot matter!
Many thanks to the gifted and talented Susan Scott for the late night inspiration (dare!) to go with the topic! You can visit her at: http://www.gardenofedenblog.
Saturday, April 6, 2013
"E" is for Effect...And most people missed it!
Yesterday, as part of the A to Z blog challenge; I purposely skipped the letter "E" and went straight to "F" - and no one noticed. At least, no one said that they noticed. I even tweeted about it, with zero comments.
So, either no-one's reading or no one thought enough about it to say anything. Maybe you thought I had a temporary break from usual pedantic logical self. Not too far fetched, if you really know me, but not the case.
Maybe you found my Fabulous Friday of Musical Fare more entertaining - also unlikely. My Blogger Dashboard shows plenty of traffic yesterday. My Twitter Feed indicates some of you really do read my blather. So what gives?
I can only think you found other fodder on the blogosphere more tempting and comment worthy. And that's OK! I pulled my alphabetical slight of hand for effect, not for numbers and feedback. Because really, as writers, words and punctuation are the only means we have to deliver effect.
I worked with a critique partner a little while ago who didn't get my use of either - I had to drop her eventually. I have my own style, my own means of pacing both the scene and the story, and she was a grammar/punctuation virtuoso who could not cope with my purposeful warping of style. Don't get me wrong, she was very nice, very intelligent. I did garner some excellent feedback from her, but she absolutely could not comprehend why someone would voluntarily bend or break the laws of grammar.
Here's an example. This is a paragraph from my latest WIP, as I wrote it:
Hopefully, at this point your stomach is clenched, your breathing a little faster and you are seriously emoting with the main character.
Now, here is the same paragraph, as she corrected it:
I grab the trash can and start emptying the guacamole. It sticks to the bowl, congealed and solid. I bang the bowl against the side of the can, but it won’t loosen. I throw the bowl in the trash. I pick up the tuna casserole looking at the glass dish it came in. I throw it, too in the trash, on top of the guacamole. I grab the mac and cheese and the salad, then the soup and the pie and finally the jam and the mayonnaise, throwing all in the trash with the other items.
So, either no-one's reading or no one thought enough about it to say anything. Maybe you thought I had a temporary break from usual pedantic logical self. Not too far fetched, if you really know me, but not the case.
Maybe you found my Fabulous Friday of Musical Fare more entertaining - also unlikely. My Blogger Dashboard shows plenty of traffic yesterday. My Twitter Feed indicates some of you really do read my blather. So what gives?
I can only think you found other fodder on the blogosphere more tempting and comment worthy. And that's OK! I pulled my alphabetical slight of hand for effect, not for numbers and feedback. Because really, as writers, words and punctuation are the only means we have to deliver effect.
I worked with a critique partner a little while ago who didn't get my use of either - I had to drop her eventually. I have my own style, my own means of pacing both the scene and the story, and she was a grammar/punctuation virtuoso who could not cope with my purposeful warping of style. Don't get me wrong, she was very nice, very intelligent. I did garner some excellent feedback from her, but she absolutely could not comprehend why someone would voluntarily bend or break the laws of grammar.
Here's an example. This is a paragraph from my latest WIP, as I wrote it:
I grab the trash can and start emptying the guac into it. It sticks to the bowl, congealed. Solid. I bang it against the side of the can, but it won’t come out. I throw the entire bowl in the trash. I grab the tuna casserole, look at the glass dish it came in and throw it in the trash on top of the guacamole. I grab the mac and cheese, the salad, the soup and the pie and the jam and the mayonnaise and I throw it all in the trash.
I hear glass breaking and I’ve missed the can and I’m standing in a pile of broken glass and food and bits of foil and plastic wrap and I’m throwing everything in the trash and the tea kettle’s whistling and I can’t stop yelling, screaming, cursing, calling him names and swearing at him and asking him why? Why did he leave me? Where did he go? Why couldn’t he take me with him? How could he leave me? How could he go away and leave me? Why can’t he come back? What do I do now? What the hell am I supposed to do now? How could he do this? How could he be so fucking selfish? I hate him! I hate him! I don’t care, I don’t care, I don’t care if I never see him again. Where is he? Where is he? Oh God, I need him and he’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone.
Now, here is the same paragraph, as she corrected it:
I grab the trash can and start emptying the guacamole. It sticks to the bowl, congealed and solid. I bang the bowl against the side of the can, but it won’t loosen. I throw the bowl in the trash. I pick up the tuna casserole looking at the glass dish it came in. I throw it, too in the trash, on top of the guacamole. I grab the mac and cheese and the salad, then the soup and the pie and finally the jam and the mayonnaise, throwing all in the trash with the other items.
I hear the sound of glass breaking. I’ve missed the can and now I’m standing in a pile of broken glass. Food and bits of foil and plastic wrap lie all around me. I was throwing everything in the trash and the tea kettle started whistling. I couldn't stop yelling. I was screaming and cursing. I was calling Jamie names and swearing at him. I was asking him why he left me? Asking where he went and why couldn’t I go with him?
I wanted to know how he could have left me and why he couldn't return to me. I kept asking what I should do now? I hated him at this moment. I didn't care that I would never see him again, but at the same moment I knew all I wanted was to see him again.
A little flat, right? I mean, not horribly - you still get the intent and the drama, but you lose that emotional gut-check on her sanitized version. And at this point in the story, I need you to have that feeling. I need you to be completely absorbed in the main character's emotions. The story doesn't work without it.
This is the difference when you write for effect - when you consciously choose specific grammar, syntax and punctuation to create the emotional mood or element the story needs.
In this case, I needed the reader to connect to the main character, to understand the raw power and conflicting emotions that terrible loss can bring to bear. Cleaning up the spelling and adding proper style elements doesn't get us there. We have to write for effect. All. The. Time.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
D is for Dictionary...
This one is too easy, but it's so important I had to post it:
1. If you don't have a dictionary, buy one.
2. If you don't use a dictionary, start.
3. If you haven't explored your dictionary, do so.
Part and parcel of the same topic:
A. Read your own work. How many times do you use the same verb, adverb, modifier to describe and detail something in your story? Learn what your "catch" words are and find alternatives. Yes, this is more in line with Thesaurus use, but learning NEW words and how to use them will make you a better writer.
B. What are your "problem" words? I know that when the story hits me strong and I'm moved by the muse, the words fly from my fingers too quickly to catch the correct use. My problem words are "there/they're/their;" "to/too," "staid/stayed." I have others, but this is the short list. I keep them posted above my desk, adding to the list as I discover additional words I frequently misuse or misspell. Awareness of those words helps me make fewer errors when I am writing and makes me a better editor as well.
Our language is so complex, dynamic and beautiful in it's variety, it's a shame to limit ourselves to the same stale expressions over and over. Try something new. You just might like it!
1. If you don't have a dictionary, buy one.
2. If you don't use a dictionary, start.
3. If you haven't explored your dictionary, do so.
Part and parcel of the same topic:
A. Read your own work. How many times do you use the same verb, adverb, modifier to describe and detail something in your story? Learn what your "catch" words are and find alternatives. Yes, this is more in line with Thesaurus use, but learning NEW words and how to use them will make you a better writer.
B. What are your "problem" words? I know that when the story hits me strong and I'm moved by the muse, the words fly from my fingers too quickly to catch the correct use. My problem words are "there/they're/their;" "to/too," "staid/stayed." I have others, but this is the short list. I keep them posted above my desk, adding to the list as I discover additional words I frequently misuse or misspell. Awareness of those words helps me make fewer errors when I am writing and makes me a better editor as well.
Our language is so complex, dynamic and beautiful in it's variety, it's a shame to limit ourselves to the same stale expressions over and over. Try something new. You just might like it!
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