This is my third go at writing a post, so clearly I have nothing to say. Well, not true. What is true is that I have too much to say, but nothing of interest.
That's the problem with maintaining a blog in which one offers nothing to readers. It gets dull in a hurry. My son had a blog, but he quit posting to it three months ago. What's depressing is that I have six blogs and if I add up the visits for all six they fall short of my son's blog - and he isn't even posting anymore.
This blog was started as a place for me to write what I was thinking and feeling. That worked great while I had no followers. Then people began to follow and I suppose that put some kind of pressure on what I would post about. But I don't follow routine very well and I can be all over the place in what I write. But through it all I seldom write anything meaningful. That's just not my style.
In many ways this has been a rough year. No big deal. The past seven have been quite bad. But financially this has been the worst. We lost the house and we only made the rent for November because Son gave us some of his saxophone money. We have no money for food or medicine, which is a shame because I will need to replace my blood pressure medicine in about two or three weeks. It probably isn't going to happen. Had to cancel my echogram for my heart, too. I may even cancel my appointment with the heart doctor. Already canceled the dentist appointment. The missing filling will have to wait.
So, it's been rough. But I know of others who have had it worse and are having it worse. Not that I feel any better about that, but I don't want to give the impression I am unaware that there is plenty of misery to go around.
At the same time this has been the most prolific twelve months of my writing life. I did some investigation and found I have written more than a million words in the past 12 months. If you're interested in the details visit The Great Sea (see sidebar for link).
So with the bad comes the good. But just as I think I'm as tired as I can be, I find that that just isn't true. As low as we fall it still isn't the bottom. Perhaps that should be encouraging, but I must confess that it is not.
Oh, well.
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
Expanding, or Just Blowing Up
I've been productive with my writing over the past six weeks. More than 138,000-words written in five stories, one poem, and one Evil Editor exercise (see September 20, Pirate Speak Exercise). The shortest piece was the poem, 192-words. The longest was a novel, Shadow People, 64,664-words. My current work, The Sweet Girl, has a slight chance of passing Shadow People. It's currently at 60,099-words. I'm finishing it up tonight or tomorrow.
Been thinking of trying my hand at something else: drawing. It's something I have thought about often over the years. I really wish I could draw as well as I desire. The problem I have had is that to draw as well as I desire requires years of practice. (How do you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice. Practice. Practice.) In order to achieve my goal I have to accept my first efforts will hardly resemble what I ultimately want. I have the same problem with my bass. Damn, I wish I could play it, and play it like a pro. But that requires practice. And that means time.
I suppose it comes from being older, but lacking the wisdom of real age.
But I have this artist's sketchpad. Bought it years ago with a book on how to draw cartoon figures. Actually filled in a page before I became disgusted with my efforts and set it aside. Too impatient. The four drawings of men are supposed to be the same man, and the four drawings of women are supposed to be the same woman. The woman wasn't supposed to look like some ditz, either.
So I'm tempted to give drawing another go, despite the fact that my handsome men and beautiful women are going to look like the images above. But if I could only draw, even to the point where I could actually repeat an image so that it was clear it was the same person, I could generate my comic strips: Decca the Brave, about a fat and lazy horse (based on horses Spouse and I used to own); Hotshot Reporter, about an idiot small town newspaper reporter who was so tall you never got to see his head (based on my time as such). I also might be able to draw images for my Hero stories.
The problem with trying to draw, or play the bass, is that it has to take time away from my writing, and that is going so well right now I hate to do anything to jeopardizing it. Still, I'm feeling creative. Maybe now is another good time to at least think about it. I'm great at thinking about things. I do it better than anyone. Pity I can't get paid for that.
Been thinking of trying my hand at something else: drawing. It's something I have thought about often over the years. I really wish I could draw as well as I desire. The problem I have had is that to draw as well as I desire requires years of practice. (How do you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice. Practice. Practice.) In order to achieve my goal I have to accept my first efforts will hardly resemble what I ultimately want. I have the same problem with my bass. Damn, I wish I could play it, and play it like a pro. But that requires practice. And that means time.
I suppose it comes from being older, but lacking the wisdom of real age.
But I have this artist's sketchpad. Bought it years ago with a book on how to draw cartoon figures. Actually filled in a page before I became disgusted with my efforts and set it aside. Too impatient. The four drawings of men are supposed to be the same man, and the four drawings of women are supposed to be the same woman. The woman wasn't supposed to look like some ditz, either.
So I'm tempted to give drawing another go, despite the fact that my handsome men and beautiful women are going to look like the images above. But if I could only draw, even to the point where I could actually repeat an image so that it was clear it was the same person, I could generate my comic strips: Decca the Brave, about a fat and lazy horse (based on horses Spouse and I used to own); Hotshot Reporter, about an idiot small town newspaper reporter who was so tall you never got to see his head (based on my time as such). I also might be able to draw images for my Hero stories.
The problem with trying to draw, or play the bass, is that it has to take time away from my writing, and that is going so well right now I hate to do anything to jeopardizing it. Still, I'm feeling creative. Maybe now is another good time to at least think about it. I'm great at thinking about things. I do it better than anyone. Pity I can't get paid for that.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Making and Recalling History
Today's topic is writing assignments. I came up with it because I used to write for the Evil Editor blog a lot more than I do now. There are weekly writing assignments, generally in the 200-300 word length category. These are good exercises for learning to say something in few words. I don't submit so often anymore because there's so much going on right now I don't have time to catch the inspiration and write . How I miss the days of youth when I seemingly had time for everything I enjoyed. They days were longer or something.
I remember we would occasionally get writing assignments in school. When the assignment was like a research paper I tended to wait until the last moment and toss together something to get a grade. When the assignments were creative in scope I would get all excited and rush to begin writing at every moment.
Mrs. SJ would announce to the class after story time: Okay. Now I want each of you to write a story about a little dog who gets separated from his family. Print. Use a whole sheet of paper. Turn it in tomorrow morning.
Most of the class would react with, "Oh, cr*p!" I would be excited.
The following morning papers would be handed forward to the front of the room. Some students wrote in extra large letters. Some didn't even try. They only used a half sheet. A few would continue to a second page. Mine were always five to ten pages.
I love to tell stories. I love make-believe. I love relating historical events. J.R.R.Tolkien wrote that he "much prefers history, true or feigned" over allegory. At my age I find I much agree with him. Allegory is a hammer beating upon a nail. It forces an idea into the thoughts of its readers. History is a park. There are paths leading to ponds, shrubs, wildlife, and a host of other things. Visitors are free to walk these paths and spend as much time admiring the beauty as they will. Nothing is forced. It is just there.
It's why, I suppose, I spend so much time relating my past on this blog. That is real history. Those things really did happen. And the people who were with me really existed. It seems a shame and even a waste to let those memories fade away without being shared. Those people who shared those experiences with me were important people. Many are no longer here. They shouldn't be forgotten. And often, I am the only one remaining who remembers what happened. And so I tell the stories. I try to keep them alive. Stephen. Daddy. Grandmother. These were people worth knowing.
The problem, of course, with my method of relating these stories is I follow no pattern. The timeline is not set. One day I may relate something from my early twenties, and the next I'm five years old again. Then it's back to junior high. The result - over time - of this wild and undisciplined approach is that I'm not always sure what I have, or have not, written about. And the history of this blog is now large enough that I don't always have the energy to search back to see. Between that and just being older I find myself repeating things. I expect in time I'll be some blabbering old fool who continues to relate stories despite not even having an audience. Saw a few of them at the place where Daddy's mother wound up. Old people sitting in wheelchairs mumbling to themselves.
Still recall the time I left work in the middle of the day and drove to see Grandma. It was on a whim. I had never been close to Daddy's mother. She was so prim and proper about her house. She wasn't a children's grandmother. She was an adult's grandmother, so I was only really getting to know her when she died.
I entered the place not even sure where I would find her. By chance she was sitting in a wheelchair in the main hall. Her head was down and her arms were folded across her lap. When I got her attention she perked her 6'0" frame up and was all animated. She made sure to tell every person who came by that her grandson had come to visit. This was after Daddy had died. Daddy had been her only child.
I didn't stay long. The place was so awful I felt uncomfortable. So we talked and then I left. Mother visited Grandma the next day. Grandma complained that no one had been to visit her in more than a week. She didn't remember that I had been there.
For a long time that bothered me. Then I realized something. When one is in a prison the days tend to meld together into one. Monday might just as well be Thursday. Spring is summer and fall is winter. Morning or evening. What does it matter? The food sucks. The atmosphere sucks. No place to go. Nothing to do. This wasn't a place to live. It was a place to die. No wonder she remembered it wrong. She probably remembered I had been there, but had since taken so many naps it felt like days had passed. Time had no meaning for that poor old lady in a nursing home prison. Except that it went on forever.
Was that my future I saw? Or, as I dearly hope, will I just go to sleep on my birthday one year - and wake up to see Daddy and Stephen waiting to usher me home?
What a tale that will be! Except I won't be able to tell it to you. You'll have to wait to get to heaven to hear it. Kind of worth living for. Don't you think? [smiles]
I remember we would occasionally get writing assignments in school. When the assignment was like a research paper I tended to wait until the last moment and toss together something to get a grade. When the assignments were creative in scope I would get all excited and rush to begin writing at every moment.
Mrs. SJ would announce to the class after story time: Okay. Now I want each of you to write a story about a little dog who gets separated from his family. Print. Use a whole sheet of paper. Turn it in tomorrow morning.
Most of the class would react with, "Oh, cr*p!" I would be excited.
The following morning papers would be handed forward to the front of the room. Some students wrote in extra large letters. Some didn't even try. They only used a half sheet. A few would continue to a second page. Mine were always five to ten pages.
I love to tell stories. I love make-believe. I love relating historical events. J.R.R.Tolkien wrote that he "much prefers history, true or feigned" over allegory. At my age I find I much agree with him. Allegory is a hammer beating upon a nail. It forces an idea into the thoughts of its readers. History is a park. There are paths leading to ponds, shrubs, wildlife, and a host of other things. Visitors are free to walk these paths and spend as much time admiring the beauty as they will. Nothing is forced. It is just there.
It's why, I suppose, I spend so much time relating my past on this blog. That is real history. Those things really did happen. And the people who were with me really existed. It seems a shame and even a waste to let those memories fade away without being shared. Those people who shared those experiences with me were important people. Many are no longer here. They shouldn't be forgotten. And often, I am the only one remaining who remembers what happened. And so I tell the stories. I try to keep them alive. Stephen. Daddy. Grandmother. These were people worth knowing.
The problem, of course, with my method of relating these stories is I follow no pattern. The timeline is not set. One day I may relate something from my early twenties, and the next I'm five years old again. Then it's back to junior high. The result - over time - of this wild and undisciplined approach is that I'm not always sure what I have, or have not, written about. And the history of this blog is now large enough that I don't always have the energy to search back to see. Between that and just being older I find myself repeating things. I expect in time I'll be some blabbering old fool who continues to relate stories despite not even having an audience. Saw a few of them at the place where Daddy's mother wound up. Old people sitting in wheelchairs mumbling to themselves.
Still recall the time I left work in the middle of the day and drove to see Grandma. It was on a whim. I had never been close to Daddy's mother. She was so prim and proper about her house. She wasn't a children's grandmother. She was an adult's grandmother, so I was only really getting to know her when she died.
I entered the place not even sure where I would find her. By chance she was sitting in a wheelchair in the main hall. Her head was down and her arms were folded across her lap. When I got her attention she perked her 6'0" frame up and was all animated. She made sure to tell every person who came by that her grandson had come to visit. This was after Daddy had died. Daddy had been her only child.
I didn't stay long. The place was so awful I felt uncomfortable. So we talked and then I left. Mother visited Grandma the next day. Grandma complained that no one had been to visit her in more than a week. She didn't remember that I had been there.
For a long time that bothered me. Then I realized something. When one is in a prison the days tend to meld together into one. Monday might just as well be Thursday. Spring is summer and fall is winter. Morning or evening. What does it matter? The food sucks. The atmosphere sucks. No place to go. Nothing to do. This wasn't a place to live. It was a place to die. No wonder she remembered it wrong. She probably remembered I had been there, but had since taken so many naps it felt like days had passed. Time had no meaning for that poor old lady in a nursing home prison. Except that it went on forever.
Was that my future I saw? Or, as I dearly hope, will I just go to sleep on my birthday one year - and wake up to see Daddy and Stephen waiting to usher me home?
What a tale that will be! Except I won't be able to tell it to you. You'll have to wait to get to heaven to hear it. Kind of worth living for. Don't you think? [smiles]
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Searching For a Way
The opening to The Animal Kingdom is getting a bit of a roast over at Evil Editor. Click here if you're interested in joining the fun. Personally, I hadn't expected that large a response.
I'm not getting anything done. Think about doing things. A lot. Just don't actually do anything.
Guess I'm just looking for a way to get away. Not quite start over, but I'm looking for a place. Some place I'm not sure I've ever been. I remember a conversation with a counselor back nearly thirty years ago. We were discussing the likelihood that I had thrown away my salvation. During the talk I remember her asking me:
What is it that you want? I mean, really want? If you could have anything, what would it be?
I want to be happy again.
Again? Bevie, when have you ever really been happy? Can you tell me?
I didn't answer because I couldn't think of a time which qualified. But isn't that true for everyone? It seems everyone's life is so filled with sadness. None of us have a monopoly on it. But sometimes we just want to get away, don't we?
So I know what my desired solution is: I want to get away. This, of course, begs the question, Just what is it that I want to get away from?
Something I have believed far too strongly for far too long: That I can't.
Can't what? Anything, really. I mean, positive thinking is all well and good, but sooner or later, if one is to continue it, one must succeed at something worthwhile. That's not to say I've never done anything. There have been lots of things I have done for which others have commended me. But that's their idea of success. Not mine.
I have always wanted to entertain. Back when I was young and in school, I recall telling my classmates that the greatest gift anyone can give another is laughter. In laughing, one renews their strength to fight the battles which must be fought on another day. I would tell them, "I can't make things better for people, but if I can make them forget their troubles long enough for them to renew their strength I will have truly accomplished something."
My goal was to live a life in which I did that. Earn my living from it, even. I'm on the backside of my life. Even if I live to be one hundred I'm closer to the end than the beginning. And yet I have done none of the things I wanted to do. I have lived my life in fear of things which were not even fearful. I still do. The enemies of my soul are not others, or even life's circumstances. They are the thoughts in my own head. The feelings and beliefs which have become integral to my life. The familiarity of failure becomes my security blanket. I fear success because it is such an unknown. I have no idea how to live a successful life.
Of all my faults, this is the one which I fight against passing on to my Son. I am partially successful, I think. He asked if he could try out for band. I told him I thought that was a wonderful idea. He said he wanted to play the tuba. I said that was great! (It wasn't the instrument I was hoping for, but I didn't tell him that.) He has become very good at tuba playing. His grandmother loaned us a keyboard. He began teaching himself to play it. I told him how impressed I am. (He's getting pretty good, even without formal instruction.) Now he wants to add the saxophone to his repertoire. I said that's good, but we can't afford it right now. Undaunted, he is saving his money and offering his own things up to sell in our big sale which is due in three weeks. He's already made some money and has over $400 in a savings account.
I don't know what all of my Son's dreams are. It doesn't matter. What matters is that he believes he can achieve them if he goes after them. The question I have is this: Is it possible to teach something I don't know for myself? I'm hoping it is, because if not, then Son is going to have to learn this lesson from someone else. In my life, I can't honestly say I believe it to be true. What a waste of a life.
I'm not getting anything done. Think about doing things. A lot. Just don't actually do anything.
Guess I'm just looking for a way to get away. Not quite start over, but I'm looking for a place. Some place I'm not sure I've ever been. I remember a conversation with a counselor back nearly thirty years ago. We were discussing the likelihood that I had thrown away my salvation. During the talk I remember her asking me:
What is it that you want? I mean, really want? If you could have anything, what would it be?
I want to be happy again.
Again? Bevie, when have you ever really been happy? Can you tell me?
I didn't answer because I couldn't think of a time which qualified. But isn't that true for everyone? It seems everyone's life is so filled with sadness. None of us have a monopoly on it. But sometimes we just want to get away, don't we?
So I know what my desired solution is: I want to get away. This, of course, begs the question, Just what is it that I want to get away from?
Something I have believed far too strongly for far too long: That I can't.
Can't what? Anything, really. I mean, positive thinking is all well and good, but sooner or later, if one is to continue it, one must succeed at something worthwhile. That's not to say I've never done anything. There have been lots of things I have done for which others have commended me. But that's their idea of success. Not mine.
I have always wanted to entertain. Back when I was young and in school, I recall telling my classmates that the greatest gift anyone can give another is laughter. In laughing, one renews their strength to fight the battles which must be fought on another day. I would tell them, "I can't make things better for people, but if I can make them forget their troubles long enough for them to renew their strength I will have truly accomplished something."
My goal was to live a life in which I did that. Earn my living from it, even. I'm on the backside of my life. Even if I live to be one hundred I'm closer to the end than the beginning. And yet I have done none of the things I wanted to do. I have lived my life in fear of things which were not even fearful. I still do. The enemies of my soul are not others, or even life's circumstances. They are the thoughts in my own head. The feelings and beliefs which have become integral to my life. The familiarity of failure becomes my security blanket. I fear success because it is such an unknown. I have no idea how to live a successful life.
Of all my faults, this is the one which I fight against passing on to my Son. I am partially successful, I think. He asked if he could try out for band. I told him I thought that was a wonderful idea. He said he wanted to play the tuba. I said that was great! (It wasn't the instrument I was hoping for, but I didn't tell him that.) He has become very good at tuba playing. His grandmother loaned us a keyboard. He began teaching himself to play it. I told him how impressed I am. (He's getting pretty good, even without formal instruction.) Now he wants to add the saxophone to his repertoire. I said that's good, but we can't afford it right now. Undaunted, he is saving his money and offering his own things up to sell in our big sale which is due in three weeks. He's already made some money and has over $400 in a savings account.
I don't know what all of my Son's dreams are. It doesn't matter. What matters is that he believes he can achieve them if he goes after them. The question I have is this: Is it possible to teach something I don't know for myself? I'm hoping it is, because if not, then Son is going to have to learn this lesson from someone else. In my life, I can't honestly say I believe it to be true. What a waste of a life.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Stories, Heroes, Writing, Critiques
Supposed to talk about writing assignments today. Nothing new to say about them save that Quest is moving along nicely. Too nicely, in a way. I tried writing with Spouse and Son offering up one interruption after another. It's hard to keep focus when one is being inundated with a host of questions. I wound up skipping a mess of idea and not thinking others through.
The stories are posting on Legions of On-Line Super Heroes. If you haven't visited the blog, or haven't in a couple of days, I highly recommend it for good light reading. Fun reading. There are five stories up now, with others scheduled for Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Monday. There's some very good writing there. And my stuff is there, too.
What a pity there's no money in blogging. I'd be doing just fine. But then, we all blog. How does that phrase of W.S.Gilbert go?
When everyone is somebody, then no one's anybody.
Been invited to bring something to read to tonight's Writers' Group. There was only a single submission to be critiqued. I gave it my best, but the writer happens to write a lot better than I, and it's Chapter Eight of a story which I haven't read before. I thought about bringing what I have of Quest, but as Quest is a sequel to Apprentice, and this group has already reviewed Apprentice, I thought to bring something new. So, I'm bringing my opening to The Animal Kingdom. It's only six pages.
The Animal Kingdom is one of my unfinished works. The premise is this:
There is an alternative reality where animals from this world can go to get away from humans and the struggles there are to survive here. How the journey is made is unknown to humans, but animals can make the journey easily.
The Animal Kingdom is a kingdom of peace. No animal preys on another for food. Those which feel the need must return to our world in order to get their meals. And therein is the story. A hog is found slaughtered near the border of the cats. Eschae, the Kingdom Mare, calls upon Sparks, her German Shepherd inspector, to solve the crime before the kingdom is undone and all predators must be banned.
I like the idea. I even remember a lot of what I wanted to do with it. Just never finished it. If there's time at the meeting tonight I'll present it and see what everyone thinks of it. Maybe I will finish it after all.
Other than that, not much going on. Mostly recovered from my cold. Slight headache today with slight congestion. But only a few coughs.
Take care.
The stories are posting on Legions of On-Line Super Heroes. If you haven't visited the blog, or haven't in a couple of days, I highly recommend it for good light reading. Fun reading. There are five stories up now, with others scheduled for Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Monday. There's some very good writing there. And my stuff is there, too.
What a pity there's no money in blogging. I'd be doing just fine. But then, we all blog. How does that phrase of W.S.Gilbert go?
When everyone is somebody, then no one's anybody.
Been invited to bring something to read to tonight's Writers' Group. There was only a single submission to be critiqued. I gave it my best, but the writer happens to write a lot better than I, and it's Chapter Eight of a story which I haven't read before. I thought about bringing what I have of Quest, but as Quest is a sequel to Apprentice, and this group has already reviewed Apprentice, I thought to bring something new. So, I'm bringing my opening to The Animal Kingdom. It's only six pages.
The Animal Kingdom is one of my unfinished works. The premise is this:
There is an alternative reality where animals from this world can go to get away from humans and the struggles there are to survive here. How the journey is made is unknown to humans, but animals can make the journey easily.
The Animal Kingdom is a kingdom of peace. No animal preys on another for food. Those which feel the need must return to our world in order to get their meals. And therein is the story. A hog is found slaughtered near the border of the cats. Eschae, the Kingdom Mare, calls upon Sparks, her German Shepherd inspector, to solve the crime before the kingdom is undone and all predators must be banned.
I like the idea. I even remember a lot of what I wanted to do with it. Just never finished it. If there's time at the meeting tonight I'll present it and see what everyone thinks of it. Maybe I will finish it after all.
Other than that, not much going on. Mostly recovered from my cold. Slight headache today with slight congestion. But only a few coughs.
Take care.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Works in Progress
Today is "Writing Assignments" day. Originally, it mean Evil Editor exercises. That was when I didn't really have any other writing projects on my active burners. In fact, last fall my active burners were suffering from a noticeable loss of fuel supply.
Since the end of last October, when I began blogging with a single blog, A Voice in the Wind, things have changed, and changed again. The presence of new friends to fill the void which had become far larger than I realized has thawed the flow of fuel to my heart and mind and stories are once again jumping about like the sunfish on Little Wabanna Lake at dusk.
Only I am not so foolish as to try writing them all right away. There were a couple of ideas I got and talked about writing too soon. One was The Power of Music, but I jumped the gun on that one. It needed to "cook" a bit more before taking it out. So right now I've only got two active writing assignments - self-assigned. One is the write the query for Traitor. I've got a rough copy right now. I'll rework it after I finish my final reading. The other is Quest, which is my sequel to Apprentice. That was begun yesterday, but I got nothing done on it today. Too many interruptions. (Spouse was home. Sump pump burned out and the basement began to flood. I've been sick for three days. Put together three boxes of books.)
Got some potentially good news today, too. Not ready to post about it, though. One may turn out to be nothing and the other could turn out to be a hundred times worse than good if things go bad. Isn't that just the way life is right now? All new endeavors have become high risk.
Cest La Vie.
Since the end of last October, when I began blogging with a single blog, A Voice in the Wind, things have changed, and changed again. The presence of new friends to fill the void which had become far larger than I realized has thawed the flow of fuel to my heart and mind and stories are once again jumping about like the sunfish on Little Wabanna Lake at dusk.
Only I am not so foolish as to try writing them all right away. There were a couple of ideas I got and talked about writing too soon. One was The Power of Music, but I jumped the gun on that one. It needed to "cook" a bit more before taking it out. So right now I've only got two active writing assignments - self-assigned. One is the write the query for Traitor. I've got a rough copy right now. I'll rework it after I finish my final reading. The other is Quest, which is my sequel to Apprentice. That was begun yesterday, but I got nothing done on it today. Too many interruptions. (Spouse was home. Sump pump burned out and the basement began to flood. I've been sick for three days. Put together three boxes of books.)
Got some potentially good news today, too. Not ready to post about it, though. One may turn out to be nothing and the other could turn out to be a hundred times worse than good if things go bad. Isn't that just the way life is right now? All new endeavors have become high risk.
Cest La Vie.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
The Legion of On-Line Heroes is Organizing
So, I've done some more thinking about the Legion of On-Line Super Heroes. Posted some ideas (as well as some character creations) over on The Great Sea.
Basically, I created a new blog especially for Legion stories. My thinking (right now) is that those of you who want to contribute stories can create a character, post it on your blog, let me know, and I'll issue an INVITE to you which will allow you to post directly to the blog. If you would prefer, we can have it set up where you submit your stories as comments, and I post them one at a time. However you want to proceed.
I thought it would be nice to keep the stories in one place. This would make it easier for readers to read all submissions.
Of course, there is the matter of advertising your own blog. So there is no reason you can't post the story on your own blog. Also, Invitees will have links to their blogs on the sidebar.
With multiple authors, the pressure to produce should be minimized. In fact, the more authors we have the less often any single author needs to post. Just having this lack of pressure is great for some authors, who will then become prolific in their creativity. Others need a more structured approach, and they can certain impose that on themselves. Perhaps they write once a month. If we have more than one who likes this approach perhaps they could coordinate their schedules so that every week there is a new story.
I like the idea of posting on Saturdays. It reminds me of being young and watching the Saturday morning cartoons. However, there is no reason we can't post Sunday through Friday. What I do NOT want to do is stifle creativity. Too many "rules" and people lose interest. So I want to keep the "Parameter Box" as large as possible in order to accomodate as many authors as possible.
The new blog is called Legion of On-Line Super Heroes. I gave it the Adult Content warning because some writers like to get carried away. Perhaps I am being premature and should remove the warning until such time that we get a story containing explicit dialogue or behavior. Let me know.
Also, right now only Registered Users are allowed to comment. Do we wish to change that?
I very much would like any/all input you may have on this. I want to include everyone who would like to participate. So, if you would care to give it a go, even just once every few months, do let me know. Not every hero need be active every week. Some only take a mission once or twice a year. They're specialists. Maybe that's the kind of hero you wish to write about. Others are into everything, and there is a new story almost weekly. Whatever suits your fancy.
You will need a Hero Character to begin. Right now, I know of two (2) sites which will help in that regard: : The Hero Factory (comic book appearance); Hero Machine (let's you choose your name). If you know of another, or if you are artistic and can draw your own, by all means do so. You just need to have an image to present to the readership.
So, give me feedback. What are your thoughts and feelings on how to procede from here? I know Lisa and Fairy have expressed interest. If you like the idea of posting to the blog yourself let me know and I'll issue invites.
Let me know.
NOTE: Got a bit carried away with the color emphasis, didn't I?
Basically, I created a new blog especially for Legion stories. My thinking (right now) is that those of you who want to contribute stories can create a character, post it on your blog, let me know, and I'll issue an INVITE to you which will allow you to post directly to the blog. If you would prefer, we can have it set up where you submit your stories as comments, and I post them one at a time. However you want to proceed.
I thought it would be nice to keep the stories in one place. This would make it easier for readers to read all submissions.
Of course, there is the matter of advertising your own blog. So there is no reason you can't post the story on your own blog. Also, Invitees will have links to their blogs on the sidebar.
With multiple authors, the pressure to produce should be minimized. In fact, the more authors we have the less often any single author needs to post. Just having this lack of pressure is great for some authors, who will then become prolific in their creativity. Others need a more structured approach, and they can certain impose that on themselves. Perhaps they write once a month. If we have more than one who likes this approach perhaps they could coordinate their schedules so that every week there is a new story.
I like the idea of posting on Saturdays. It reminds me of being young and watching the Saturday morning cartoons. However, there is no reason we can't post Sunday through Friday. What I do NOT want to do is stifle creativity. Too many "rules" and people lose interest. So I want to keep the "Parameter Box" as large as possible in order to accomodate as many authors as possible.
The new blog is called Legion of On-Line Super Heroes. I gave it the Adult Content warning because some writers like to get carried away. Perhaps I am being premature and should remove the warning until such time that we get a story containing explicit dialogue or behavior. Let me know.
Also, right now only Registered Users are allowed to comment. Do we wish to change that?
I very much would like any/all input you may have on this. I want to include everyone who would like to participate. So, if you would care to give it a go, even just once every few months, do let me know. Not every hero need be active every week. Some only take a mission once or twice a year. They're specialists. Maybe that's the kind of hero you wish to write about. Others are into everything, and there is a new story almost weekly. Whatever suits your fancy.
You will need a Hero Character to begin. Right now, I know of two (2) sites which will help in that regard: : The Hero Factory (comic book appearance); Hero Machine (let's you choose your name). If you know of another, or if you are artistic and can draw your own, by all means do so. You just need to have an image to present to the readership.
So, give me feedback. What are your thoughts and feelings on how to procede from here? I know Lisa and Fairy have expressed interest. If you like the idea of posting to the blog yourself let me know and I'll issue invites.
Let me know.
NOTE: Got a bit carried away with the color emphasis, didn't I?
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
So, I've Got This Idea
Well, I get to brag myself up a bit. No, I mean it! I won something. Came in second place in a writing contest, and it means cookies for my belly. (If I can get to the mail before Son and Spouse do.)
Kiersten had a contest honoring her one year anniversary of blogging. The task was either to write why I visited her blog, or the first paragraph of her biography. I chose the latter and posted it on The Great Sea.
The contest reminded me of stories I used to write, beginning when I was in junior high and continuing to the 1990s. I also posted about that. See A New Hero Has Arisen.
What I'm thinking of doing is to create a weekly exercise - for myself and for any writers interested in participating. The idea is to create a SuperHero persona for ourselves (in my post, I suggested those with Avatar names like FairyHedgeHog and LaughingWolf already have these), and then write scenes in which our SuperHero is in action.
What I'm curious about is reader interest? How much is there? I've been writing these kinds of things off and on for more than thirty years and I get kick out of them. What do you think?
Oh, here is the site to get your SuperHero picture.
NOTE: Since everyone has assumed I am female, I decided to go with a female superhero. Here is mine:
Kiersten had a contest honoring her one year anniversary of blogging. The task was either to write why I visited her blog, or the first paragraph of her biography. I chose the latter and posted it on The Great Sea.
The contest reminded me of stories I used to write, beginning when I was in junior high and continuing to the 1990s. I also posted about that. See A New Hero Has Arisen.
What I'm thinking of doing is to create a weekly exercise - for myself and for any writers interested in participating. The idea is to create a SuperHero persona for ourselves (in my post, I suggested those with Avatar names like FairyHedgeHog and LaughingWolf already have these), and then write scenes in which our SuperHero is in action.
What I'm curious about is reader interest? How much is there? I've been writing these kinds of things off and on for more than thirty years and I get kick out of them. What do you think?
Oh, here is the site to get your SuperHero picture.
NOTE: Since everyone has assumed I am female, I decided to go with a female superhero. Here is mine:
Sunday, March 22, 2009
A Different Letter
Going to shift gears a bit. Instead of posting something personal, or about someone close to me, I'm going to post an old short story I wrote back in the late 1980s (or early 90s). I think it may have been written shortly after getting my fateful letter. Maybe there was inspiration there. I don't know. This story was taken from a picture provided. It was a writing assignment for a correspondence course. This verison is NOT the original. That may be lost. The copy this is from has a host of red marks on it, despite encouraging words.
“I guess that’s why I’m not all that excited about going back to live with my parents,” she said. “By summertime they’ll split up again and I’ll go live with another relative until they get back together. But it’s not their fault. That’s just the way people are.”
The story is a break from my normal fantasy subjects. Basically, it is a story about how hard (and emotional) it is to be a teenager. Everything is either best or worst. It's love or hate. There is no room for anything else.
Letter of Conscience
by Bevie James
Trenton’s brow wrinkled as he studied the letter Chenea had just given him. All of this rambling about how he had treated her when she first came to school. What was she leading up to? Was she aware of the rude things he had been saying about her?
And then he froze. Surely she didn’t mean it. It was a joke. It wasn’t true.
Slowly, sheepishly, he turned his head to look at her.
Chenea met his gaze with her own. Her face was sad and hopeful. Almost pleading. No, it was true all right. Trenton had never felt like such a heel before.
“I do like you. A lot,” she said.
Trenton opened his mouth but found no words. He broke his gaze with her and tried to focus on the letter.
“I suppose you’re surprised,” she said. “I don’t blame you if you are. I know all the kids think I’m stuck up.”
He looked at her and she smiled painfully. “I’ve heard them talk. And some aren’t afraid to tell me to my face. But I really don’t think I’m better than them. I don’t think I’m better than anybody. I know I’m not.
“Anyway, it’s all right that they don’t like me. I think it’s best people don’t get too close to each other. Otherwise it hurts too bad when you leave. Don’t you think?”
Trenton bit his lip, and he could feel his eyes watering. He didn’t dare look at her. He took a deep breath and looked up into the sky, using the sun as an excuse to wipe his eyes.
“I guess that’s why I’m not all that excited about going back to live with my parents,” she said. “By summertime they’ll split up again and I’ll go live with another relative until they get back together. But it’s not their fault. That’s just the way people are.”
Trenton looked at her. He wished his aunt’s bus would get in so he’d have an excuse to leave.
“It’s like when I came here two months ago,” she said. “No one really wanted to be my friend. But I understood. They’ve got their own lives. I didn’t expect anyone to be nice to me. But you were.”
Trenton hung his head. Yes, at first he had tried to be nice. Seeing how the other kids ignored or picked on her, he had tried to be nice. And, to be honest, he was attracted to her.
But she never said anything besides a quiet “thank you.” And after a while he got tired of putting up with the jokes about Chenea and him. That’s when he stopped helping her and began badmouthing her.
“I remember you stood up to those boys,” she said. “That was very nice of you. You didn’t have to do that.
“That was the biggest thing you did. But you did other things. You showed me how to find my way around school. And when I lost my money in the pop machine you bought one for me. You were just nice. And you didn’t have to be. I guess that’s why I like you.”
Chenea’s father called from the bus where he stood talking with the driver. It was time for them to go.
Chenae looked at her father and then quickly back to Trenton.
“I know you can’t really like me,” she said. “You were being nice before because that’s how you are. But I wanted to tell you before I left. That’s why I wrote the letter. I was going to give it to you in school yesterday. But I was afraid. But seeing you here today I just had to.”
She started fumbling with her two oversized bags, no longer looking at him. How pretty she was, Trenton thought. And frail. Despite the things he had said about her, he was still attracted to her.
He reached down and took both of her bags and brought them to the bus where her father and the driver loaded them. Chenae turned and gave Trenton one last look.
“I – I,” she faltered. “I think I love you, Trenton.”
And then she ran onto the bus.
Trenton watched her make her way to a seat. It was a window seat on his side. But she wasn’t looking at him.
The driver started the bus and closed the door. On an impulse, Trenton ran over to below where Chenea sat and began knocking on the window. As she opened it, her father and other passengers turned to see what was happening.
“Chenea, you’re wrong about yourself,” Trenton said. “You’re very special and very pretty. And you’re better than most of the kids I know.”
She stared at him and the bus began to move. As it pulled away she stuck her head out the window to keep looking at him.
“Chenea! Chenea, I love you!” he shouted.
The last thing he saw of her was her smiling face, and he found himself cruelly hoping her parents would split up again. Then maybe, just maybe she would come back.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Inspired to Flight
Sorry if this is boring you, but the walk down memory lane is just so refreshing (to me). I just came across a letter I wrote which confirms most of the earliest Swords of Fire work no longer exist.
This post ideally belongs on SOF - The People, and I actually started it there, but it ties closely to my earlier post on this blog, I Saved the Knife. The letter appears to be a dedication. I'm going to transcribe part of it. (If you think I'm dramatic now, wait until you read this.) NOTE: The Endos are an obsolete idea.
The organizing and compiling of the records of Madatar and the Endo family began in the year 1974. Ten years later they were still nothing more than fragmented thoughts within my mind, having no way to escape their prison and so find themselves in print in one form or another. Several times I tried to begin the tedious work of putting the many differnt thoughts down on paper, but always I would give up and cease the work, destroying the efforts which I had labored over. I lacked the necessary motivation to finish a work with the required energy and drive. I doubted the interest of others in the records of Madatar and the Endos.
Then, nearly ten years after their beginnings, the records were subjected to yet another effort of will to be written once for all. An interesting twist came about this time, however, and I found myself with a reader who eagerly sought to learn more about the Endos and how their lives became intertwined with that of Madatar's. The records themselves could not be altered, but [I was given*] considerable aide in helping me to present the records in readable form. Thus, from simple outlines of rough copy, [I was*] helped (me) to share with any who held interest the fascinating world of The Great Sea. [The*] eagerness to hear me tell a tale of history was the needed motivation to put me on the road to finishing the work and completing and fulfilling a lifelong dream: to be a writer.
* = replacement text added today
My first reaction to this letter is that it is horribly written. My second reaction is that I owe a lot to the one who became the catalyst for so much of what I have written and aspired to write. Before this, the only work I can remember finishing was The Monsters, which I wrote a bit about on The Great Sea, What Came Before May Be What Comes Next. This work became one of the many destroyed pieces of my creativity.
When the friendship died, so (apparently) had my creativity. I talk about working for thirty years on Swords of Fire, but the truth is after 1988 I let it sit unattended for a good many years. I made myself content to live a dull life doing a dull job until such time that I just quietly died myself.
And then Stephen found me again.
Within a year of his return I was writing. I picked up Swords of Fire and tried correcting the flaws I found. It was hard. I had never done this work alone before, but all attempts at enlisting past help were met with excuses - or silence. Yet I had Stephen, and while he was no help whatsoever in helping me improve my story, he was still inspirational. I was happy to have him back in my life. I think I spent the first six months of our reunion apologizing for letting so many years pass. Finally, he told me to knock it off. He got the message.
When he died, once again my creativity went to sleep. But Stephen had left me with something to keep me going. Stephen made the rounds with all of his friends in the last month before his death, leaving each with their own private admonition. The last words he spoke to me went thus:
"Bevie, I want you to remember your friends. Never forget your friends. And keep writing, Bevie. Don't ever quit writing. Ever."
Stephen died by accident on April 4, 2000. Lynahr died on September 11, 2001. It would take until 2003 before I would again take up the keyboard. Stephen is not around to inspire, but his words remain. There is a phrase I said about myself back in the early 90s. I said it then as sarcasm. Now I think it is true.
I Am an Eagle. It's Time I Learned to Fly!
This post ideally belongs on SOF - The People, and I actually started it there, but it ties closely to my earlier post on this blog, I Saved the Knife. The letter appears to be a dedication. I'm going to transcribe part of it. (If you think I'm dramatic now, wait until you read this.) NOTE: The Endos are an obsolete idea.
The organizing and compiling of the records of Madatar and the Endo family began in the year 1974. Ten years later they were still nothing more than fragmented thoughts within my mind, having no way to escape their prison and so find themselves in print in one form or another. Several times I tried to begin the tedious work of putting the many differnt thoughts down on paper, but always I would give up and cease the work, destroying the efforts which I had labored over. I lacked the necessary motivation to finish a work with the required energy and drive. I doubted the interest of others in the records of Madatar and the Endos.
Then, nearly ten years after their beginnings, the records were subjected to yet another effort of will to be written once for all. An interesting twist came about this time, however, and I found myself with a reader who eagerly sought to learn more about the Endos and how their lives became intertwined with that of Madatar's. The records themselves could not be altered, but [I was given*] considerable aide in helping me to present the records in readable form. Thus, from simple outlines of rough copy, [I was*] helped (me) to share with any who held interest the fascinating world of The Great Sea. [The*] eagerness to hear me tell a tale of history was the needed motivation to put me on the road to finishing the work and completing and fulfilling a lifelong dream: to be a writer.
* = replacement text added today
My first reaction to this letter is that it is horribly written. My second reaction is that I owe a lot to the one who became the catalyst for so much of what I have written and aspired to write. Before this, the only work I can remember finishing was The Monsters, which I wrote a bit about on The Great Sea, What Came Before May Be What Comes Next. This work became one of the many destroyed pieces of my creativity.
When the friendship died, so (apparently) had my creativity. I talk about working for thirty years on Swords of Fire, but the truth is after 1988 I let it sit unattended for a good many years. I made myself content to live a dull life doing a dull job until such time that I just quietly died myself.
And then Stephen found me again.
Within a year of his return I was writing. I picked up Swords of Fire and tried correcting the flaws I found. It was hard. I had never done this work alone before, but all attempts at enlisting past help were met with excuses - or silence. Yet I had Stephen, and while he was no help whatsoever in helping me improve my story, he was still inspirational. I was happy to have him back in my life. I think I spent the first six months of our reunion apologizing for letting so many years pass. Finally, he told me to knock it off. He got the message.
When he died, once again my creativity went to sleep. But Stephen had left me with something to keep me going. Stephen made the rounds with all of his friends in the last month before his death, leaving each with their own private admonition. The last words he spoke to me went thus:
"Bevie, I want you to remember your friends. Never forget your friends. And keep writing, Bevie. Don't ever quit writing. Ever."
Stephen died by accident on April 4, 2000. Lynahr died on September 11, 2001. It would take until 2003 before I would again take up the keyboard. Stephen is not around to inspire, but his words remain. There is a phrase I said about myself back in the early 90s. I said it then as sarcasm. Now I think it is true.
I Am an Eagle. It's Time I Learned to Fly!
Grandma's Legacy
Yes, I know. My poetry belongs on The Great Sea. But my grandmother wrote this piece, and this blog is as much about my family and friends as it is about me. So this poem could be posted on either blog. I chose here because the other blog is catching up on posts. (I've been inundating those readers even more with Archive reflections than here.)
My grandmother had a cute sense of humor. Childlike. She was able to retain her childlike qualities to the end of her life. On her death bed she teased the attending nurse, talking about her sex life with her third (and last) husband, who had died a few years earlier. Grandma outlived three husbands. But she remarked that, even at ninety years of age, Eddie still had a "wiggle to his waggle". She would say things like that and then laugh with a Barney Rubble laugh. Hee, hee, hee.
I recall her telling me of some shirt-tail cousins I had. Two brothers: John and Adam. They each got married and had sons about the same age, named the same: Peter. The boys were identified by using their father's name - to avoid confusion. Well, John's son came down with some illness which kept him in bed for a good number of weeks. Back in those days even "minor" illnesses could be fatal. One day after church, my grandma walked up to a woman who was a neighbor to John and his family. After talking social nothings, my grandma inquired, "By the way, how is John's Peter?" The woman looked very concerned and replied, "Why, I didn't know he had hurt it." I was only about ten or twelve when she told me this, and I don't know if I laughed more at the story or her "hee, hee, hee".
Grandma was just a tiny woman. Portly, but short. Perhaps 5'2". Incredible when one considers the shortest of her progeny is about 5'6", and many top 6'.
Aside from being published in a variety of newspapers and magazines, some of her writings were enlisted in published books by "Older Minnesotans". She also self-published a book of poems. In reading it just now I came across this poem. I think it's cute. It certainly expresses Grandma's Humor.
Age Five at a Funeral
by Amy Holmes
There were flowers,
And people in the front seats cried.
I asked my mother, "Why?"
She said, "Sh . . . someone they loved has died."
I said, "How come?"
Mom said, "Give me that bubble gum."
Then I scrunched down low,
And looked along under that long row
Where legs with feet
Maybe a hundred or more
Hung from the seats and touched the floor.
A fly flew past my head,
It lit on a man's leg -
He swatted it dead.
I cried -
Mom whispered, "She's gone to heaven, son
Don't cry."
I was glad. God had room in heaven
For a fly.
Way to go, Grandma.
My grandmother had a cute sense of humor. Childlike. She was able to retain her childlike qualities to the end of her life. On her death bed she teased the attending nurse, talking about her sex life with her third (and last) husband, who had died a few years earlier. Grandma outlived three husbands. But she remarked that, even at ninety years of age, Eddie still had a "wiggle to his waggle". She would say things like that and then laugh with a Barney Rubble laugh. Hee, hee, hee.
I recall her telling me of some shirt-tail cousins I had. Two brothers: John and Adam. They each got married and had sons about the same age, named the same: Peter. The boys were identified by using their father's name - to avoid confusion. Well, John's son came down with some illness which kept him in bed for a good number of weeks. Back in those days even "minor" illnesses could be fatal. One day after church, my grandma walked up to a woman who was a neighbor to John and his family. After talking social nothings, my grandma inquired, "By the way, how is John's Peter?" The woman looked very concerned and replied, "Why, I didn't know he had hurt it." I was only about ten or twelve when she told me this, and I don't know if I laughed more at the story or her "hee, hee, hee".
Grandma was just a tiny woman. Portly, but short. Perhaps 5'2". Incredible when one considers the shortest of her progeny is about 5'6", and many top 6'.
Aside from being published in a variety of newspapers and magazines, some of her writings were enlisted in published books by "Older Minnesotans". She also self-published a book of poems. In reading it just now I came across this poem. I think it's cute. It certainly expresses Grandma's Humor.
Age Five at a Funeral
by Amy Holmes
There were flowers,
And people in the front seats cried.
I asked my mother, "Why?"
She said, "Sh . . . someone they loved has died."
I said, "How come?"
Mom said, "Give me that bubble gum."
Then I scrunched down low,
And looked along under that long row
Where legs with feet
Maybe a hundred or more
Hung from the seats and touched the floor.
A fly flew past my head,
It lit on a man's leg -
He swatted it dead.
I cried -
Mom whispered, "She's gone to heaven, son
Don't cry."
I was glad. God had room in heaven
For a fly.
Way to go, Grandma.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
I Saved the Knife
Once upon a time my mother handed me a stamp album and a bag of stamps she had purchased at some local post office or stamp book store. I diligently went through the bag of stamps and affixed them to their proper page in my Traveler Stamp Album.
Stamp collecting is kind of fun, but eventually the album was packed away. In time, it became part of The Archives. Today, I brought up the last of The Archive boxes. At the very bottom was my stamp album, hidden away. It was the last thing I unpacked. Interesting that it should be the final item to retrieve, considering the secret it held for me.
This particular box had not been opened since 1988. How do I know? Because of the secret it was hiding. I found the knife which cut my guts out in 1988.
If you're interested in something, go to The Great Sea and look at the post titled, "The Archives Have Been Opened". Examine the list of story ideas and see if you recognize any similarity in the stories. Then return here. If you're not interested, continue reading.
waiting
waiting some more
and just a little more
The common thread is that ALL of the stories predate 1989. That's how I know the last time this book was opened. This is where I put the knife. I had forgotten I had kept it.
The knife is not a physical knife, as I am sure you have already surmised. It is a letter, handwritten on both sides of a sheet of spiral bound paper. It still has the ragged edges from where it was tore from its binder. It is the official notice of the end of a most important friendship. It was the friendship which had successfully replaced the one I lost when Stephen and I had parted ways (for what I believed to be forever). It was the friendship which spawned such a wealth of creative ideas I felt overwhelmed. I couldn't keep up with the things that were coming to my mind. Just from the list I've posted, there were 11 story ideas in 1987 alone. But I found another list I haven't posted which contains no less than forty story ideas. I found myself reciting them instead of writing them. That's why they're not finished. They were never written. They're oral legends. My friend was a voracious reader, but willing to hear a story first hand from the author, and I exhausted myself coming up with new stories. Now the friendship was over.
It did not come as a surprise. I had been expecting it for several months. Sometimes, I seem to know when certain things are going to change. The details are always fuzzy, but the generality is there. I don't think it's so much "magic" as it is part of my brain seems to subconsciously process clues which others ignore. I say this because, after the fact, it is so easy to go back and see the clues. I had predicted this letter in the spring. It arrived at the end of summer. August.
When Stephen found me just seven years later I thought happiness had returned. Then he died. And so did so many others.
I've read this letter a couple of times now today. While it gives no joy, it does not wholly dampen my newfound feelings of optimism. After all, I have lived with this letter for more than twenty years now. The message has remained in my heart. It still hurts, but I have learned to live with this pain. I had forgotten about the knife, though.
The knife has been returned to its hiding place, to be found again on some other day. Why do I keep it? I'm not sure. Something tells me it's important to do so. It is not my intention to read it again until after I've forgotten where it is. Just like now.
My life had already been sliding when this letter arrived, so the letter does not represent the beginning of my time in the Swamp of Despair and Sadness. Remember, I had already lost Stephen. What it represents is the time when I lost sight of stable land. It was the end of Joy and Happiness.
It just strikes me as interesting that not only should I find this letter, but that I should find it now, during the year when my heart tells me I am turning an important corner in my life and am about to shake hands with Joy and Happiness again such as I have not known - perhaps ever. It is also interesting that I should find it while traversing nearly forty years of my history, because I so often live in the past. Most interesting of all is that, this was the last thing I found.
I think maybe I have come to another ending. Only this time, instead of representing the end of Joy and Happiness, the knife is representing the end of a dismal time in a dark and noisesome swamp of unbearable scent. I am more convinced than ever that things will get better this year. Maybe it is time to try again and repair a friendship which has been dead for so long.
I don't think so. I have new friends now. And I like them (you) very much.
I don't need to search for my happiness. I already have it.
Thank you, my friends.
Stamp collecting is kind of fun, but eventually the album was packed away. In time, it became part of The Archives. Today, I brought up the last of The Archive boxes. At the very bottom was my stamp album, hidden away. It was the last thing I unpacked. Interesting that it should be the final item to retrieve, considering the secret it held for me.
This particular box had not been opened since 1988. How do I know? Because of the secret it was hiding. I found the knife which cut my guts out in 1988.
If you're interested in something, go to The Great Sea and look at the post titled, "The Archives Have Been Opened". Examine the list of story ideas and see if you recognize any similarity in the stories. Then return here. If you're not interested, continue reading.
waiting
waiting some more
and just a little more
The common thread is that ALL of the stories predate 1989. That's how I know the last time this book was opened. This is where I put the knife. I had forgotten I had kept it.
The knife is not a physical knife, as I am sure you have already surmised. It is a letter, handwritten on both sides of a sheet of spiral bound paper. It still has the ragged edges from where it was tore from its binder. It is the official notice of the end of a most important friendship. It was the friendship which had successfully replaced the one I lost when Stephen and I had parted ways (for what I believed to be forever). It was the friendship which spawned such a wealth of creative ideas I felt overwhelmed. I couldn't keep up with the things that were coming to my mind. Just from the list I've posted, there were 11 story ideas in 1987 alone. But I found another list I haven't posted which contains no less than forty story ideas. I found myself reciting them instead of writing them. That's why they're not finished. They were never written. They're oral legends. My friend was a voracious reader, but willing to hear a story first hand from the author, and I exhausted myself coming up with new stories. Now the friendship was over.
It did not come as a surprise. I had been expecting it for several months. Sometimes, I seem to know when certain things are going to change. The details are always fuzzy, but the generality is there. I don't think it's so much "magic" as it is part of my brain seems to subconsciously process clues which others ignore. I say this because, after the fact, it is so easy to go back and see the clues. I had predicted this letter in the spring. It arrived at the end of summer. August.
When Stephen found me just seven years later I thought happiness had returned. Then he died. And so did so many others.
I've read this letter a couple of times now today. While it gives no joy, it does not wholly dampen my newfound feelings of optimism. After all, I have lived with this letter for more than twenty years now. The message has remained in my heart. It still hurts, but I have learned to live with this pain. I had forgotten about the knife, though.
The knife has been returned to its hiding place, to be found again on some other day. Why do I keep it? I'm not sure. Something tells me it's important to do so. It is not my intention to read it again until after I've forgotten where it is. Just like now.
My life had already been sliding when this letter arrived, so the letter does not represent the beginning of my time in the Swamp of Despair and Sadness. Remember, I had already lost Stephen. What it represents is the time when I lost sight of stable land. It was the end of Joy and Happiness.
It just strikes me as interesting that not only should I find this letter, but that I should find it now, during the year when my heart tells me I am turning an important corner in my life and am about to shake hands with Joy and Happiness again such as I have not known - perhaps ever. It is also interesting that I should find it while traversing nearly forty years of my history, because I so often live in the past. Most interesting of all is that, this was the last thing I found.
I think maybe I have come to another ending. Only this time, instead of representing the end of Joy and Happiness, the knife is representing the end of a dismal time in a dark and noisesome swamp of unbearable scent. I am more convinced than ever that things will get better this year. Maybe it is time to try again and repair a friendship which has been dead for so long.
I don't think so. I have new friends now. And I like them (you) very much.
I don't need to search for my happiness. I already have it.
Thank you, my friends.
The Insanity of a Dream - Why the H*ll Not
Came across something else in The Archives I find interesting. It's a copy of a PERSONAL APPRAISAL test I took back in 2000. Basically, it's a test which indicates the kind of work a person should be doing in order to fulfill themselves.
I find these tests interesting because I've taken six or more of them over the years, and the kinds of work which show up in positions two and beyond always change based on what's going on in my life at any given moment. Position one, however, has not changed since I was sixteen years old and took the first of these. According to all of these tests, what I really want to do with my life is: be in entertainment. This particular test lists five areas of entertainment for me:
Rhythmics: dancing, ballet; precision of movement (What? Are they out of their minds?)
Amusment/Entertainment: physical, gymnastics, sports (Not with this body.)
Musical, Creative: compose, arrange, improvise (If only I could.)
Creative Writing: author; imagination, vocabulary (Now we're talking.)
Instructive, Fine Arts: drama, art, music (Yes, yes, yes.)
I really think I missed my calling in life. I should have cast fear aside and set out to establish a career in entertainment when I was young and had no financial (or physical) needs. Now, it's going to be much harder. But it's what I'm going to shoot for. There isn't much I have left to lose by trying. Right? As long as Spouse and Son stay with me I'll be fine. And I need to keep my Archives. Got to keep The Archives.
As I indicated above, the current state of my body makes some of those artistic possibilities impossible. It's a bit late to be learning about music, but I have my bass. And I plan to buy another harp one day (when I can afford it). I never should have sold the one I had. Found my harp music, too! I kept it! Good going, Bevie. I did look into what I have to do to become an "extra" in commercials and films. Did that last year. The big block is that I have to pay dues. Monthly dues. Based on the rate of pay for being an extra I would only have to work on four or five commercials/films in a year to pay the dues, but the likelihood of getting that many jobs in a year is incredibly slim. (They were honest and admitted that flat out up front. Especially since I'm not exactly beautiful anymore. It could be as much as six months between jobs until such time - if ever - that one was "discovered" and used with greater and greater frequency.) In all honesty, if I could afford the monthly dues I'd do it anyway. But we can't afford that kind of dreaming.
Which leaves me with my writing. Which is just fine with me. I like to write stories. (Just go look at the list of books and plays I listed from The Archives on The Great Sea over the past two days. And I've found another list even longer today! At one time I had over 100 books, short stories, and plays on tap to write. Then I put them in The Archives and they were mostly forgotten. Until now. That was the beginning of The Sad Days, which lasted for years, until this year, when things have begun to turn around wonderfully. I have friends again! Did you know that? Of course you do. That's who you are. Sorry. I'm babbling.)
I'm going to try and earn some money selling things I write. In the meantime, I have to find something else some company (and my body) will allow me to do for money. Duluth has several small theatre companies. I'm going to contact some of those and see if they are hiring for anything. Anything. To be near a theatre - and be paid for it - would be wonderful. In time, I might even find myself auditioning for a play or two. Who knows? Might even see one I wrote show up on stage. Probably not Broadway, but maybe Duluth? (Actually, Minneapolis is a bit of a hotbed for theatre, too. We have The Guthrie, and Chanhassen Dinner Theatre - I can cook, and The Orpheum. A long drive to get to work, but it would be worth it. Up to now I've been afraid to even try. But now that I've nothing to lose, what the h*ll? Right? I can only hear them laugh while I'm there.)
Who knows? Crazy thoughts? Perhaps. But remember: I'm old and poor now. It's all right for me to be a little crazy. Right?
I find these tests interesting because I've taken six or more of them over the years, and the kinds of work which show up in positions two and beyond always change based on what's going on in my life at any given moment. Position one, however, has not changed since I was sixteen years old and took the first of these. According to all of these tests, what I really want to do with my life is: be in entertainment. This particular test lists five areas of entertainment for me:
Rhythmics: dancing, ballet; precision of movement (What? Are they out of their minds?)
Amusment/Entertainment: physical, gymnastics, sports (Not with this body.)
Musical, Creative: compose, arrange, improvise (If only I could.)
Creative Writing: author; imagination, vocabulary (Now we're talking.)
Instructive, Fine Arts: drama, art, music (Yes, yes, yes.)
I really think I missed my calling in life. I should have cast fear aside and set out to establish a career in entertainment when I was young and had no financial (or physical) needs. Now, it's going to be much harder. But it's what I'm going to shoot for. There isn't much I have left to lose by trying. Right? As long as Spouse and Son stay with me I'll be fine. And I need to keep my Archives. Got to keep The Archives.
As I indicated above, the current state of my body makes some of those artistic possibilities impossible. It's a bit late to be learning about music, but I have my bass. And I plan to buy another harp one day (when I can afford it). I never should have sold the one I had. Found my harp music, too! I kept it! Good going, Bevie. I did look into what I have to do to become an "extra" in commercials and films. Did that last year. The big block is that I have to pay dues. Monthly dues. Based on the rate of pay for being an extra I would only have to work on four or five commercials/films in a year to pay the dues, but the likelihood of getting that many jobs in a year is incredibly slim. (They were honest and admitted that flat out up front. Especially since I'm not exactly beautiful anymore. It could be as much as six months between jobs until such time - if ever - that one was "discovered" and used with greater and greater frequency.) In all honesty, if I could afford the monthly dues I'd do it anyway. But we can't afford that kind of dreaming.
Which leaves me with my writing. Which is just fine with me. I like to write stories. (Just go look at the list of books and plays I listed from The Archives on The Great Sea over the past two days. And I've found another list even longer today! At one time I had over 100 books, short stories, and plays on tap to write. Then I put them in The Archives and they were mostly forgotten. Until now. That was the beginning of The Sad Days, which lasted for years, until this year, when things have begun to turn around wonderfully. I have friends again! Did you know that? Of course you do. That's who you are. Sorry. I'm babbling.)
I'm going to try and earn some money selling things I write. In the meantime, I have to find something else some company (and my body) will allow me to do for money. Duluth has several small theatre companies. I'm going to contact some of those and see if they are hiring for anything. Anything. To be near a theatre - and be paid for it - would be wonderful. In time, I might even find myself auditioning for a play or two. Who knows? Might even see one I wrote show up on stage. Probably not Broadway, but maybe Duluth? (Actually, Minneapolis is a bit of a hotbed for theatre, too. We have The Guthrie, and Chanhassen Dinner Theatre - I can cook, and The Orpheum. A long drive to get to work, but it would be worth it. Up to now I've been afraid to even try. But now that I've nothing to lose, what the h*ll? Right? I can only hear them laugh while I'm there.)
Who knows? Crazy thoughts? Perhaps. But remember: I'm old and poor now. It's all right for me to be a little crazy. Right?
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Group Critiqued
Haven't belonged to a writer's group since 1980 or 81, when Lori P. left town. I liked Lori. I remember how thrilled I was when she invited me to the group. There were about six of us who met at her apartment once a week after work. Spouse would be there and just read while we met. There was no specific genre involved. No two of us were writing the same kind of work. And the group never got so far to review anything I wrote. After I attended just two or three meetings Lori announced that she was leaving the Minneapolis-St. Paul area. I forget if it was she or her husband who got the great job out of state, but they were jumping at the chance and leaving. The group disbanded.
Since that time I have not belonged to a writers' group. Not until last July. But I didn't actually attend a meeting until January of this year. (How's that for a New Year's Resolution?) At the end of the meeting I was invited to submit something of my own, should I have anything. By chance I did have something new. Apprentice. It was a short story I wrote just before Christmas.
As mentioned in my previous post, last night I was at my second meeting. This was the meeting when I would receive a critique of Apprentice. Another member had submitted the first chapter of his new book and I also did my first critique (since 1980 or 81). This was my first critique of a fantasy story, though. (I also added a few comments on one or two Evil Editor submissions, but those hardly count, I think. Haven't done so in at least a month. Maybe two. No confidence.)
There were only four in attendance, which was both bad and good. Having lots of people means getting lots of ideas and lots of help. So not having lots of people was bad. But having lots of people means getting lots of ideas which have to be sorted out, which is hard. So not having lots of people was good.
We did the other work first, which meant I got to demonstrate my critiqueing skills early. I don't think I did poorly. Not too poorly anyway. A good number of my points were shared by the other two, which I think gave them credibility. (When three out of three people who read what you wrote have the same reaction, the reaction is probably valid.) Each of us had something to say which the other two did not, so the author is going to have to sort that out. (That's what I mean about sorting out lots of idea.) When a person stands alone with their point they may be right, but they may just as easily be wrong. The author has to decide. Sometimes, fixing a work for one person only ruins it for everyone else. It's a risk.
My work came last. I confess to hoping there would not be much correction. I had already submitted it to a single person who had provided several important help suggestions. So I was thinking the story was fairly solid.
I got more comments than I expected. Several about word choice. A couple of Point of View miscues I missed. Some discomfort with some of my word choices. A section where I let the dialogue slip and it became confusing to keep up with who was speaking. And a couple of continuity issues. (The most humorous being when I put the characters in a room without windows and fail to explain where all the light is coming from.)
Probably, the most severe comment came last. What was the point? While all three liked the story, and the one member went so far to say that the prose was the story's strongest point, there was no real conflict. Basically, it is a story of two young women who fall in love. Okay. Good. Why is that important? It's a valid comment.
I knew the story had this shortcoming from the first. It is just a story of two young women who fall in love. That's all it ever was intended to be. But there is no obvious "conflict" which has to be dealt with. The conflict which exists is subtle. It is within the Main Character, and how she grows from who she was when the story begins, to who she is when the story ends. How - and if - she changes is the quiet tension the story brings. Not exactly your usual fantasy fare. And perhaps it doesn't really work in any genre.
All three questioned whether this was a stand-alone story or part of a larger work. This supports the "what's the point" observation. It was suggested that I expand the story, which is not an offensive prospect to me. I very much like the characters. (We only actually meet three.) And already I can see the larger story in which this "sub-plot", as it were, could exist. Whether or not I actually do that, I don't know. It's tempting. And maybe that's what Swords of Fire needs: me to take a long sabbatical. For now, though, I shall incorporate the observations made by my three colleagues last night and leave the story be. I have no idea of how, or where, I would submit it anyway. Which is a pity. I think it's an endearing story which belongs where the public can read it. Whatever.
I didn't get lost coming home. [grin]
This time I looked for the signs right off. Sure enough. In order to go west, one must first go east. How intuitive! The same goes for going east. Except it is reversed. So, in January, my moving to the west side of the freeway because I wanted to drive west was complete stupidity. I should have moved to the east side. Then I could have driven west. Ah, me. When will I learn how modern transportation design works?
Son and Spouse were both asleep when I got home. Son would have been disappointed anyway. About the last thing he said to me before I left was, "If you do go to Duluth again, bring back a souvineer." Alas. No souvineers.
Since that time I have not belonged to a writers' group. Not until last July. But I didn't actually attend a meeting until January of this year. (How's that for a New Year's Resolution?) At the end of the meeting I was invited to submit something of my own, should I have anything. By chance I did have something new. Apprentice. It was a short story I wrote just before Christmas.
As mentioned in my previous post, last night I was at my second meeting. This was the meeting when I would receive a critique of Apprentice. Another member had submitted the first chapter of his new book and I also did my first critique (since 1980 or 81). This was my first critique of a fantasy story, though. (I also added a few comments on one or two Evil Editor submissions, but those hardly count, I think. Haven't done so in at least a month. Maybe two. No confidence.)
There were only four in attendance, which was both bad and good. Having lots of people means getting lots of ideas and lots of help. So not having lots of people was bad. But having lots of people means getting lots of ideas which have to be sorted out, which is hard. So not having lots of people was good.
We did the other work first, which meant I got to demonstrate my critiqueing skills early. I don't think I did poorly. Not too poorly anyway. A good number of my points were shared by the other two, which I think gave them credibility. (When three out of three people who read what you wrote have the same reaction, the reaction is probably valid.) Each of us had something to say which the other two did not, so the author is going to have to sort that out. (That's what I mean about sorting out lots of idea.) When a person stands alone with their point they may be right, but they may just as easily be wrong. The author has to decide. Sometimes, fixing a work for one person only ruins it for everyone else. It's a risk.
My work came last. I confess to hoping there would not be much correction. I had already submitted it to a single person who had provided several important help suggestions. So I was thinking the story was fairly solid.
I got more comments than I expected. Several about word choice. A couple of Point of View miscues I missed. Some discomfort with some of my word choices. A section where I let the dialogue slip and it became confusing to keep up with who was speaking. And a couple of continuity issues. (The most humorous being when I put the characters in a room without windows and fail to explain where all the light is coming from.)
Probably, the most severe comment came last. What was the point? While all three liked the story, and the one member went so far to say that the prose was the story's strongest point, there was no real conflict. Basically, it is a story of two young women who fall in love. Okay. Good. Why is that important? It's a valid comment.
I knew the story had this shortcoming from the first. It is just a story of two young women who fall in love. That's all it ever was intended to be. But there is no obvious "conflict" which has to be dealt with. The conflict which exists is subtle. It is within the Main Character, and how she grows from who she was when the story begins, to who she is when the story ends. How - and if - she changes is the quiet tension the story brings. Not exactly your usual fantasy fare. And perhaps it doesn't really work in any genre.
All three questioned whether this was a stand-alone story or part of a larger work. This supports the "what's the point" observation. It was suggested that I expand the story, which is not an offensive prospect to me. I very much like the characters. (We only actually meet three.) And already I can see the larger story in which this "sub-plot", as it were, could exist. Whether or not I actually do that, I don't know. It's tempting. And maybe that's what Swords of Fire needs: me to take a long sabbatical. For now, though, I shall incorporate the observations made by my three colleagues last night and leave the story be. I have no idea of how, or where, I would submit it anyway. Which is a pity. I think it's an endearing story which belongs where the public can read it. Whatever.
I didn't get lost coming home. [grin]
This time I looked for the signs right off. Sure enough. In order to go west, one must first go east. How intuitive! The same goes for going east. Except it is reversed. So, in January, my moving to the west side of the freeway because I wanted to drive west was complete stupidity. I should have moved to the east side. Then I could have driven west. Ah, me. When will I learn how modern transportation design works?
Son and Spouse were both asleep when I got home. Son would have been disappointed anyway. About the last thing he said to me before I left was, "If you do go to Duluth again, bring back a souvineer." Alas. No souvineers.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
Writers' Group - The Critique
Tonight I am scheduled to go to my second meeting of the local Writers' Group. My story, Apprentice, is up for critique. Not only that, but I learned on Sunday there is another piece up for critique which I need to get to. I didn't do it Sunday night because I was busy with the family. Then Monday came and I found my day taken up with being at the clinic with my mother. I had thought to work on it all day on Tuesday.
Then Mother had to be back at the clinic this morning. No big deal, I thought. I'll work on it this afternoon. Then the clinic ran like an hour or more late. Mother finally sent me on my way because I had to get back to town to pick up Son at school. So that shot a good portion of my afternoon.
So, here I am. It's going on four and I have to leave at six. I'm not that good at critiques anyway. I know what I like, but not always why. Same with what I don't like. Sometimes it's just a feeling. Not very helpful to someone looking to polish a story.
So, I'm off to read - and critique. Hopefully, I can contribute something meaningful.
Wish me luck. (With the author who's work I'm critiquing luck, too.)
Then Mother had to be back at the clinic this morning. No big deal, I thought. I'll work on it this afternoon. Then the clinic ran like an hour or more late. Mother finally sent me on my way because I had to get back to town to pick up Son at school. So that shot a good portion of my afternoon.
So, here I am. It's going on four and I have to leave at six. I'm not that good at critiques anyway. I know what I like, but not always why. Same with what I don't like. Sometimes it's just a feeling. Not very helpful to someone looking to polish a story.
So, I'm off to read - and critique. Hopefully, I can contribute something meaningful.
Wish me luck. (With the author who's work I'm critiquing luck, too.)
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
What's in a Plan
Ever since I was young I have been fascinated with floor plans. I recall being irritated with doll houses because their floor plans made no sense. Also, they only had three walls. At an early age i began drawing floor plans of houses I would like to build. Some were quite stupid. Others even more elaborate than the stupid plans. On a couple of occassions I even attempted creating models of my plans, succeeding once. But that house was burned. By me. Another story.
Apparently I vision rooms, buildings, whatever, differently than most people. Once I went to a store devoted to doll houses and doll house furniture. My plan was to get wallpaper. It was frustrating because I could never find more than three sheets of any pattern (in the inexpensive area). Eventually, one of the store clerks (reps/associates - I can't keep up) came to offer me assistance. She seemed amazed that I would want four sheets of paper. After all, doll houses only had three walls. I explained that my doll house would have four walls. Trying to avoid calling me a complete nitwit, she (and a customer) mocked me saying, people don't think of rooms from the ceiling. I responded with equal incredulity: yes, they do. Who do? I do. You're thinking of this store as though seeing it from above? Yes.
I wound up leaving the store without making a purchase.
But it's true. When I am in a room, I often try to see it as though I were the ceiling, placing the room in pattern with the other rooms which surround it. What's above it? What's below? What's on the other side of that unusual corner? Why does it have to be that way?
None of this, of course, has anything to do with anything. It's just that I've been a bit dark with some of my postings, and then I took a couple of days off with nothing to say. I decided to post something light. What I decided to post is Sovereign Odelmaar's house, as it was when Khirsha visited it in the year 352, which coincides with the year Swords of Fire: Book I takes place.
I've actually drawn more than a dozen floor plans for the houses, halls, shops, which exist in Swords of Fire. This includes some cave dwellings in Book II. I chose Sovereign Odelmaar's house because it is probably the most elaborate - after the fortress which gets built some time after Book IV.
To put it simply, Odelmaar's house is cool. It started out as a large square with the southeast corner chopped at forty-five degrees. Then tower additions were placed at the remaining corners. The center area also raises to a tower. The house is huge and the rooms are huge. It was very expensive in Odelmaar's time. It would be frightfully pricey now, I think.
A monstrous porch wraps around the house's southeastern side. Entering, you find yourself in a foyer area. Before you are double doors leading to the main library. To the left is the way to Pulich's apartments. The right way leads to Ovaer's apartments. Upstairs is Odelmaar and Taylich's private quarters. This includes another large library and a large study.
Pulich and Ovaer's apartments are virtual mirror images of each other. They are basically houses within a house. The formal dining room is behind the library to the north. The parlor/lounge and small study are behind the library to the west. The kitchen is beside the dining room.
In the back of the house, private, are Tavaar's apartments. Tavaar modified the floor plan to better accomodate her private attendant, Hetahna, who her father bought for her just before the birth of her first child. Yes, I said bought. In Swords of Fire, the so-called good people are far from perfect. Not only is Hetahna Tavaar's slave, but she traces her ancestry back to the same pair of twins. She's family. That's part of the struggle in Swords of Fire, although it is only hinted at in Book I.
Here, though, is a sample of my floor plans. I'm not sure how the picture is going to look on the blog, so here is a small legend.
Blue areas are beds
Brown areas are fireplaces
Yellow areas are bureaus, dressers, chevereaus.
Green areas are tables.
Striped areas are stairs.
Grey areas (kitchen) are shelving and cupboards
Apparently I vision rooms, buildings, whatever, differently than most people. Once I went to a store devoted to doll houses and doll house furniture. My plan was to get wallpaper. It was frustrating because I could never find more than three sheets of any pattern (in the inexpensive area). Eventually, one of the store clerks (reps/associates - I can't keep up) came to offer me assistance. She seemed amazed that I would want four sheets of paper. After all, doll houses only had three walls. I explained that my doll house would have four walls. Trying to avoid calling me a complete nitwit, she (and a customer) mocked me saying, people don't think of rooms from the ceiling. I responded with equal incredulity: yes, they do. Who do? I do. You're thinking of this store as though seeing it from above? Yes.
I wound up leaving the store without making a purchase.
But it's true. When I am in a room, I often try to see it as though I were the ceiling, placing the room in pattern with the other rooms which surround it. What's above it? What's below? What's on the other side of that unusual corner? Why does it have to be that way?
None of this, of course, has anything to do with anything. It's just that I've been a bit dark with some of my postings, and then I took a couple of days off with nothing to say. I decided to post something light. What I decided to post is Sovereign Odelmaar's house, as it was when Khirsha visited it in the year 352, which coincides with the year Swords of Fire: Book I takes place.
I've actually drawn more than a dozen floor plans for the houses, halls, shops, which exist in Swords of Fire. This includes some cave dwellings in Book II. I chose Sovereign Odelmaar's house because it is probably the most elaborate - after the fortress which gets built some time after Book IV.
To put it simply, Odelmaar's house is cool. It started out as a large square with the southeast corner chopped at forty-five degrees. Then tower additions were placed at the remaining corners. The center area also raises to a tower. The house is huge and the rooms are huge. It was very expensive in Odelmaar's time. It would be frightfully pricey now, I think.
A monstrous porch wraps around the house's southeastern side. Entering, you find yourself in a foyer area. Before you are double doors leading to the main library. To the left is the way to Pulich's apartments. The right way leads to Ovaer's apartments. Upstairs is Odelmaar and Taylich's private quarters. This includes another large library and a large study.
Pulich and Ovaer's apartments are virtual mirror images of each other. They are basically houses within a house. The formal dining room is behind the library to the north. The parlor/lounge and small study are behind the library to the west. The kitchen is beside the dining room.
In the back of the house, private, are Tavaar's apartments. Tavaar modified the floor plan to better accomodate her private attendant, Hetahna, who her father bought for her just before the birth of her first child. Yes, I said bought. In Swords of Fire, the so-called good people are far from perfect. Not only is Hetahna Tavaar's slave, but she traces her ancestry back to the same pair of twins. She's family. That's part of the struggle in Swords of Fire, although it is only hinted at in Book I.
Here, though, is a sample of my floor plans. I'm not sure how the picture is going to look on the blog, so here is a small legend.
Blue areas are beds
Brown areas are fireplaces
Yellow areas are bureaus, dressers, chevereaus.
Green areas are tables.
Striped areas are stairs.
Grey areas (kitchen) are shelving and cupboards
Saturday, January 31, 2009
A Short Collection
I've started going through the Archives, searching for papers which can be tossed. It's time to start packing. Came across some poems. These are reasonably recent - within the year. They all tend toward "darker" moods, so if you're not in the mood yourself you might just want to skip today's post.
The first lacks true meter. It's less of a poem and more just a couple of sentences.
LOSS
Acknowledging loss may hurt
worse than suffering loss
So it seems to me right now
The peace of death blows soft and slow
Yet can loss occur when nothing existed
Can nothing be taken away
To have believed awhile that love was mine
My heart, awhile, did shine
This second is actually less dark. One could even say bright.
A PLACE TO LIVE
If not a home then
. . . . . . A cave so cold
. . . . . . A place together
. . . . . . We’ll grow old
If not a cave
. . . . . . I’ll take whatever
. . . . . . For my love for you
. . . . . . Will never sever
Just be with me
. . . . . . Through day and night
. . . . . . I’ll be with you
. . . . . . You are my light
This last is just another variation of a poem I have written many times.
VALLEY OF SORROWS
In the Valley of the Sorrows there are tears I have not wept.
They are for my sad remembrance of pain that I have kept.
To be despised is one thing. To be hated is another.
When the two join together it is really quite a bother.
The future is a place that I am destined once to go.
Whatever shall I find there? When I get there I will know.
The future hides beyond the river’s winding, twisting, bends.
And there I’m doomed to go for the current there it sends.
The future may be bright and cherry or as dark as deepest night.
Although I want the former I can never make things right.
The truth should be more friendly but often it seems cruel.
For to speak the truth aloud is when I play the fool.
I’m beaten, sad, and lonely, and my health is fading fast.
But the truth I still will cling to even when I breathe my last.
I once strongly though I’d be here when the Lord comes back one day.
Now I’m just a piles of pieces. And where I’ll be I cannot say.
The first lacks true meter. It's less of a poem and more just a couple of sentences.
LOSS
Acknowledging loss may hurt
worse than suffering loss
So it seems to me right now
The peace of death blows soft and slow
Yet can loss occur when nothing existed
Can nothing be taken away
To have believed awhile that love was mine
My heart, awhile, did shine
This second is actually less dark. One could even say bright.
A PLACE TO LIVE
If not a home then
. . . . . . A cave so cold
. . . . . . A place together
. . . . . . We’ll grow old
If not a cave
. . . . . . I’ll take whatever
. . . . . . For my love for you
. . . . . . Will never sever
Just be with me
. . . . . . Through day and night
. . . . . . I’ll be with you
. . . . . . You are my light
This last is just another variation of a poem I have written many times.
VALLEY OF SORROWS
In the Valley of the Sorrows there are tears I have not wept.
They are for my sad remembrance of pain that I have kept.
To be despised is one thing. To be hated is another.
When the two join together it is really quite a bother.
The future is a place that I am destined once to go.
Whatever shall I find there? When I get there I will know.
The future hides beyond the river’s winding, twisting, bends.
And there I’m doomed to go for the current there it sends.
The future may be bright and cherry or as dark as deepest night.
Although I want the former I can never make things right.
The truth should be more friendly but often it seems cruel.
For to speak the truth aloud is when I play the fool.
I’m beaten, sad, and lonely, and my health is fading fast.
But the truth I still will cling to even when I breathe my last.
I once strongly though I’d be here when the Lord comes back one day.
Now I’m just a piles of pieces. And where I’ll be I cannot say.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Happy Rabbit Hole Day!
The Tortoise and the Snail
The tortoise and the snail had a race to get the mail and it lasted all the day ‘cause neither knew the way.
The tortoise headed east where the rocks they were the least and he crawled across the sand like a turtle on the land.
The snail headed west where the moisture was the best and he slid right through the water like a playful little otter.
When chance there came a seal who was looking for a meal and because he was all wet he went and made a bet.
The one he made a bet with was a tabby known as Setwith who would sit upon the post and declare himself the most.
Now the sun was going down and the betters faces frowned for the racers on the ground were still not to be found
Then springing on a log was a little greenish frog who croaked right at the betters that they should go and learn their letters.
So the seal and the cat became quite indignant over that and they demanded now to know how the racers were so slow.
The frog he laughed in glee saying, “Matters not to me”, and the thing I laugh at most is there is no Sunday Post.
From The Tales of Whimsy, by Bevie James.
.
The tortoise and the snail had a race to get the mail and it lasted all the day ‘cause neither knew the way.
The tortoise headed east where the rocks they were the least and he crawled across the sand like a turtle on the land.
The snail headed west where the moisture was the best and he slid right through the water like a playful little otter.
When chance there came a seal who was looking for a meal and because he was all wet he went and made a bet.
The one he made a bet with was a tabby known as Setwith who would sit upon the post and declare himself the most.
Now the sun was going down and the betters faces frowned for the racers on the ground were still not to be found
Then springing on a log was a little greenish frog who croaked right at the betters that they should go and learn their letters.
So the seal and the cat became quite indignant over that and they demanded now to know how the racers were so slow.
The frog he laughed in glee saying, “Matters not to me”, and the thing I laugh at most is there is no Sunday Post.
From The Tales of Whimsy, by Bevie James.
.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Assignment: Poe
Evil Editor has put out a new writing exercise. In honor of Edgar Allen Poe's 200th birthday anniversary, write (in 400 words or less) a short story in the Poe style.
As I told a friend of mine, it's been a while since I've read anything from Poe, so I may have to refresh myself on the style. I'm planning on making a submission, though I'm not planning on it being one of the best.
FairyHedgeHog has gone a writing proposal going, too. She calls it "Rabbit Hole Day". Actually, she didn't coin the phrase. I don't know who did. She posted a link to a blog in which the rules are spelled out.
"Let's have a day where nobody's life makes sense anymore, where any random LJ you click on will bring you some strange new tale. Let's all fall down the Rabbit Hole for 24 hours and see what's there. It will be beautiful."
I'm not sure was an "LJ" is, but FairyHedgeHog said to just replace "LJ" with "blog" and you'll be fine.
I'm going to give that one a go, too, only I'll probably do it on The Great Sea.
As I told a friend of mine, it's been a while since I've read anything from Poe, so I may have to refresh myself on the style. I'm planning on making a submission, though I'm not planning on it being one of the best.
FairyHedgeHog has gone a writing proposal going, too. She calls it "Rabbit Hole Day". Actually, she didn't coin the phrase. I don't know who did. She posted a link to a blog in which the rules are spelled out.
"Let's have a day where nobody's life makes sense anymore, where any random LJ you click on will bring you some strange new tale. Let's all fall down the Rabbit Hole for 24 hours and see what's there. It will be beautiful."
I'm not sure was an "LJ" is, but FairyHedgeHog said to just replace "LJ" with "blog" and you'll be fine.
I'm going to give that one a go, too, only I'll probably do it on The Great Sea.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
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