Without further adieu:
Thoughts? I'll edit my post later this evening with my own after my hands stop shaking; I weedeated (weedate?) today and I'm having a little more trouble typing than I thought I would.
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Alright, thoughts.
I haven't written much fiction. Or rather, I have--but not the kind that "counts." Yes, I wrote awful "novels" in middle and high school, and the occasional short story during college, and then a scrapped novel. It is only recently that I've really gotten my hands dirty with fiction writing, and I think that is only because the amount of fiction I've read has finally reached critical mass in my brain, and is beginning to overspill the boundaries of my skull.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Tuesday Teaser
Err...I'm afraid the only book my nose has been in today is the AP Stylebook *grin*, so I cheated and whipped out an oldie-but-a-goodie.
Any Whitman fans in the blogosphere? Show of hands, please? *looking intently around* Ahh, there you are. All the cool, baddass, readerly-and-writerly-type-people squished into the front row with your reading glasses and your awkward little ticks and your notepads. Okay, not all of you have reading glasses. I'm just projecting a little.
Anyway, since this is a poetry exerpt, I'm not going by sentences, just a few strophes:
"Recorders ages hence,
Come, I will take you down underneath this impassive exterior,
I will tell you what to say of me,
Publish my name and hang up my picture as that of the tenderest
lover,
The friend the lover's portraitl of whom his friend his lover was
fondest,
Who was not proud of his songs, but of the measureless ocean
of love within him, and freely pour'd it forth" --Recorders Ages Hence, in Leaves and Grass, by Walt Whitman
Any Whitman fans in the blogosphere? Show of hands, please? *looking intently around* Ahh, there you are. All the cool, baddass, readerly-and-writerly-type-people squished into the front row with your reading glasses and your awkward little ticks and your notepads. Okay, not all of you have reading glasses. I'm just projecting a little.
Anyway, since this is a poetry exerpt, I'm not going by sentences, just a few strophes:
"Recorders ages hence,
Come, I will take you down underneath this impassive exterior,
I will tell you what to say of me,
Publish my name and hang up my picture as that of the tenderest
lover,
The friend the lover's portraitl of whom his friend his lover was
fondest,
Who was not proud of his songs, but of the measureless ocean
of love within him, and freely pour'd it forth" --Recorders Ages Hence, in Leaves and Grass, by Walt Whitman
Upcoming Contests
I should have done this a while back, as a few of the deadlines are fast approaching! Ahh well, what good do shouldacouldawouldas do anybody?
I'll be creating a calendar page in a while, and will hopefully do a new contest update prior to the beginning of every month. If you read the list and remember one I've missed a/o faulty information a/ faulty links, let me know via comment and I'll edit the post to include it--and when I get the calendar page up and running, I'll mark it there as well. All monetary figures will be listed in USD unless I mention otherwise.
Onward and upward writers! Here's the list so far:
*SPECIAL NOTE: FIRST LISTING IS NOT A CONTEST*
Yahoo! Contributor Network September 11 "Share Your Story" ~~ For each entry, Yahoo! donates $10 to the 9/11 Memorial Fund. I'm mad at Yahoo! right now, but as long as this isn't bogus, it's a great cause. View info here: http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/newsroom/share-story-changed-since-9-11-223629538.html
The Galaxy Project Contest ~~ DEADLINE: Sept. 2. ENTRY FEE: Free? LENGTH: 15-20,000. PRIZE: $1,000 and publication. View contest info here: http://www.thegalaxyproject.com/
I'll be creating a calendar page in a while, and will hopefully do a new contest update prior to the beginning of every month. If you read the list and remember one I've missed a/o faulty information a/ faulty links, let me know via comment and I'll edit the post to include it--and when I get the calendar page up and running, I'll mark it there as well. All monetary figures will be listed in USD unless I mention otherwise.
Onward and upward writers! Here's the list so far:
*SPECIAL NOTE: FIRST LISTING IS NOT A CONTEST*
Yahoo! Contributor Network September 11 "Share Your Story" ~~ For each entry, Yahoo! donates $10 to the 9/11 Memorial Fund. I'm mad at Yahoo! right now, but as long as this isn't bogus, it's a great cause. View info here: http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/newsroom/share-story-changed-since-9-11-223629538.html
The Galaxy Project Contest ~~ DEADLINE: Sept. 2. ENTRY FEE: Free? LENGTH: 15-20,000. PRIZE: $1,000 and publication. View contest info here: http://www.thegalaxyproject.com/
Monday, August 29, 2011
A Note to Campaigners
...and other folks with great blogs:
I am semi-illiterate when it comes to this kind of "stuff." But I am learning! For those of you who use Wordpress, how in the world do I follow you? I don't do the Facebook thing (I know, I know, but you see, that hermitess, do-my-best-writing-while-living-under-a-rock streak is strong in me!), and want the blog updates and info to come to my Blogger dashboard, not my email. I shall be looking this up shortly, but if you have any tips, please pass them along!
Following aside, I'll be listing the sites in the right hand margin under a new blog roll. I'm going to try and do this as I visit individually, rather than all at once. If I haven't gotten to you yet, never fear; I shall!
If for some reason you don't see your site in the margin, or my little blank icon in the Followers listing on your page, drop me a comment and I'll troubleshoot, just in case.
 |
| What I would look like if I were a poorly drawn computer cartoon that lived in Paint. And didn't wear my hair in a mean librarian bun most days. Which I do. So there. |
And finally, a poem!
Something I threw together this weekend. First in a loooorrrng time. I wanted it to be all nice and neat and metered and whatnot, but that flew right out the window. *sigh* As you can probably tell. Tweaks are still in the shop.
think all jewelry is beautiful; all jewels divine.
It is not so. But when my fingertips flit-lit
upon the strands of fine gold heavy with crystals,
silicate soil bits still stylishly attached
to their tips, I could not hesitate. Bought one; slipped
it into my pocket, that refined Earthen bling.
No need for a whole plastic bag; it’s now cool
to “Go Green.” But that is not why I buy such things.
My mother’s main window back home is a wide yawn
of a bore, monstrously sized for a view comprised
entirely of highway for tourists. Across
its top there long have ranged the chunky, shiny hunks
of crystal that she loves so dearly, some fashioned
into teardrops, some stars, some awkward hearts, and some
plain and unadorned, content with hexagonal
superiority. There the afternoon light
bends though their depths and becomes a million different
colors. People say the spectrum of the rainbow
is redorangeyellowgreenblueandviolet.
This is inaccurate. A rainbow is dancing
continuity. This is what light becomes through
crystals; this live and dancing space, which, from the far
side, we cannot see. Our shadow will blot out light,
eclipse the sun, so that all we see is a rock,
dead, mom would say, as the proverbial doornail.
Crystal Quartz Penchant
In an overpriced apparel store I once saw
a beautiful display of necklaces. One wouldthink all jewelry is beautiful; all jewels divine.
It is not so. But when my fingertips flit-lit
upon the strands of fine gold heavy with crystals,
silicate soil bits still stylishly attached
to their tips, I could not hesitate. Bought one; slipped
it into my pocket, that refined Earthen bling.
No need for a whole plastic bag; it’s now cool
to “Go Green.” But that is not why I buy such things.
My mother’s main window back home is a wide yawn
of a bore, monstrously sized for a view comprised
entirely of highway for tourists. Across
its top there long have ranged the chunky, shiny hunks
of crystal that she loves so dearly, some fashioned
into teardrops, some stars, some awkward hearts, and some
plain and unadorned, content with hexagonal
superiority. There the afternoon light
bends though their depths and becomes a million different
colors. People say the spectrum of the rainbow
is redorangeyellowgreenblueandviolet.
This is inaccurate. A rainbow is dancing
continuity. This is what light becomes through
crystals; this live and dancing space, which, from the far
side, we cannot see. Our shadow will blot out light,
eclipse the sun, so that all we see is a rock,
dead, mom would say, as the proverbial doornail.
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Blog Campaign!
The Platform Building Campaign is this fantabulous idea aimed at helping like-minded writers mix and mingle and migrate. But don't take my word for it, read about it here: http://rachaelharrie.blogspot.com/p/writers-platform-building-crusade.html.
It's arranged into genre listings, and you can even pick more than one, I think. I chose the Short Story Writers Listing, and can't wait to get started. All the Campaigners I meet, I shall link to in the right hand margin of the page--it will be a work in progress (haven't even set it up yet, but will shortly), and I can't wait to get to everybody's pages!
I'm sure it's going to be a lot of work, and a lot of fun! The campaign runs all the way to Halloween, and you can sign onto a list until the end of this month. Then there will be three upcoming challenges... I've no idea what I've gotten myself into! Thanks to TCEer's Trisha and Madeline (see side bar for links), I've felt the need to become more involved. Darn you!--And thanks for the idea, which I promptly stole...
Saturday, August 27, 2011
TCE 34--Enough
Alright. So right now I am multi-tasking like a sunnofagun, and only have a chance to post the opening of my Chrysalis story. I'll be taking a rather liberal view of the prompt, but I tried three different (indeed, completely different) stories, and they all fell flat on their, uh, faces. Not that they have any. Faces, I mean. Whatever. And here we are...
Anyway, I shall be posting several things today, including the next portions of this story, so if you happen across this, and it's all nice and titled and happy and shiny with completion, count yourself lucky. Everybody else, sorry! ~
LATER EDIT: Very unhappy with the end. MrAAaaaghHH!
LATER EDIT: Very unhappy with the end. MrAAaaaghHH!
TCE prompt: "The first time I walked into that classroom was also the last."
Enough
Sometimes, there are situations that cannot be avoided. Conditions that ought to have been foreseeable, but weren’t. Waste that could have been restrained. Creatures to whom we never should have owed allegiance.
Existence is a tricky sort of situation.
I knew what the priest had done; heard the hushed suggestions to his master. Enough, he said. End them, he whispered. Forsake them all! With them, you shall never be at rest. Priest did not recall the echoes that abound in the vast halls and chambers of our Mother. His master heard him, yes. But so did others. So did I.
I did not necessarily think Priest was twisted or evil, but I did note the effect his sewn discord reaped. It was moments—or would that be years, or ages?—before we were assembled on the great battlefield, to make war against She-Who-Created-Us. But we had grown in power just as she. Our sons and daughters had wrought more havoc upon the inner plains of our Mother’s body than even she could have imagined; cyclones that were so destructive they formed a raucous music within their circling. And then we were born a king, strong, and goodly—when he could be—and true.
We are just the bastard children of her first consummation. Her first born, her first castaways, for we had killed her Consort, lest he destroy us all. She wielded vengeance as a tool for upheaval. Her minions, foul of face and limb, putrid to every sense and more, fed off her rage. They were called the Eleven Princes, by their side in truth, and by our side, in horror. For they were sent to destroy us.
This is the tale of the Battle, and of the time and that which was not time, which followed.
###
Existence is a tricky sort of situation.
I knew what the priest had done; heard the hushed suggestions to his master. Enough, he said. End them, he whispered. Forsake them all! With them, you shall never be at rest. Priest did not recall the echoes that abound in the vast halls and chambers of our Mother. His master heard him, yes. But so did others. So did I.
I did not necessarily think Priest was twisted or evil, but I did note the effect his sewn discord reaped. It was moments—or would that be years, or ages?—before we were assembled on the great battlefield, to make war against She-Who-Created-Us. But we had grown in power just as she. Our sons and daughters had wrought more havoc upon the inner plains of our Mother’s body than even she could have imagined; cyclones that were so destructive they formed a raucous music within their circling. And then we were born a king, strong, and goodly—when he could be—and true.
We are just the bastard children of her first consummation. Her first born, her first castaways, for we had killed her Consort, lest he destroy us all. She wielded vengeance as a tool for upheaval. Her minions, foul of face and limb, putrid to every sense and more, fed off her rage. They were called the Eleven Princes, by their side in truth, and by our side, in horror. For they were sent to destroy us.
This is the tale of the Battle, and of the time and that which was not time, which followed.
###
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