By Fred Fields
Standard advice to a writer is to write about what we know. A familiar event in all our lives is the death of a friend or family member. Being such a passion-filled subject, it requires special care, and sensitivity, but it also requires honesty.
Recent events in my life have caused me to examine this very special subject with more interest.
In my life, counting schools and the Army, I've lived in seven states. Three were actually "home", West Virginia, Arizona, and South Carolina, and South Carolina has been home for me and my family for the last half century.
Last week, my family suffered two losses. On Monday, February 13, my mother's best friend from West Virginia died, and on Saturday, February 18, my best friend from Arizona followed her.
It is said that absence makes the heart grow fonder. As with many old sayings, we nod and say, "There's a lot of truth in that." But, there really isn't.
Mother and I were saddened by the loss of our friends. But we were not affected as deeply as were the locals who lived close to them. We both have many happy memories shared with them, but they touched our lives so rarely in the last few years, that their influence has been reduced to nothing but those memories, not often recalled. "Out of sight, out of mind," is another, truer aphorism.
I'm surprised at how casually my life is influenced by these losses. Time was when either of them would have turned my world upside down for a week. Today it's a call to the family, a condolence note, a call to mutual friends, "Include me in on the flowers and food." I'm astonished at my insensitivity, my lack of feeling.
Actually, my sympathy for the surviving families and friends is stronger than the sense of my loss of a friend. Sooner or later, we all die. We must expect that.
As I get closer to my time, my attitude toward death becomes more one of acceptance, and less of fear.
But it's not a happy thought.
Showing posts with label Musings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Musings. Show all posts
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Sunday, December 26, 2010
A Writer’s Holiday Gift
By Ginny Padgett
Even though I consider myself a veteran writer, I have just been published for the first time under my own name in the Petigru Review, SCWW’s literary journal. So I guess, technically, I am considered a newbie in the writing/publishing game. I use the word, “game,” as euphuism for an artless business driven by the greed for cold cash.
I attended my first writers’ conference in October, and this is my ‘Aha Moment:’ I may be writing in the wrong genre. How can I tell? The answer seems to me that no one has yet bought what I have previously written. The story snippets I heard during a slush-pile session made me realize I may not be a story teller. Perhaps I’m more of an observer/reporter. Whatever the designation, I claimed myself a writer. Discovering my self confidence was worth the price of the conference registration.
Recently Janie Kronk sent out some words of wisdom to our chapter email group from a writer who knows his stuff. Probably most of you have seen this, but this is my holiday gift to those reading our blog and wondering if they are writers, if they could be writers, if they should try to be writers. We can all use the encouragement and inspiration all year long. Happy Holidays!
Even though I consider myself a veteran writer, I have just been published for the first time under my own name in the Petigru Review, SCWW’s literary journal. So I guess, technically, I am considered a newbie in the writing/publishing game. I use the word, “game,” as euphuism for an artless business driven by the greed for cold cash.
I attended my first writers’ conference in October, and this is my ‘Aha Moment:’ I may be writing in the wrong genre. How can I tell? The answer seems to me that no one has yet bought what I have previously written. The story snippets I heard during a slush-pile session made me realize I may not be a story teller. Perhaps I’m more of an observer/reporter. Whatever the designation, I claimed myself a writer. Discovering my self confidence was worth the price of the conference registration.
Recently Janie Kronk sent out some words of wisdom to our chapter email group from a writer who knows his stuff. Probably most of you have seen this, but this is my holiday gift to those reading our blog and wondering if they are writers, if they could be writers, if they should try to be writers. We can all use the encouragement and inspiration all year long. Happy Holidays!
Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story. It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through. - Ira Glas
Sunday, November 7, 2010
A Perfect Workshop
By Monet Jones
Many thousands of years ago, or so it seems, I graduated from Hannah High School. My graduating class consisted of twenty-one persons, fourteen girls, and seven boys. The curriculum in that small rural school was naturally limited. Two non-academic courses were considered mandatory; all girls were to take FHA, Future Homemakers of America, and all boys, FFA, Future Farmers of America.
The FFA proved to be an extraordinarily boring class except for three areas, each of which included a contest: electricity, public speaking, and cattle judging. That third area, cattle judging, has had a greater than expected impact on my life because of one learned principle. In order to judge or compare cattle or anything else, one must first determine a perfect example of that which is to be judged.
As one might suppose on reading the title of this article, I set out to describe the perfect writer’s workshop. I started by looking for a definition. Since I didn’t find a good one in my research, I made up my own and present it that my readers, both of you, might critique it.
I recently presented some material that connected two big scenes on my current novel. I had not spent as much time on it as I should have. The workshop members made that point very clear.
Many thousands of years ago, or so it seems, I graduated from Hannah High School. My graduating class consisted of twenty-one persons, fourteen girls, and seven boys. The curriculum in that small rural school was naturally limited. Two non-academic courses were considered mandatory; all girls were to take FHA, Future Homemakers of America, and all boys, FFA, Future Farmers of America.
The FFA proved to be an extraordinarily boring class except for three areas, each of which included a contest: electricity, public speaking, and cattle judging. That third area, cattle judging, has had a greater than expected impact on my life because of one learned principle. In order to judge or compare cattle or anything else, one must first determine a perfect example of that which is to be judged.
As one might suppose on reading the title of this article, I set out to describe the perfect writer’s workshop. I started by looking for a definition. Since I didn’t find a good one in my research, I made up my own and present it that my readers, both of you, might critique it.
An environment or gathering of respectful peers wherein one might use words to depict original concepts or events, and receive constructive nonjudgmental criticism of said depictions.For a participant to receive maximum benefit from a workshop, I believe one must be familiar, but not necessarily friends, with other members. My reasoning here is that in order for comments to be constructive, an evaluated writer must expect criticism from respected peers. If a writer chooses to use familiarity or intimidation to prevent criticism, the concept of a workshop is perverted.
I recently presented some material that connected two big scenes on my current novel. I had not spent as much time on it as I should have. The workshop members made that point very clear.
R - too many long sentences and holes in plotI think Columbia II workshop approaches perfection. I love the camaraderie as we get together but have no doubt the friendliest person there will savage my material if it’s not properly written. That is as it should be.
B - too many repetitions of same idea, POV errors
G2 - “that” not a good connector and two improbable scenes
K – ignorant of how young girls might react to a situation
L - didn’t like me, my work, or the horse I rode in on
D - helpful in showing proper paragraph separation and comma use
G - mixed in a positive comment with several faults
Sunday, August 29, 2010
The Writer's Gut
By Mayowa Atte
Not that kind of gut.
I am talking about that other writer’s gut. The writer’s instinct.
Among all the skills and talents a writer must possess to write well, few are as important, far-reaching and ethereal as instinct. What is it, this writer’s instinct? How do we cultivate it? How do we put it to good use?
Let us try a recipe. Take all the experiences that make a writer unique as a human being. Add a large helping of the story the writer wants to tell, plus an equal portion of all the writer knows of the writing craft. Blend vigorously.
What you have at the end is a writer’s instinct. It is what helps a writer choose between two or more equally applicable words, sentences, paragraphs, scenes, motivations, actions and consequences. All the ingredients blend into a fluid, personal and inspired inner compass that points the writer towards the true north of the story.
We cultivate the writer’s instinct by building up all the individual ingredients. By living full and vital lives that enrich our experience. By picking the right stories to tell. By reading and writing ceaselessly to better our craft.
How do we put our writing instincts to good use? By listening to them. There are countless moments when a writer’s gut feeling will directly contradict writing convention, the opinions of our editors, beta readers and fellow work shoppers. Our writing instincts should win a good portion of the time.
Why not all the time? Tis a fine line between trusting one’s instincts and being a writing egomaniac. Writers have to know when to accept criticism and feedback, when to ignore their instincts and gain new insights.
Your writing gut is right there. Cherish it, build it into the wonder of muscular magnificence that it is, and listen when it whispers.
Not that kind of gut.
I am talking about that other writer’s gut. The writer’s instinct.
Among all the skills and talents a writer must possess to write well, few are as important, far-reaching and ethereal as instinct. What is it, this writer’s instinct? How do we cultivate it? How do we put it to good use?
Let us try a recipe. Take all the experiences that make a writer unique as a human being. Add a large helping of the story the writer wants to tell, plus an equal portion of all the writer knows of the writing craft. Blend vigorously.
What you have at the end is a writer’s instinct. It is what helps a writer choose between two or more equally applicable words, sentences, paragraphs, scenes, motivations, actions and consequences. All the ingredients blend into a fluid, personal and inspired inner compass that points the writer towards the true north of the story.
We cultivate the writer’s instinct by building up all the individual ingredients. By living full and vital lives that enrich our experience. By picking the right stories to tell. By reading and writing ceaselessly to better our craft.
How do we put our writing instincts to good use? By listening to them. There are countless moments when a writer’s gut feeling will directly contradict writing convention, the opinions of our editors, beta readers and fellow work shoppers. Our writing instincts should win a good portion of the time.
Why not all the time? Tis a fine line between trusting one’s instincts and being a writing egomaniac. Writers have to know when to accept criticism and feedback, when to ignore their instincts and gain new insights.
Your writing gut is right there. Cherish it, build it into the wonder of muscular magnificence that it is, and listen when it whispers.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Enslaved to Confusion
By Deborah Wright Yoho
As a writer, I feel buffeted by the pressures of globalization. Ever since I read Thomas Friedman’s iconic books on the subject, daily I feel like I am leaning into the wind, weathering the storms of merciless change. Deadlines. Competitions. Places to go and things to do if I ever hope to be published. Yet writing for me requires a slow pace and a measure of peace and quiet. I’d like to think of my writing as a refuge, at least a pause that refreshes. But more and more the mechanics of modern life reduce my writing time to a few moments, like taking a vitamin pill with the hope I’ll have more energy later.
My new intellectual hobby is keeping up with the effects of globalization. I am enslaved to perpetual confusion, dealing with the unrelenting learning curve required to operate my demon computer. I call it the Machine, and I refuse to talk to it.To do so would confirm the presence of another life form struggling to communicate with me in an alien language. While I know it is useless to ignore its demands, I maintain the delusion that the human mind by default should function as master over all machines. Entities with an assertive consciousness require respect I refuse to offer.
The joy of maintaining a connection to friends and family has become a chore. Nobody is ever home, cell phones are unreliable, email addresses constantly change, and who has the time for snail mail? Facebook just won’t cut it. I must plan for a three-day delay trying to reach anybody at all. Not that I am any different. People get mad at me if I don’t return their message in less than 24 hours. Half the time I want the world to just go away and the rest of the time I’m chasing after it.
My private life as a reader has been invaded. Should I buy a Kindle? Must I? Probably. The cost to feed a two-books-a-week habit is bounding away from me. I can’t indulge my preference for ink on paper much longer unless I want to spend more time with the Machine managing a waiting list at the library.
I suspect those who cherish the deliberative writing process, considering, drafting, editing, and then doing it all over again before releasing their thoughts to others, could someday become an extinct species.
As a writer, I feel buffeted by the pressures of globalization. Ever since I read Thomas Friedman’s iconic books on the subject, daily I feel like I am leaning into the wind, weathering the storms of merciless change. Deadlines. Competitions. Places to go and things to do if I ever hope to be published. Yet writing for me requires a slow pace and a measure of peace and quiet. I’d like to think of my writing as a refuge, at least a pause that refreshes. But more and more the mechanics of modern life reduce my writing time to a few moments, like taking a vitamin pill with the hope I’ll have more energy later.
My new intellectual hobby is keeping up with the effects of globalization. I am enslaved to perpetual confusion, dealing with the unrelenting learning curve required to operate my demon computer. I call it the Machine, and I refuse to talk to it.To do so would confirm the presence of another life form struggling to communicate with me in an alien language. While I know it is useless to ignore its demands, I maintain the delusion that the human mind by default should function as master over all machines. Entities with an assertive consciousness require respect I refuse to offer.
The joy of maintaining a connection to friends and family has become a chore. Nobody is ever home, cell phones are unreliable, email addresses constantly change, and who has the time for snail mail? Facebook just won’t cut it. I must plan for a three-day delay trying to reach anybody at all. Not that I am any different. People get mad at me if I don’t return their message in less than 24 hours. Half the time I want the world to just go away and the rest of the time I’m chasing after it.
My private life as a reader has been invaded. Should I buy a Kindle? Must I? Probably. The cost to feed a two-books-a-week habit is bounding away from me. I can’t indulge my preference for ink on paper much longer unless I want to spend more time with the Machine managing a waiting list at the library.
I suspect those who cherish the deliberative writing process, considering, drafting, editing, and then doing it all over again before releasing their thoughts to others, could someday become an extinct species.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Thinking Ahead in Another Language
By Ilmars Birznieks
Repeatedly educators and parents in our country question the
relevancy of foreign languages in schools. Their argument is that
practically in every foreign country we can get by with English.
Consequently, they propagate the idea that the learning of a foreign
language is a waste of time.
The idea that foreign languages are irrelevant and their learning
a waste of time ignores the facts. English is not spoken in every
country. It only appears that way to American tourists. People in
other countries naturally prefer to talk or negotiate in their own
language, a matter of national pride. However, in many instances U.S.
media, businessmen, and government officials working in other
countries are at a disadvantage because they cannot speak the language
of the country in which they work and live. They have to employ
translators, who do not always serve the best interest of their
employers, for faulty translations occur frequently.
Our educators and parents should seriously reconsider their
attitude towards requiring students to learn foreign languages at an
early age. Because of the global economy, which will become even more
global in the future, we will have more foreign involvement not less.
In preparing our students for that kind of future, we must not
handicap them. We must recognize that many of them, like it or not,
will have to work for a foreign company here or overseas. For them
the ability to speak a foreign language will be a distinct advantage.
Repeatedly educators and parents in our country question the
relevancy of foreign languages in schools. Their argument is that
practically in every foreign country we can get by with English.
Consequently, they propagate the idea that the learning of a foreign
language is a waste of time.
The idea that foreign languages are irrelevant and their learning
a waste of time ignores the facts. English is not spoken in every
country. It only appears that way to American tourists. People in
other countries naturally prefer to talk or negotiate in their own
language, a matter of national pride. However, in many instances U.S.
media, businessmen, and government officials working in other
countries are at a disadvantage because they cannot speak the language
of the country in which they work and live. They have to employ
translators, who do not always serve the best interest of their
employers, for faulty translations occur frequently.
Our educators and parents should seriously reconsider their
attitude towards requiring students to learn foreign languages at an
early age. Because of the global economy, which will become even more
global in the future, we will have more foreign involvement not less.
In preparing our students for that kind of future, we must not
handicap them. We must recognize that many of them, like it or not,
will have to work for a foreign company here or overseas. For them
the ability to speak a foreign language will be a distinct advantage.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Writing Is Like Gardening
By Monet M. Jones
As I approach the nether years of life, I have learned that the best way to garden is to let my son do it while I give him sage advice and praise. However, gardening is still an important part of my life and the obvious similarities with writing intrigue me.
A serious gardener is always planting seeds into small peat pots in anticipation of the next growing season.
A writer is constantly observing and cataloguing characters and situations in anticipation of the next story.
A gardener must decide where to plant. This decision is contingent on many factors: available land, sunlight, drainage, etc.
An author must decide what to write. This decision is contingent on many factors: area of expertise, audience, saturation, etc.
A gardener plants more seed than needed; this necessitates thinning (the very painful process of destroying some of the precious babies simply because they are too many).
A writer writes much more than needed; this necessitates self-editing (the very painful process of destroying some of the precious babies simply because they are too many).
A gardener prunes the vine for better fruit; this involves cutting away part of the vine.
A writer submits his work to peer review; this involves cutting away part of one’s soul.
A gardener must contend with insects and disease.
An author must use proper grammar and a spell checker.
A gardener must eventually destroy the plants and till the soil.
A writer must eventually submit to the ministrations of an editor.
A gardener with a good crop enjoys the fruits of his labor, and preserves food for the coming year.
A writer with a good story submits it to a publisher, who casually tears it apart and tosses it into the trash, then chortles as she sends a form letter of rejection, indicating that the company is not interested in publishing such a story at this time.
As I approach the nether years of life, I have learned that the best way to garden is to let my son do it while I give him sage advice and praise. However, gardening is still an important part of my life and the obvious similarities with writing intrigue me.
A serious gardener is always planting seeds into small peat pots in anticipation of the next growing season.
A writer is constantly observing and cataloguing characters and situations in anticipation of the next story.
A gardener must decide where to plant. This decision is contingent on many factors: available land, sunlight, drainage, etc.
An author must decide what to write. This decision is contingent on many factors: area of expertise, audience, saturation, etc.
A gardener plants more seed than needed; this necessitates thinning (the very painful process of destroying some of the precious babies simply because they are too many).
A writer writes much more than needed; this necessitates self-editing (the very painful process of destroying some of the precious babies simply because they are too many).
A gardener prunes the vine for better fruit; this involves cutting away part of the vine.
A writer submits his work to peer review; this involves cutting away part of one’s soul.
A gardener must contend with insects and disease.
An author must use proper grammar and a spell checker.
A gardener must eventually destroy the plants and till the soil.
A writer must eventually submit to the ministrations of an editor.
A gardener with a good crop enjoys the fruits of his labor, and preserves food for the coming year.
A writer with a good story submits it to a publisher, who casually tears it apart and tosses it into the trash, then chortles as she sends a form letter of rejection, indicating that the company is not interested in publishing such a story at this time.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
An Outsider Asks: What Is Southern Lit?
By Janie Kronk
“You learn a lot about where you’re from by learning about someplace new.”
These words were spoken to me by my boss in Ohio, shortly before I transplanted myself south for graduate school. Taking this statement to heart, I’ve done my best to be a good pupil while living here, learning about “The South” and trying to piece together what it teaches me about the north.
There are many aspects of Southern living to hold up in comparison to what I knew back home: Southern Architecture, Southern Cuisine, Southern Literature. This last item on the list is of particular interest to me. While it is easy to see the influence of climate and history in the buildings along the coast, and hard to argue with the zeal for barbeque that permeates the region, I have a little more trouble recognizing what makes writing “Southern.” Is it literature that takes place in the South? Written by Southerners? Or is writing made Southern by the presence of certain thematic elements? If so, what are those elements?
The tradition of southern literature includes greats such as William Faulkner, Truman Capote, Harper Lee, Mark Twain and many others. There are anthologies published to highlight the work of contemporary Southern writers. I must admit, I have not witnessed quite the hype over a tradition of Midwestern literature, even though Ohio alone claims authors such as James Thurber, Sherwood Anderson, and Paul Laurence Dunbar.
For a time, I thought this may have something to do with my home region being part of “Middle America” – thus having no distinctive character of its own around which to form a literary culture. Still – and this may just be because it is “home” – I do find something unique about the blend of farm and factory, rivers, cities, and cornfields. But the sense of identity with the place is more subdued than what I have witnessed in The South.
So far, the thing that strikes me as being most unique about The South is not its food, its cities, or its literature. It’s not the manners, and it’s not the hot summers. It’s the sense of being Southern that Southerners seem to have.
This sense of uniqueness is there even though modern life has erased many of the boundaries that define one place from another – throughout the country we see the same strip malls and the same sprawl; we have the same food shipped to us in our grocery stores; we have access to the same information over the internet and in our libraries and bookstores. Despite everywhere becoming more and more the same, there still seems to be a consensus: something is different about The South.
This different-ness holds up as writers continue to fabricate stories. But what makes these stories different? Maybe Southern Literature in the 21st century is itself a fabrication – not in the sense of being false, but in the sense of being a built thing – an identity constructed again and again with each telling of a new tale while other distinctions vanish with the shift to a global culture.
“You learn a lot about where you’re from by learning about someplace new.”
These words were spoken to me by my boss in Ohio, shortly before I transplanted myself south for graduate school. Taking this statement to heart, I’ve done my best to be a good pupil while living here, learning about “The South” and trying to piece together what it teaches me about the north.
There are many aspects of Southern living to hold up in comparison to what I knew back home: Southern Architecture, Southern Cuisine, Southern Literature. This last item on the list is of particular interest to me. While it is easy to see the influence of climate and history in the buildings along the coast, and hard to argue with the zeal for barbeque that permeates the region, I have a little more trouble recognizing what makes writing “Southern.” Is it literature that takes place in the South? Written by Southerners? Or is writing made Southern by the presence of certain thematic elements? If so, what are those elements?
The tradition of southern literature includes greats such as William Faulkner, Truman Capote, Harper Lee, Mark Twain and many others. There are anthologies published to highlight the work of contemporary Southern writers. I must admit, I have not witnessed quite the hype over a tradition of Midwestern literature, even though Ohio alone claims authors such as James Thurber, Sherwood Anderson, and Paul Laurence Dunbar.
For a time, I thought this may have something to do with my home region being part of “Middle America” – thus having no distinctive character of its own around which to form a literary culture. Still – and this may just be because it is “home” – I do find something unique about the blend of farm and factory, rivers, cities, and cornfields. But the sense of identity with the place is more subdued than what I have witnessed in The South.
So far, the thing that strikes me as being most unique about The South is not its food, its cities, or its literature. It’s not the manners, and it’s not the hot summers. It’s the sense of being Southern that Southerners seem to have.
This sense of uniqueness is there even though modern life has erased many of the boundaries that define one place from another – throughout the country we see the same strip malls and the same sprawl; we have the same food shipped to us in our grocery stores; we have access to the same information over the internet and in our libraries and bookstores. Despite everywhere becoming more and more the same, there still seems to be a consensus: something is different about The South.
This different-ness holds up as writers continue to fabricate stories. But what makes these stories different? Maybe Southern Literature in the 21st century is itself a fabrication – not in the sense of being false, but in the sense of being a built thing – an identity constructed again and again with each telling of a new tale while other distinctions vanish with the shift to a global culture.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Literary Impotence
By Ginny Padgett
I have an embarrassing condition…submission anxiety.
I revealed my secret to a couple of my fellow workshoppers, and they seemed amazed. “That’s silly,” one said. “You NEED to have at least 1,000 rejection slips before you can consider yourself a real writer.” “Just do it!” was the advice of another. “How can you read a sex scene aloud to us and be too shy to send a submission for publication consideration?”
Perhaps this is a silly situation. I am fairly confident in my wordsmith skills, in my ability to create realistic characters and vivid settings, and in making transitions for a good flow.
On the other hand, I get bogged down in descriptions, too much detail, and backstory dump. These stumbling blocks derail the progress of my story. Herein lies the crux of my writing dilemma, I think. Could my focus on the craft of writing be covering up the fact that I haven’t found the story I need to tell? Or maybe I have and haven’t found the magic balance of theme, plot, story line, character, and setting. I may need one of Shakespeare’s witches with bubbling cauldron to make this divination, or…
Should I follow Dr. Faustus’ Plan for Success?
Would a 12-step program help?
Talk therapy?
Keep writing and buy stamps and manila envelopes?
I know which option is the only answer, but I wish there were an easier way to overcome my literary impotence, brought on by submission anxiety and writer’s block (Yes, I suffer from that one, too!). Aaah…if only there were a little blue pill to painlessly pump up my inept ramblings and push them out as published works.
I have an embarrassing condition…submission anxiety.
I revealed my secret to a couple of my fellow workshoppers, and they seemed amazed. “That’s silly,” one said. “You NEED to have at least 1,000 rejection slips before you can consider yourself a real writer.” “Just do it!” was the advice of another. “How can you read a sex scene aloud to us and be too shy to send a submission for publication consideration?”
Perhaps this is a silly situation. I am fairly confident in my wordsmith skills, in my ability to create realistic characters and vivid settings, and in making transitions for a good flow.
On the other hand, I get bogged down in descriptions, too much detail, and backstory dump. These stumbling blocks derail the progress of my story. Herein lies the crux of my writing dilemma, I think. Could my focus on the craft of writing be covering up the fact that I haven’t found the story I need to tell? Or maybe I have and haven’t found the magic balance of theme, plot, story line, character, and setting. I may need one of Shakespeare’s witches with bubbling cauldron to make this divination, or…
Should I follow Dr. Faustus’ Plan for Success?
Would a 12-step program help?
Talk therapy?
Keep writing and buy stamps and manila envelopes?
I know which option is the only answer, but I wish there were an easier way to overcome my literary impotence, brought on by submission anxiety and writer’s block (Yes, I suffer from that one, too!). Aaah…if only there were a little blue pill to painlessly pump up my inept ramblings and push them out as published works.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Happy New Year!
By Celinda Barefield
So, here it is, New Year's Eve. I’m sitting here thinking about the year to come and everything that happened in 2009. At the same time I’m remembering something that was broadcast about tonight being a blue moon night. The song, “Blue Moon,” is stuck in my head. Well, of all things, it’s not that bad for New Year’s.
A blue moon only happens about every two-and-a-half years. Wow. Imagine how many New Year’s resolutions were accomplished and abandoned between this blue moon and the last.
What did you accomplish? Have you written that book yet? I know I didn’t. I wish I could say that I had, that the novel is complete and on its way to a publisher near you. Unfortunately it isn’t. It’s still sitting in my mind gathering dust, waiting to be told.
That’s my story. What about you? I challenge you in this new year to look at all your unfinished projects and those you did complete and then reflect on what is important. Set your New Year’s resolution. Even if you don’t totally follow through, what you do get done could be amazing. As a new blue moon rises, so will the feelings of accomplishment in knowing you’ve completed a number of goals.
Happy New Year! May 2010 hold something special for you and yours.
So, here it is, New Year's Eve. I’m sitting here thinking about the year to come and everything that happened in 2009. At the same time I’m remembering something that was broadcast about tonight being a blue moon night. The song, “Blue Moon,” is stuck in my head. Well, of all things, it’s not that bad for New Year’s.
A blue moon only happens about every two-and-a-half years. Wow. Imagine how many New Year’s resolutions were accomplished and abandoned between this blue moon and the last.
What did you accomplish? Have you written that book yet? I know I didn’t. I wish I could say that I had, that the novel is complete and on its way to a publisher near you. Unfortunately it isn’t. It’s still sitting in my mind gathering dust, waiting to be told.
That’s my story. What about you? I challenge you in this new year to look at all your unfinished projects and those you did complete and then reflect on what is important. Set your New Year’s resolution. Even if you don’t totally follow through, what you do get done could be amazing. As a new blue moon rises, so will the feelings of accomplishment in knowing you’ve completed a number of goals.
Happy New Year! May 2010 hold something special for you and yours.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Less Than Sublime is an Almost Rhyme
By David Sennema
Call me crazy, eccentric, or an old fuddy-duddy if you want, but I've
got a problem with people who write verse or ads or songs that purport to rhyme but don't. I call them "almost rhymes" but nearly, faulty, flawed, defective, deficient or not quite, would do just as well.
Just listen closely the next time you hear someone singing a song
written in the last ten or twenty years and you'll see what I mean. Those turkeys are trying to pass off as rhyming all kinds of words that vaguely sound like each other. They contend, for instance, that comin' rhymes with gunnin', Atlanta with banana, hurt with work, cats with that, chill with build, and on and on.
Mr. Webster, who presumably still has some credibility as an expert in
the matter, tells us that a rhyme is "a piece of verse, or poem, in which
there is a regular recurrence of corresponding sounds, esp. at the ends of lines." I am here to declare that "th" and "st" are not corresponding sounds.
Of course there are those who fudge the rhyming by indulging in a practice, represented by the horrible word, “assonance,” which is defined as “a partial rhyme in which the stressed vowel sounds are alike but the consonant sounds are unlike, as in late and make." Partial rhyme indeed!
Woe is me, what a legacy we're losing. Think of some of the great
lyricists of the past and what they were able to do with words. Do you
remember the Gershwins and their wonderful, lovely, rhyming words?
Or Cole Porter?
And then there was the poet Ogden Nash who won me over with this
little two-liner:
The limerick is often looked down upon as the red-headed stepchild of
verse, but the writers, often anonymous, knew how to rhyme not only the first, second, and fifth lines with each other, but also the third line with the fourth.
Here's another example of rhyming-with-a-smile by Ogden Nash.
Do me this little favor. If you're planning on doing some writing,
and that writing requires rhyming, let me urge you to stop by your local
bookstore and pick up a rhyming dictionary. It will make you a better person and save me a lot of grief.
Call me crazy, eccentric, or an old fuddy-duddy if you want, but I've
got a problem with people who write verse or ads or songs that purport to rhyme but don't. I call them "almost rhymes" but nearly, faulty, flawed, defective, deficient or not quite, would do just as well.
Just listen closely the next time you hear someone singing a song
written in the last ten or twenty years and you'll see what I mean. Those turkeys are trying to pass off as rhyming all kinds of words that vaguely sound like each other. They contend, for instance, that comin' rhymes with gunnin', Atlanta with banana, hurt with work, cats with that, chill with build, and on and on.
Mr. Webster, who presumably still has some credibility as an expert in
the matter, tells us that a rhyme is "a piece of verse, or poem, in which
there is a regular recurrence of corresponding sounds, esp. at the ends of lines." I am here to declare that "th" and "st" are not corresponding sounds.
Of course there are those who fudge the rhyming by indulging in a practice, represented by the horrible word, “assonance,” which is defined as “a partial rhyme in which the stressed vowel sounds are alike but the consonant sounds are unlike, as in late and make." Partial rhyme indeed!
Woe is me, what a legacy we're losing. Think of some of the great
lyricists of the past and what they were able to do with words. Do you
remember the Gershwins and their wonderful, lovely, rhyming words?
Embrace me, my sweet embraceable you,
Embrace me, you irreplaceable you.
Or Cole Porter?
You're the top! You're the Colosseum,
You're the top! You're the Louvre Museum.
And then there was the poet Ogden Nash who won me over with this
little two-liner:
Candy is dandy,
But liquor is quicker.
The limerick is often looked down upon as the red-headed stepchild of
verse, but the writers, often anonymous, knew how to rhyme not only the first, second, and fifth lines with each other, but also the third line with the fourth.
A collegiate damsel named Breeze,
Weighed down by B.A.'s and Litt. D.'s,
Collapsed from the strain.
Alas, it was plain
She was killing herself by degrees.
Here's another example of rhyming-with-a-smile by Ogden Nash.
THE TERMITE
Some primal termite knocked on wood
And tasted it, and found it good,
And that is why your cousin May
Fell through the parlor floor today.
Do me this little favor. If you're planning on doing some writing,
and that writing requires rhyming, let me urge you to stop by your local
bookstore and pick up a rhyming dictionary. It will make you a better person and save me a lot of grief.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
When Inspiration Fades to Intimidation
By Beth Cotten
Many years ago when I was in high school, I wrote a poem that was chosen to be published in an annual review of high school students throughout the city. The submissions varied and included poetry, essays, short stories, and other types of short literary works. The review itself was small and though I can’t recall with certainty, it seems there were less than fifty submissions that made it into the booklet. I believe the name of the booklet was "The Quill." All students whose work was selected were invited by the sponsoring association to an evening event to honor the participants and winners. We were asked to dress for the occasion, which translated into clothes you would wear to church. I was excited and proud to be included.
My English teacher had encouraged the students in my class to submit something. My poem was about a fawn, standing in a forest, alone on a misty morning. I can’t find a copy of the poem and can’t even recall the title of the poem, much less the poem itself. I do recall it rhymed and had about four stanzas. I kept it for many years in my hope chest with other "important" papers; one of which was the Certificate of Award for my poem.
Since I became of member of SCWW, I have thought occasionally of that poem. I have even put together random thoughts about "poetic" issues I might choose to write about. But after trying to put these ideas into a written format, and reflecting on some of the poetry which our members have written and read to us during our workshops, I feel a sense of hopelessness to even begin to tackle such an effort. We have some TERRIFIC poets in our midst! Look at those who have had their poetry published! Their writings are beautiful and sensitive and inspirational. As I listen to these works, my enthusiasm fades to hesitation and my inspiration to intimidation.
Many years ago when I was in high school, I wrote a poem that was chosen to be published in an annual review of high school students throughout the city. The submissions varied and included poetry, essays, short stories, and other types of short literary works. The review itself was small and though I can’t recall with certainty, it seems there were less than fifty submissions that made it into the booklet. I believe the name of the booklet was "The Quill." All students whose work was selected were invited by the sponsoring association to an evening event to honor the participants and winners. We were asked to dress for the occasion, which translated into clothes you would wear to church. I was excited and proud to be included.
My English teacher had encouraged the students in my class to submit something. My poem was about a fawn, standing in a forest, alone on a misty morning. I can’t find a copy of the poem and can’t even recall the title of the poem, much less the poem itself. I do recall it rhymed and had about four stanzas. I kept it for many years in my hope chest with other "important" papers; one of which was the Certificate of Award for my poem.
Since I became of member of SCWW, I have thought occasionally of that poem. I have even put together random thoughts about "poetic" issues I might choose to write about. But after trying to put these ideas into a written format, and reflecting on some of the poetry which our members have written and read to us during our workshops, I feel a sense of hopelessness to even begin to tackle such an effort. We have some TERRIFIC poets in our midst! Look at those who have had their poetry published! Their writings are beautiful and sensitive and inspirational. As I listen to these works, my enthusiasm fades to hesitation and my inspiration to intimidation.
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