(Inspired by a conversation I had with my brother, Kyle...)
It gets worse. When you start to put it down on paper, it grows into something far more frightening. More. It grows into something much like a heart beat, or like a living, breathing lung. “Choosing the Names” would sound appropriate if it wasn’t the other way around. Christening characters isn’t so much a simple matter of choosing a name out of a name book, but rather something of the opposite. I could have a list of ten names, all of which I love, but my character wants nothing to do with them. I have sometimes “chosen” a name that I would never in a million years name my own child, but for some reason fits perfectly with the character I’ve created. I seem to have an extremely limited amount of control on the matter. It’s almost… supernatural. “The wand chooses the wizard,” and that sort of thing. And once they’re christened? There’s no turning back. They’ve been born, and you’re stuck with them. Sometimes it’s a good thing, but sometimes they end up failing you and you wish you never gave birth to them at all. Cliché metaphor, but there’s no better way to explain it. Or? Maybe there is.
Mary Shelley knew a thing or two about it. Dr. Frankenstein didn’t exactly give birth to his creation, but he definitely rose it into being and left it to the world to decide if it was worthy of existing or not. Sometimes, writing a story feels not too far different than that. ‘Not too far different than trying to play God. Or? Learning to accept the fact that we may, just might, be made in His image after all. We’re creators too, right? As a writer I create characters in my own image all the time. Every vigilante, hero, villain, protagonist, antagonist, sibling, goddess, neighbor, talking fox and healing goblin, have all been created with different pieces of my soul. The second I put quotation marks around my first piece of dialog I come to terms with the fact that I’ve now created a separate being, and there’s now a set of rules to follow in how to go about making them act, speak, and perform correctly. I can’t make this character act anyway I want it too, say whatever I want it to, or behave any way I want it to. No. They have a back-story now, a family that has made them a certain way, a best friend that fills in a void, a neighborhood or environment that has led them down a specific way of responding to life. If I don’t follow the rules, I ruin my creation.
It’s a strange experience that, truth be told, only other story tellers, artists, and writers of the sort will probably understand. Others might just suggest a good psychiatrist… And there are times, I’ll admit, that I feel the urge to comply with the suggestion. I often feel the need to shrink my picture shows down closer to reality, and I often wonder what would happen if I was put on a pill to make them all go away. My daydreaming sometimes rules and gets in the way of my life. All these living, breathing characters walking around in my skull: it’s a little distracting.
Sometimes, when people talk to me they often say a word or a phrase that triggers something in my brain to take that word or phrase and run with it. My brain turns that word into something more and before you know it, as my friend is talking to me, my physical eyesight has disappeared, my consciousness is on autopilot, and I’m now in my head working out a storyline, or recapping a childhood memory, or standing on stage in a comedy club totally bringing down the house.
This happens a lot.
During movies, during television, during school (when I used to suffer through it), during conversations, during projects, during writing, during going to the bathroom, during showering, during doing laundry, during reading, during cleaning…
The word “during” is now sounding quite strange and funny to me (especially the “during doing laundry” part), and I’m tempted to switch gears and talk about the sound and rhythm of words and why and how they make us feel certain emotions. At the same time I want to talk about how funny it is to say the same word over and over and over again, and then actually say that word over and over again in hopes of getting a reaction from the audience (“doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody, doody…”), and then tap on the microphone and say, “Hey? Is this thing on?”
But that would clarify my need to be on a pill.
Focus.
Back to Frankenstein.
What was I talking about before I diagnosed myself with ADD?
Creation. Stories. Rules. Living, breathing lungs and heart beats. “We think you need to see a psychiatrist.”
Right.
I’m too bored now to finish what I was saying. I began this with a point, I did. Uuh… Writers playing God. Or, writers accepting that human beings are indeed created in His image. Names. Christening. Bringing it all to life. Rules popping into existence. Rules that must be followed lest there be consequences. Intuitively knowing what those rules are and following them, no matter how bad of a speller you are or how often your word usage is mixed up and backwards (possible dyslexia diagnoses coming up here; I’m talkin about myself in third person in case you didn’t realize…), or how long your freaking run-on sentences run on. I truly believe that storytelling has more to do with instinct, a sixth sense and over-awareness of your existence, and the ability to organize the chaotic picture shows that run amuck through your skull all day long than it does with anything else. Imagination is both a blessing and a curse. A tool, and a disease. Both a distraction from reality, and? Let’s face it: a way to get filthy rich. Good grief, what would happen if they put me on a pill? I’m hanging onto the chaos in hopes it someday makes me rich. How’s that for coming full circle? (Note sarcasm). Writing. Sometimes the chaos reigns. This entry was terrible, but I’m posting it anyway because I’m bored, and? There’s a little part of me that wonders (and is hoping with a pathetic need for self approval) if I’ll like it when I read it again later… Fat chance, though. If I hate it now, I will hate it later. Hmm. Maybe next entry will be about a writer’s natural talent for self loathing….
*I wrote this in December...am now deciding to post it....
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Thursday, March 4, 2010
I Cannot Apologize
There is a giant gap between my big toe and the one next to it.
And I’m not sorry for it at all.
My hips and thighs are wide and curvy, and if I was 5’10” they would fit the approximated womanly perfection...but I’m 4’11”.
And I have no intention of apologizing for it.
I don’t have perfect, straight teeth, and my nose is a little pointy, and my head is sort of small. My hair is wild, curly, and hard to tame, and I get a zit or two (or more…) on the back of my shoulders when I sweat a lot. I have love handles that love my figure too much to let go, and my shoulders are so puny they can fit into children’s clothing. My voice isn’t high, feminine, and cute, and when I don’t smile I look like I could murder someone. My laugh isn’t something I get compliments on, and my rear end was the ultimate inspiration for Queen’s “Fat Bottom Girls”.
And I’m not sorry for any of it.
I don’t wear stilettos, and I stay away from pink lipstick, but I’m just as pink as the rest of them.
I don’t like diamonds, and I don’t like white, but I’m just as marriageable as the rest of them.
I don’t wear skinny jeans, mini skirts, or knee high boots, but I’m just as sexy as the rest of them.
My age is starting to show, and I’m not sorry for it.
I defy all rules that imply and encourage anyone (man or woman) to be something they’re not just to impress the opposite sex. I defy all rules that try to govern a shallow society of frivolity, of expected intense unattainable fantasies, and of outrageously, unjustified expectations of human beings.
I defy anyone who tells me whether by word or by judgmental glance that I am not good enough to be with someone who is as equally amazing as I am.
I am stout hearted, honest, and unforgettable.
I am intelligent, powerful, and unique.
I am desirable, maternal, and generous.
I am talented, evolved, and head strong. I am stubborn, proud, and temperamental. I am messy, quiet, and passionate. I am funny, obvious, and blunt.
I tame pigs and gents and fools, but I can’t tame myself.
I harass the bullies, but often bully myself.
I throw things when I’m angry, but I’m soft as a lamb.
I have a long list of bizarre phobias, but I’m generally fearless.
I’m a walking contradiction. I am a woman. I am human.
I am amazing, and I deserve amazing.
And I am not sorry for it. Love me or don’t. Want me or not. I am what I am, and I make no apologies.
And I’m not sorry for it at all.
My hips and thighs are wide and curvy, and if I was 5’10” they would fit the approximated womanly perfection...but I’m 4’11”.
And I have no intention of apologizing for it.
I don’t have perfect, straight teeth, and my nose is a little pointy, and my head is sort of small. My hair is wild, curly, and hard to tame, and I get a zit or two (or more…) on the back of my shoulders when I sweat a lot. I have love handles that love my figure too much to let go, and my shoulders are so puny they can fit into children’s clothing. My voice isn’t high, feminine, and cute, and when I don’t smile I look like I could murder someone. My laugh isn’t something I get compliments on, and my rear end was the ultimate inspiration for Queen’s “Fat Bottom Girls”.
And I’m not sorry for any of it.
I don’t wear stilettos, and I stay away from pink lipstick, but I’m just as pink as the rest of them.
I don’t like diamonds, and I don’t like white, but I’m just as marriageable as the rest of them.
I don’t wear skinny jeans, mini skirts, or knee high boots, but I’m just as sexy as the rest of them.
My age is starting to show, and I’m not sorry for it.
I defy all rules that imply and encourage anyone (man or woman) to be something they’re not just to impress the opposite sex. I defy all rules that try to govern a shallow society of frivolity, of expected intense unattainable fantasies, and of outrageously, unjustified expectations of human beings.
I defy anyone who tells me whether by word or by judgmental glance that I am not good enough to be with someone who is as equally amazing as I am.
I am stout hearted, honest, and unforgettable.
I am intelligent, powerful, and unique.
I am desirable, maternal, and generous.
I am talented, evolved, and head strong. I am stubborn, proud, and temperamental. I am messy, quiet, and passionate. I am funny, obvious, and blunt.
I tame pigs and gents and fools, but I can’t tame myself.
I harass the bullies, but often bully myself.
I throw things when I’m angry, but I’m soft as a lamb.
I have a long list of bizarre phobias, but I’m generally fearless.
I’m a walking contradiction. I am a woman. I am human.
I am amazing, and I deserve amazing.
And I am not sorry for it. Love me or don’t. Want me or not. I am what I am, and I make no apologies.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Our House
Dedicated to:
All who have lost their homes in this recession, and furthermore those who have lost them because of the stubborn, ill-compassionate, rotten mortgage companies and the people that run them. This is especially dedicated to Heidi and Amy. If I had been blessed with riches, I would’ve saved your homes…
Our House
I can still see the evening summer sunlight coming in through my brother’s room and making the hallway glow. I remember asking my mother why there were “little floaty things” when the sun shined through the hallway. I had hoped she would say it was because of something magical, but she was honest and told me it was dust. Just dust. But it never looked like dust to me. It looked like heaven was spotlighting our sanctuary, the dust giving it this sort of movement and life, like the breath of angels. It’s an image that I will never forget.
There are people in this world who dream about success in a fashion that equals nothing less than being filthy, filthy rich. They dream of million dollar houses, ritzy sports cars with insurance payments that could feed a small country, gold threaded tapestries and carpets, million dollar wardrobes, and diamonds on the ceilings. Success is interpreted as “having everything” or “having all that you could ever want”. Bathing in gold coins sounds fun! But has anyone ever told them how heavy gold is? It can suffocate you.
The rest of us, however, dream of nothing more or less than owning a simple house we can call our own, a sanctuary to raise our children in, a hub for loved ones who need a vacation, a place we can meet, and live, and survive. We want nothing more than to build a home, a place where memories live forever because the environment is a constant reminder of the stories we’ve lived through. And most importantly, we want to hold onto these homes for the rest of our lives and never have to give them up. Some of us find these houses, these homes, but almost all of us have had to give them up and say goodbye. For anyone who has never lost a home, their roots, to an unwanted wind of change, you could never understand the grief that comes with it. For anyone who has lost their home to an unwanted wind of change, I understand that grief entirely.
“It’s just a house.” To some? Maybe. Not everyone builds a home in their house. Not everyone can walk through their halls and point out each scratch in the wall, or each mismatch doorknob, or every hideous picture hanging in an odd place and have a story to tell about it. Not everyone has had the successful endeavor of building both good and rotten memories in the same place, and only holding onto the good ones. Not everyone has had the success of healthy, happy, thankful, unspoiled children in an environment where they don’t “have everything” or don’t “have all that they could ever want”. Not everyone has had the success of creating a sentimental, soulful, meaningful sanctuary that becomes so much a part of the vitality of their hearts, that they mourn over the loss of it when it’s gone. They grieve, lay it to rest as if it was once a living, breathing thing. This, is the truest testament of our humanity.
Some of you may dream of giant mansions, a five car garage to fit all of your toys in, diamonds studded into everything you own, but the only thing I dream about is to find another hallway with sunlight and dust, angels’ breath breathing down into my home from heaven letting me know the home I have built for me and my family is safe and good. I had it once, we all have. And we can all have it again. It is okay to grieve. It is. But there is always hope and the pursuit of reincarnating what we’ve lost. Our house is ours for all time.
All who have lost their homes in this recession, and furthermore those who have lost them because of the stubborn, ill-compassionate, rotten mortgage companies and the people that run them. This is especially dedicated to Heidi and Amy. If I had been blessed with riches, I would’ve saved your homes…
Our House
I can still see the evening summer sunlight coming in through my brother’s room and making the hallway glow. I remember asking my mother why there were “little floaty things” when the sun shined through the hallway. I had hoped she would say it was because of something magical, but she was honest and told me it was dust. Just dust. But it never looked like dust to me. It looked like heaven was spotlighting our sanctuary, the dust giving it this sort of movement and life, like the breath of angels. It’s an image that I will never forget.
There are people in this world who dream about success in a fashion that equals nothing less than being filthy, filthy rich. They dream of million dollar houses, ritzy sports cars with insurance payments that could feed a small country, gold threaded tapestries and carpets, million dollar wardrobes, and diamonds on the ceilings. Success is interpreted as “having everything” or “having all that you could ever want”. Bathing in gold coins sounds fun! But has anyone ever told them how heavy gold is? It can suffocate you.
The rest of us, however, dream of nothing more or less than owning a simple house we can call our own, a sanctuary to raise our children in, a hub for loved ones who need a vacation, a place we can meet, and live, and survive. We want nothing more than to build a home, a place where memories live forever because the environment is a constant reminder of the stories we’ve lived through. And most importantly, we want to hold onto these homes for the rest of our lives and never have to give them up. Some of us find these houses, these homes, but almost all of us have had to give them up and say goodbye. For anyone who has never lost a home, their roots, to an unwanted wind of change, you could never understand the grief that comes with it. For anyone who has lost their home to an unwanted wind of change, I understand that grief entirely.
“It’s just a house.” To some? Maybe. Not everyone builds a home in their house. Not everyone can walk through their halls and point out each scratch in the wall, or each mismatch doorknob, or every hideous picture hanging in an odd place and have a story to tell about it. Not everyone has had the successful endeavor of building both good and rotten memories in the same place, and only holding onto the good ones. Not everyone has had the success of healthy, happy, thankful, unspoiled children in an environment where they don’t “have everything” or don’t “have all that they could ever want”. Not everyone has had the success of creating a sentimental, soulful, meaningful sanctuary that becomes so much a part of the vitality of their hearts, that they mourn over the loss of it when it’s gone. They grieve, lay it to rest as if it was once a living, breathing thing. This, is the truest testament of our humanity.
Some of you may dream of giant mansions, a five car garage to fit all of your toys in, diamonds studded into everything you own, but the only thing I dream about is to find another hallway with sunlight and dust, angels’ breath breathing down into my home from heaven letting me know the home I have built for me and my family is safe and good. I had it once, we all have. And we can all have it again. It is okay to grieve. It is. But there is always hope and the pursuit of reincarnating what we’ve lost. Our house is ours for all time.
Saturday, January 2, 2010
The Creative Thinkers
The Creative Thinkers
There may not be that moment for you, but there comes a time every so often in my life that pivots my entire universe as I know it and changes everything. It’s like some great deity is taking a hold of my shoulders and spinning me round, showing me that straight is not the only way to look toward. And what I’m shown? Takes my breath away.
My love for books, film and music do not only come from what I was raised with, but come from a network of spirits that reminds me that I am connected to other creative thinkers of the world. There’s been a book, a movie, a song that has come along now and again in my life that has grabbed me by the shoulders, and has spun me round. Every time it does, it reminds me that I could attain the power to do the very same thing. I could write a story, too, that could grab someone else’s soul and change it profoundly. I struggle with the confidence part of the deal, but when other storytellers tell their tales it is with their imagination and cleverness that propels my creative wheels to follow. Great minds think alike, they say. I’ve heard my own voice and have seen my own thoughts come alive in other pioneering artists’ visions, and there’s no reason why I can't summon my ego to join the trail blaze.
This is an ode to the artists of the world. If they had stayed in their heads, they wouldn’t have led me into new horizons. If they had not committed to their stories, they wouldn’t have turned on the gears in my soul. If they had not given their gifts to the world, I would not be inspired to do the same. This is to all the creative thinkers of the world who said no to doubt, and who said yes to possibility. This is to all of my fellows who took up the responsibility of the gifts they were given, and gave back. This is to all who have led me down the very same path. Thank you for taking my breath away.
There may not be that moment for you, but there comes a time every so often in my life that pivots my entire universe as I know it and changes everything. It’s like some great deity is taking a hold of my shoulders and spinning me round, showing me that straight is not the only way to look toward. And what I’m shown? Takes my breath away.
My love for books, film and music do not only come from what I was raised with, but come from a network of spirits that reminds me that I am connected to other creative thinkers of the world. There’s been a book, a movie, a song that has come along now and again in my life that has grabbed me by the shoulders, and has spun me round. Every time it does, it reminds me that I could attain the power to do the very same thing. I could write a story, too, that could grab someone else’s soul and change it profoundly. I struggle with the confidence part of the deal, but when other storytellers tell their tales it is with their imagination and cleverness that propels my creative wheels to follow. Great minds think alike, they say. I’ve heard my own voice and have seen my own thoughts come alive in other pioneering artists’ visions, and there’s no reason why I can't summon my ego to join the trail blaze.
This is an ode to the artists of the world. If they had stayed in their heads, they wouldn’t have led me into new horizons. If they had not committed to their stories, they wouldn’t have turned on the gears in my soul. If they had not given their gifts to the world, I would not be inspired to do the same. This is to all the creative thinkers of the world who said no to doubt, and who said yes to possibility. This is to all of my fellows who took up the responsibility of the gifts they were given, and gave back. This is to all who have led me down the very same path. Thank you for taking my breath away.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
My Finger Concerto
For the last two minutes I’ve been moving my fingers across the keyboard like eight dancing legs to David Bowie’s “Fame”. It was fun, actually, and it inspired me to do a little music video. It did. But then the song was over and on came Nancy Sinatra’s “Boots”. And now my fingers have a mind of their own…. When I’m not writing this ridiculous, pointless essay they’re dancing again across the keyboard to the rhythm.
My music video idea is just getting better and better and better.
I can’t wait to whip out my little amateur Flip and try to do professional things with it just to entertain myself. Now Avril Lavigne is playing, “I’m With You”. Good song.
Not dancing-finger music video material though.
Let’s see what’s next… Hmm. Glee’s “Don’t Stop Believin’”. Potential. Nope. Fingers aren’t liking it. Oooo, this isn’t bad: “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” by the Hawaiian guy.
Did you just tell me to get a life?
You wait. Oscars are in my future. This finger-dancing movie video with my awesome Flip is going to rake in the millions. I’ll be swimming in dollar bills up to my eyeballs. I’ll have to go on medication for my allergic reactions to money dust. My eyebrows will be dyed with real gold, and my toenails will be studded with diamonds. I’ll be so rich that chocolate covered, fudge-dipped, double-fudge rocky road brownies will envy me.
“Evenin’”. That’s the song that’s playing now. “Red Stick Ramblers”. My fingers like it so much! This is so going into the video…
Wait. Did you just tell me to go see a doctor? Oh. “Get help”, is what you said. Same thing.
Already did. There’s nothing they can do for this condition. But thanks for caring! Aaw. You’re so sweet. But no. No cure for this.
YES! Rogue Wave’s “Harmonium”! This is SO going into the video. Wait! No. Oh ho… Folks? I just found my grand finale. Oh yessiree! Alright. I have to go. I have some practicing to do. But first I have to draw little faces on each of my knuckle tips…
My music video idea is just getting better and better and better.
I can’t wait to whip out my little amateur Flip and try to do professional things with it just to entertain myself. Now Avril Lavigne is playing, “I’m With You”. Good song.
Not dancing-finger music video material though.
Let’s see what’s next… Hmm. Glee’s “Don’t Stop Believin’”. Potential. Nope. Fingers aren’t liking it. Oooo, this isn’t bad: “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” by the Hawaiian guy.
Did you just tell me to get a life?
You wait. Oscars are in my future. This finger-dancing movie video with my awesome Flip is going to rake in the millions. I’ll be swimming in dollar bills up to my eyeballs. I’ll have to go on medication for my allergic reactions to money dust. My eyebrows will be dyed with real gold, and my toenails will be studded with diamonds. I’ll be so rich that chocolate covered, fudge-dipped, double-fudge rocky road brownies will envy me.
“Evenin’”. That’s the song that’s playing now. “Red Stick Ramblers”. My fingers like it so much! This is so going into the video…
Wait. Did you just tell me to go see a doctor? Oh. “Get help”, is what you said. Same thing.
Already did. There’s nothing they can do for this condition. But thanks for caring! Aaw. You’re so sweet. But no. No cure for this.
YES! Rogue Wave’s “Harmonium”! This is SO going into the video. Wait! No. Oh ho… Folks? I just found my grand finale. Oh yessiree! Alright. I have to go. I have some practicing to do. But first I have to draw little faces on each of my knuckle tips…
Saturday, December 26, 2009
The Empires of the Inkwell
The Empires of the Inkwell
I was talking to an old friend not to long ago, and she and I came to a bit of a disagreement over the quality of a certain author’s writing. You may have heard of this author... JK Rowling? (note sarcasm) My friend, a brilliant intellect and avid (to say the least) book reader, remarked that JK Rowling wasn’t really that good of a writer. She’s “a really good storyteller, but her writing is simplistic…her first couple of books aren’t really written that well”. I respect my friend’s opinions in the utmost manner, but there was something about this particular statement that bristled my back hairs and curled my lip. I took it a little personal. I believe that JK Rowling’s writing style has raised the bar in literature so high that writers nowa days are scrambling to get their talents together in a panic fit of, “Damn. How do I compete with her?” I know I was one of those writers immediately after I read “The Boy Who Lived”. Now don’t get me wrong, she’s not the only author that’s made me shake in my boots. Tolkien, Barrie, Alcott, Austin, Dickens and so on and so on. But that’s just it: only good writing, excellent writing, can make a fellow writer question their own skills and talent. And Rowling did that for me. A good story teller is a good writer.
I decided that taking someone else’s opinion personally was just stupid, and that to settle my own emotions about it I should do what I normally do: write about it. So, here’s my own personal opinion on the art of good writing:
Storytelling, in whatever medium one uses to tell a story, is about entertaining an audience. Writing, in a personal sense, is for the author and the author alone. I’ve devoted years of my life to projects that I know deep in my heart will never see the light of publication, but satisfy my own esteem in the mere completion of them. But when I think about sharing with the public? I consider the market, I do. I consider the elements of what has made past blockbusters a hit, and the magic behind a great story. It all comes down to entertainment. This doesn’t negate an author’s soulful endeavor, and it doesn’t mean that an author’s personal story can’t be entertaining, but a good writer has to have more than just a good background in English. Anybody can have good grammar. Anybody can string together sentences in an orderly, sensible way. But not just anybody can sell their well written story by the millions. And I’m not the only one who thinks so.
“I think the first duty of all art, including fiction of any kind, is to entertain. That is to say, to hold interest. No matter how worthy the message of something, if it's dull, you're just not communicating.” Poul Anderson
“I have been successful probably because I have always realized that I knew nothing about writing and have merely tried to tell an interesting story entertainingly.”
Edgar Rice Burroughs
“Those who write clearly have readers. Those who write obscurely have commentators.”
Albert Camus
“The virtue of books is to be readable.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson
“Tediousness is the most fatal of all faults.”
Samuel Johnson
The empires of the inkwell have been built with nothing more and nothing less than a creative use of words, and a good, meaningful, entertaining story, and an author’s ability to move people’s emotions with the simplicity of writing what they know.
I was talking to an old friend not to long ago, and she and I came to a bit of a disagreement over the quality of a certain author’s writing. You may have heard of this author... JK Rowling? (note sarcasm) My friend, a brilliant intellect and avid (to say the least) book reader, remarked that JK Rowling wasn’t really that good of a writer. She’s “a really good storyteller, but her writing is simplistic…her first couple of books aren’t really written that well”. I respect my friend’s opinions in the utmost manner, but there was something about this particular statement that bristled my back hairs and curled my lip. I took it a little personal. I believe that JK Rowling’s writing style has raised the bar in literature so high that writers nowa days are scrambling to get their talents together in a panic fit of, “Damn. How do I compete with her?” I know I was one of those writers immediately after I read “The Boy Who Lived”. Now don’t get me wrong, she’s not the only author that’s made me shake in my boots. Tolkien, Barrie, Alcott, Austin, Dickens and so on and so on. But that’s just it: only good writing, excellent writing, can make a fellow writer question their own skills and talent. And Rowling did that for me. A good story teller is a good writer.
I decided that taking someone else’s opinion personally was just stupid, and that to settle my own emotions about it I should do what I normally do: write about it. So, here’s my own personal opinion on the art of good writing:
Storytelling, in whatever medium one uses to tell a story, is about entertaining an audience. Writing, in a personal sense, is for the author and the author alone. I’ve devoted years of my life to projects that I know deep in my heart will never see the light of publication, but satisfy my own esteem in the mere completion of them. But when I think about sharing with the public? I consider the market, I do. I consider the elements of what has made past blockbusters a hit, and the magic behind a great story. It all comes down to entertainment. This doesn’t negate an author’s soulful endeavor, and it doesn’t mean that an author’s personal story can’t be entertaining, but a good writer has to have more than just a good background in English. Anybody can have good grammar. Anybody can string together sentences in an orderly, sensible way. But not just anybody can sell their well written story by the millions. And I’m not the only one who thinks so.
“I think the first duty of all art, including fiction of any kind, is to entertain. That is to say, to hold interest. No matter how worthy the message of something, if it's dull, you're just not communicating.” Poul Anderson
“I have been successful probably because I have always realized that I knew nothing about writing and have merely tried to tell an interesting story entertainingly.”
Edgar Rice Burroughs
“Those who write clearly have readers. Those who write obscurely have commentators.”
Albert Camus
“The virtue of books is to be readable.”
Ralph Waldo Emerson
“Tediousness is the most fatal of all faults.”
Samuel Johnson
The empires of the inkwell have been built with nothing more and nothing less than a creative use of words, and a good, meaningful, entertaining story, and an author’s ability to move people’s emotions with the simplicity of writing what they know.
Monday, December 21, 2009
I Do Not Believe in Miracles
When Time Stood Still
December 18, 2009
Friday, 11:44pm
I confess, Reader, that I’m always rather emotional this time of year. But, if it be possible, I believe this year has tugged harder and more viciously on the strings of my heart more than any other year. My emotions have been a mixture of things, all deriving from separate channels. I’ve cried for good things as well as bad. Some things have moved me, and some things have shattered me. I’m trying desperately to hold onto hope and faith, consoling myself that some day everything and everyone will eventually be saved. I want so desperately to believe in salvation, but it is still just a fairy tale to me.
And yet… and yet I still search the skies for answers. Every year I remember the stars I saw that night, twelve years ago. Twelve. Twelve shooting stars twelve days before Christmas. It was supposed to mean something. Now, dear Fates, it is twelve again… will the miracle finally happen? I’m not even sure what sort of miracle I’m expecting… I don’t want to be foolish enough to believe in these sorts of things, but I feel like now that I’m at the end of all that is left in me, I have nothing to loose.
It happened by accident, Reader. I use the word “accident” because I’m cautious of the word “miracle”, or the phrase “divine intervention”. This accident, as I call it, however was a strange, profound, emotional happening. I’m not sure it’s the “miracle” I’ve been waiting for or not, but regardless of what one wishes to label it, it has begun a new spiritual journey for me.
I was wanting to post something “Christmassy” on my blog. I had written about my twelve stars in a writing class in high school, and hadn’t read it in many, many years. I wondered if it was really as good as my then audience had declared it to be. I was seventeen years old. I wasn’t expecting anything. I wasn’t even sure if it was on this particular computer or not. So I did a file search: I typed “twelvestars”. Two folders popped up that had nothing to do with these words. One said “journals”, so I thought to myself, “Maybe it’s one of my really old folders…” So I clicked on it.
It wasn’t my journal, but I couldn’t resist reading it when I realized instantly what it was. It was my mother’s journal, a quick type up of things she wrote about us four siblings when we were children. I couldn’t close it up. I was rapidly addicted.
Goodness. Love. A family that was whole. I was three years old, becoming “more active” and “enjoys singing and Sunday school”, and apparently enjoyed wrapping my little brother’s head in a blanket and then hugging it. I had also apparently “painted his face twice now, once with her paints and once with Jason’s paints.”
I was eight years old, and my kitten had just died, and my two older brothers held me and comforted me in my grief. Kyle gave me a book mark he won at camp to cheer me up.
1988, my mother was having a stressful morning trying to get all of her children up and ready for school, and my little brother rose from his bed, bright eyed and full of smiles asking my mom, "Mom? Did you notice what a beautiful day it is outside?" And it saved her.
On and on it went, little snippets of each of us, all giving praise to our goodness, our worthiness, and our love as a family. It was the story of our lives that I had long forgotten. And to hear the voice of my mother behind these memories was a new feeling, a new emotion that I have yet to find a vocabulary for.
I then read a passage of prayer she prayed, a personal giving of thanks for each of her children, and something very old, and very forgotten moved within me. Two of her prayers had come to be, and for a fleeting moment I believed in the magic of what people with faith call “miracles”. I cried. I sobbed. I read it over and over and over again, feeling both grief and rejoicing. Grief for the part of the prayer that was yet to be or no longer is, and feeling an overwhelming joy for the part that had come to pass.
It changed me. I still doubt my senses like any other Scrooge would, but I’ve been shaken. I can surely say that I just might be looking toward the night sky more often again, awaiting a sign from the heavens that I’ve long forsaken to believe in. I don’t know if this qualifies or not as a Christmas miracle, but it was something my soul has been without far too long, and even though the grief weighed heavy in some ways, the joy brought a new hope back to life again. The remembrance and evidence of love when love is said to never die, makes me believe again that maybe, just maybe, everyone and everything will eventually be saved in the end. That would make a good ending, and all endings should be good lest the story be untold.
December 18, 2009
Friday, 11:44pm
I confess, Reader, that I’m always rather emotional this time of year. But, if it be possible, I believe this year has tugged harder and more viciously on the strings of my heart more than any other year. My emotions have been a mixture of things, all deriving from separate channels. I’ve cried for good things as well as bad. Some things have moved me, and some things have shattered me. I’m trying desperately to hold onto hope and faith, consoling myself that some day everything and everyone will eventually be saved. I want so desperately to believe in salvation, but it is still just a fairy tale to me.
And yet… and yet I still search the skies for answers. Every year I remember the stars I saw that night, twelve years ago. Twelve. Twelve shooting stars twelve days before Christmas. It was supposed to mean something. Now, dear Fates, it is twelve again… will the miracle finally happen? I’m not even sure what sort of miracle I’m expecting… I don’t want to be foolish enough to believe in these sorts of things, but I feel like now that I’m at the end of all that is left in me, I have nothing to loose.
It happened by accident, Reader. I use the word “accident” because I’m cautious of the word “miracle”, or the phrase “divine intervention”. This accident, as I call it, however was a strange, profound, emotional happening. I’m not sure it’s the “miracle” I’ve been waiting for or not, but regardless of what one wishes to label it, it has begun a new spiritual journey for me.
I was wanting to post something “Christmassy” on my blog. I had written about my twelve stars in a writing class in high school, and hadn’t read it in many, many years. I wondered if it was really as good as my then audience had declared it to be. I was seventeen years old. I wasn’t expecting anything. I wasn’t even sure if it was on this particular computer or not. So I did a file search: I typed “twelvestars”. Two folders popped up that had nothing to do with these words. One said “journals”, so I thought to myself, “Maybe it’s one of my really old folders…” So I clicked on it.
It wasn’t my journal, but I couldn’t resist reading it when I realized instantly what it was. It was my mother’s journal, a quick type up of things she wrote about us four siblings when we were children. I couldn’t close it up. I was rapidly addicted.
Goodness. Love. A family that was whole. I was three years old, becoming “more active” and “enjoys singing and Sunday school”, and apparently enjoyed wrapping my little brother’s head in a blanket and then hugging it. I had also apparently “painted his face twice now, once with her paints and once with Jason’s paints.”
I was eight years old, and my kitten had just died, and my two older brothers held me and comforted me in my grief. Kyle gave me a book mark he won at camp to cheer me up.
1988, my mother was having a stressful morning trying to get all of her children up and ready for school, and my little brother rose from his bed, bright eyed and full of smiles asking my mom, "Mom? Did you notice what a beautiful day it is outside?" And it saved her.
On and on it went, little snippets of each of us, all giving praise to our goodness, our worthiness, and our love as a family. It was the story of our lives that I had long forgotten. And to hear the voice of my mother behind these memories was a new feeling, a new emotion that I have yet to find a vocabulary for.
I then read a passage of prayer she prayed, a personal giving of thanks for each of her children, and something very old, and very forgotten moved within me. Two of her prayers had come to be, and for a fleeting moment I believed in the magic of what people with faith call “miracles”. I cried. I sobbed. I read it over and over and over again, feeling both grief and rejoicing. Grief for the part of the prayer that was yet to be or no longer is, and feeling an overwhelming joy for the part that had come to pass.
It changed me. I still doubt my senses like any other Scrooge would, but I’ve been shaken. I can surely say that I just might be looking toward the night sky more often again, awaiting a sign from the heavens that I’ve long forsaken to believe in. I don’t know if this qualifies or not as a Christmas miracle, but it was something my soul has been without far too long, and even though the grief weighed heavy in some ways, the joy brought a new hope back to life again. The remembrance and evidence of love when love is said to never die, makes me believe again that maybe, just maybe, everyone and everything will eventually be saved in the end. That would make a good ending, and all endings should be good lest the story be untold.
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