Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Ever make a dumb writing mistake that scares you?
The other day just for fun I entered a contest. See the problem is I write and type fast. I am a good speller and have a good understanding of grammar and word usage. I absolutely love syllogisms. I'll leave that for another one of my consistently updated blogging sessions. Oh syllogisms are fun. I typed out a mistake that when read throws off the whole sentence and makes me look like I don't know the difference between breath and breathe. Devastating really like not knowing turse from terse. Most spell checkers will count turse wrong trust me. Sadly turse someday will be common place, and I dropped a turse in that contest piece. So I am in truth effected and affected by my error. I am close to being terse with myself right now.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Humor and writing.
I wish I could write funny. In the real world I crack up people all the time. I just can't write funny stuff. But, that's ok. I love what I write.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Vulnerability and Writing
I have been writing for over twenty years, quite comfortable with my style, my vision, my voice but I have never been comfortable with writing and me and distractions. That probably does not make sense to many. This blog is for me to get comfortable with ME again. If anyone other than myself happens to view these posts few many and sometimes rare I welcome you as any writer does to the words inadequate but in need of being written. You will know me as a private person, but as a writer unafraid of sharing, and learning just as if it were the first day of picking up a pen, or typing that first scary word.
To this resolve I am beginning with two of my primitive pieces. These were written years ago. Youth, and struggle and meaning and that great flow we all desire in our writing is no where to be seen. But that is not the point. The point is writing. I am not a poet. These are not poems. I now call them lyrical prose. After all these years these are still some of my favorites, because they show desire. Bad writing and grammar be damned. A warning this first post will be long, but sometimes we just have to get it all out.
Julie
Blue sky, Big sky
In Albert Lea
Minnesota there is
no way of knowing
what's in Montana.
Julie's life is open
and wide like her
eyes.
Flashbulbs and screams
it is joy and excitement. She
walks on the stage. Her
diploma her mother's
last. "Mom. I'm not
going to drink tonight
I'm eighteen, not stupid."
Her mother knows. Religion
is in the young girl's blood.
She won't ever do stupid
things. University of
Minnesota. Life.
Maybe nursing school, maybe
social work, and maybe the
peace corp. She bites her
lip. Asks the Lord for courage.
Courage she'll need later
when it fails. A year removed
in Montana.
Her legs meet her hips in
smoothness her torso small.
Her body moves when she breathes.
She smells like flowers and her her hair
is always as she placed it. Blonde
with sand. Long arms and hands.
Smiles show her eyes. She walks
like all men like. And, when she
bleeds it is in small droplets with
an "Oh" until it clots. Her touch is
soft fabric.
She dates for entertainment not
with purpose, not yet. It is on
one of these evenings that she
reads an advertisement thumb-
tacked to a board. "Glacier."
"Have the time of your life
working summers in the park.
Laundry, Hotel, Sales, Waitstaff.
Live and learn in the wild."
Mom, Julie's going to Montana.
Montana where she'll die.
A phone call in the morning.
Julie suffered some, but she
held on to ask for mom.
The Grizzly tore in, and ate.
She pulled Julie down hill
away from the camp, the Chalet
and safety.
Mom, Julie died in Montana.
Big sky, dark sky, night and
loneliness.
Soaked
From beneath the trees
she waits
bloodied,
and tired.
Exhausted beyond
a living chance,
but hanging on.
They're on their way to
take her from
the grizzly.
Far from the
nightmare.
She breathes her
spirit carrying her body
ravished.
Later a Jesuit Priest
will baptize her.
A devout Methodist
she'll nod and follow
his words.
She has to it's
her last bit
of human being.
Inspired by youth spent reading, and collecting. As writers we breath because of other writers. We continue the chain.
To this resolve I am beginning with two of my primitive pieces. These were written years ago. Youth, and struggle and meaning and that great flow we all desire in our writing is no where to be seen. But that is not the point. The point is writing. I am not a poet. These are not poems. I now call them lyrical prose. After all these years these are still some of my favorites, because they show desire. Bad writing and grammar be damned. A warning this first post will be long, but sometimes we just have to get it all out.
Julie
Blue sky, Big sky
In Albert Lea
Minnesota there is
no way of knowing
what's in Montana.
Julie's life is open
and wide like her
eyes.
Flashbulbs and screams
it is joy and excitement. She
walks on the stage. Her
diploma her mother's
last. "Mom. I'm not
going to drink tonight
I'm eighteen, not stupid."
Her mother knows. Religion
is in the young girl's blood.
She won't ever do stupid
things. University of
Minnesota. Life.
Maybe nursing school, maybe
social work, and maybe the
peace corp. She bites her
lip. Asks the Lord for courage.
Courage she'll need later
when it fails. A year removed
in Montana.
Her legs meet her hips in
smoothness her torso small.
Her body moves when she breathes.
She smells like flowers and her her hair
is always as she placed it. Blonde
with sand. Long arms and hands.
Smiles show her eyes. She walks
like all men like. And, when she
bleeds it is in small droplets with
an "Oh" until it clots. Her touch is
soft fabric.
She dates for entertainment not
with purpose, not yet. It is on
one of these evenings that she
reads an advertisement thumb-
tacked to a board. "Glacier."
"Have the time of your life
working summers in the park.
Laundry, Hotel, Sales, Waitstaff.
Live and learn in the wild."
Mom, Julie's going to Montana.
Montana where she'll die.
A phone call in the morning.
Julie suffered some, but she
held on to ask for mom.
The Grizzly tore in, and ate.
She pulled Julie down hill
away from the camp, the Chalet
and safety.
Mom, Julie died in Montana.
Big sky, dark sky, night and
loneliness.
Soaked
From beneath the trees
she waits
bloodied,
and tired.
Exhausted beyond
a living chance,
but hanging on.
They're on their way to
take her from
the grizzly.
Far from the
nightmare.
She breathes her
spirit carrying her body
ravished.
Later a Jesuit Priest
will baptize her.
A devout Methodist
she'll nod and follow
his words.
She has to it's
her last bit
of human being.
Inspired by youth spent reading, and collecting. As writers we breath because of other writers. We continue the chain.
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