Tag Archives: Creativity

The Dead Writers Round-Up: 18th-21st July

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  • William Makepeace Thackeray was born on 7/18/1811. “A good laugh is sunshine in the house.”
  • Jane Austen died on 7/18/1817. “A person who can write a long letter with ease, cannot write ill.”
  • Clifford Odets was born on 7/18/1906. “Life shouldn’t be printed on dollar bills.”
  • Hunter S. Thompson was born on 7/18/1937. “Buy the ticket, take the ride.”
  • Hart Crane was born on 7/21/1899. “Love: a burnt match skating in the urinal.”
  • Ernest Hemingway was born on 7/21/1899. “As you get older it is harder to have heroes, but it is sort of necessary.”

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All images are courtesy of Wikimedia Commons and are in the public domain.

 

Daily Diversion #26: Beware of the Person of One Book*

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I’m good, then.

Book Pile

Book Pile (a.k.a.-the contents of a few of my book cases)

This, my friends, was the state of my studio floor a few hours ago. It looks better now, but still has a long way to go.

*Thomas Aquinas.

Tornado Maedez

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This. This is the reason for my fewer than normal posts. Once I have sorted through the mess, and am properly organized, things will not only be back to normal around here…they will be better. Guaranteed. Once the clutter has been vanquished, my mental processes will be freed up to focus on what I like (and do) best: write. No need to worry: until then, you can expect at least a post a day. I promise to miss you more than you miss me.

Tornado Maedez?

Tornado Maedez?

Seriously, this is so out of control (at least by my standards) that all of my writing projects are threatening to come to a full-on, nasty stop. Since I do this for a living, that is a pretty scary concept.

[Intermezzo] I’m Thinking About Cleaning Out My Idea Bank

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I’m thinking about cleaning out my idea bank. It is a knee-quaking concept. Ten years of scraps, plots, extracts, phrases, titles, names, research and character studies are lovingly tucked away or carelessly crammed into various crannies and boxes and drawers. They contain a lot of good ideas and solid or beautiful writing. There are threads of greatness, however frayed and dirty and dusty; there’s a lot of crap, too, or things that I have outgrown or moved past. Legal pads, notebooks, torn napkins, loose leaf paper. Written in pen, pencil, marker, lipstick. It’s all there, waiting to be addressed. Faced. Embraced or conquered. Trashed or saved. Crumpled mounds of surprise or disgust. “I’m this good?” or “What shitty shit of a writer came up with this?” It’s all conjecture, of course, as I haven’t read any of it; but I know the odds, and they are even. The summer is young, and the days are long. I can do this.

A Year in Books/Day 166: The Writer’s Book of Matches 1,001 Prompts to Ignite Your Fiction

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  • Title: The Writer’s Book of Matches 1,001 Prompts to Ignite Your Fiction
  • Authors: The staff of fresh boiled peanuts, a literary journal
  • Year Published: 2005 (Writer’s Digest Books)
  • Year Purchased: 2005/2006
  • Source: Writer’s Digest Book Club
  • About: It took buying a book of prompts for me to realize that it is not for me. Not just this book, but in general: I’m not a prompts type of person. My mind doesn’t work that way. I don’t spark off of random sentences that are thrust in my face as something that will drive my creativity or discipline. I already have too many ideas, phrases, plots and sentences of my own to get bogged down with these. I also get bored, instantly bored. Not a few exercises in, but pronto. Basically, before I even open the book. I’ve tried several times to learn something from this perfectly sound tool, something useful. Something to propel my fiction forward to the place (or places) I know it can go. I am ready to admit-finally, after six or seven years-that the only lesson I have learned is that I really don’t like this kind of thing. At all. But maybe you do, which is lovely and brilliant and just as it should be for you. This book is portable, comes with 1,001 nicely varied prompts, has nifty photos and illustrations. It’s funny, too. I’m actually ready to part with this one. I think I’m going to give it away in a future post, pass it on to a writer who appreciates the idea. Stay tuned.
  • Motivation: I had never used a book of prompts before, or any prompts period. Not in school, not on my own. Now I know why.
  • Times Read: Casually, a sentence here and a sentence there
  • Random Excerpt/Page 80: ” A young woman must run errands while wearing an embarrassing and inappropriate outfit.” (This sounds like that feature in Glamour magazine. Or is it Cosmo?)
  • Happiness Scale: 3 (but only because it is not my thing)

Daily Diversion #20: Four Legs Good, Two Legs Bad*/My Neighborhood is Weirder Than Yours

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This pig has been keeping watch outside the main entrance of our building since Friday. This is totally normal, right? Right?

What is this, you ask?

What is this, you ask?

I recently wrote about one of my main concerns as a writer, which is feeling at home in my surroundings. I’ve struggled with this since moving to the Queen City six years ago. I love our flat, and our building; if the whole thing could be picked up and moved somewhere else, my contentment would shine forth like a lighthouse beacon. I know that I am guilty of focusing on what I wish I could change about our neighborhood, even as I am faced with all that there is to enjoy in this weird little corner of town. Mr. Enormous Pig has reminded me of some of the perks of living in the CW. They are:

  • Sharing a building with an unusual museum (thus, Mr. EP).

    Come closer.

    Come closer.

  • The best (and wackiest) mural of George Washington you will ever see.
  • The ability to get chili at 3:00 in the morning, and the simultaneous people watching opportunity.
  • A giant gorilla hanging off the side of a costume shop building.
  • People watching. Oh, the people watching.
  • The beautiful park across the street (visible from all of our windows), especially the dough boy statue that was dedicated just post-war.
  • The handsome architecture of this neighborhood is truly impressive, even if many of the buildings are derelict or down-right abandoned.
  • The city salt barn directly across the street. Not only is it an easy landmark for guests, it is absurdly fun to watch news crews swarm the premises at the slightest indication of snow. Also, it looks like a voluptuous breast. At least a C-cup.
  • I love being surrounded by manufacturing businesses and a sea of trees. This area is not very residential, but is intensely lush.
  • The minimum-security jail behind the park (also constantly on view from our windows). It sits on the site of an old workhouse, razed many decades ago. Only the stunning stone wall remains. A jail in the neighborhood means that the streets are very well patrolled. Even though some people think the CW is sketchy, it actually means that we have the lowest crime rate in the city.
  • Diversity, diversity, diversity.

Looking out our wall of windows, nine stretching full-height in a salute to the ceiling, I see colour and character; zest and life; dirt and beauty. It’s always interesting. A writer could do worse than to have so much at hand.

Don't look into his eyes, or you will turn to stone.

Don’t look into his eyes, or you will turn to stone.

Belly of the beast.

Belly of the beast.

*This is a quote from George Orwell’s Animal Farm.

[News] The Daily Post Talks About Effective Book Blogging (And Mentions Us)

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Have you ever read The Daily Post, WordPress.com’s official blog about blogging? If not, you should head over there now! Why? Because we received a nice shout-out in yesterday’s article (Focus On: Book Blogs) about how to effectively review books on your blog. Can you guess which hyperlinked tip refers to us before clicking it for confirmation? Sounds fun, right? I’ve got to run, so this PSA is officially over. Thanks for your three seconds!

[Intermezzo] Develop Monomania or Go Home!

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Excuse me, but I’ve been holed up in the 19th century for the last few days. Time flies when your nose is in a book (or two). Close the cover and, wham, it is 2012 again. How did that happen? Where are the Shelleys, the Hunts, Keats, Byron? They were here just ten minutes ago. Their laughter hangs in the air, lilting and vaporous. I wish they had been able to stay longer; I enjoyed the discourse, the flinging of ideas, their beautiful and weighty words. Emily, too, slipped off when I wasn’t looking. She cannot be shackled, or fully understood. She is the elusive one. The great riddle. Why am I annoyed? They were selfish, demanding my time when it wasn’t healthy to give: develop monomania, or go home! was their request. It is always the same with them. Nothing ever changes. They aren’t very romantic-never were-but they are sirens, alluring as they lure you away from workaday life. They left, and do not linger. Out of the moment, through the fire, and I am not affected at all. I like it that way. Back in reality, refreshed, I can write again.