"You cannot help the poor by destroying the rich. You cannot strengthen the weak by weakening the strong. You cannot bring about prosperity by discouraging thrift. You cannot lift the wage earner up by pulling the wage payer down. You cannot further the brotherhood of man by inciting class hatred. You cannot build character and courage by taking away people's initiative and independence. You cannot help people permanently by doing for them, what they could and should do for themselves."
Abraham Lincoln
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Monday, August 31, 2009
What qualities in a description do you think would make a reader want to pay careful attention? What qualities might encourage them to skip ahead?
This is such an interesting question, does someone have a definitive answer -- because this what I feel I am really struggling with as a writer – how do we describe something to make the reader pay attention and make them want to continue reading? How do we describe a moment or an object so that the reader will not only see what the author wants them to see, but also allow them to free their imagination and see what they would see, draw from their own experiences or perceptions? How do we draw a reader into our story even if it is not a particular style or story line that they would usually be attracted to, because aren’t most readers subjective? We don’t all like the same styles or genres; everyone’s trigger is tripped in a slightly different way.
This is one of the things I find challenging about working on a short story: how to keep the tale tight, succinct, descriptive and satisfying in the time it would take someone to read while say, waiting in the doctor’s office; or better yet, make them want to take the magazine with them when their name is called but they haven’t finished, because they need to know what happens.
Nowadays I’m trying to write to satisfy myself in the hopes that there will be a few readers out there who might appreciate my efforts someday. And I have begun to overwrite in a big way. Sometimes this makes my story shift because I go in a direction I hadn’t realized was there, sometimes I get a picture in my head and write it down only to look at it later and realize the words are inadequate, or over the top, or not in the same vein as the rest of my stories “style”. Now my problem has not only become finding the time to write in between making a living and taking care of a household, but finding the time to go back and edit, edit, edit.
This is one of the things I find challenging about working on a short story: how to keep the tale tight, succinct, descriptive and satisfying in the time it would take someone to read while say, waiting in the doctor’s office; or better yet, make them want to take the magazine with them when their name is called but they haven’t finished, because they need to know what happens.
Nowadays I’m trying to write to satisfy myself in the hopes that there will be a few readers out there who might appreciate my efforts someday. And I have begun to overwrite in a big way. Sometimes this makes my story shift because I go in a direction I hadn’t realized was there, sometimes I get a picture in my head and write it down only to look at it later and realize the words are inadequate, or over the top, or not in the same vein as the rest of my stories “style”. Now my problem has not only become finding the time to write in between making a living and taking care of a household, but finding the time to go back and edit, edit, edit.
Friday, July 31, 2009
I Love Books
When I was very young my paternal grandmother, Grammie Conn, would sit me on the footstool in front of her chair, brush my hair, then for what seemed like hours on end she would recite poems and nursery rhymes to me. A shy child, as I grew I preferred to spend my free time with my nose buried in a book. I loved the way I could get lost in another world when reading, literally transported; books became my own little time machine through which I explored a world much larger and – I believed - more interesting than my own.
My mother was an avid reader herself and did not discourage me from reading, but sometimes I had to bend her rules a little - like hiding under the bedcovers after lights out with a flashlight reading until I fell asleep, when I woke I would continue on and be late getting ready for the school. I would try to read at the dinner table, I read when I was suppose to be doing chores, I would even hide books within my text books at school, pretending I was studying while really I walking through the Amazon, slaying dragons, or falling through a rabbit hole to another world . As my family life became more chaotic and unstable books became my anchor and my escape.
Phantom Tollbooth was published in 1961, the year I was born. I discovered Norton Juster’s novel through the school’s library sale when I was in Fourth or Fifth grade. It was not the first book I had ever read, but it was so different that I remember it to this day. The tale begins with the protagonist, Milo, returning home from school to find an anonymous package containing a miniature tollbooth and a map of Lands Beyond. He puts the tollbooth together, gets the map, drives through the tollbooth in his toy car and finds himself driving on a road in a place called Expectations. Thoroughly enjoying the ride, he pays no attention to the map and gets lost in the Doldrums, a grey place where thinking and laughing are not allowed. However, he is found there and rescued by Tock, a watchdog with the body of an alarm clock, and together they continue their travels.
While Phantom Tollbooth is far from being in the literary fiction category, the writing inspired me. Many literary novels were once simply popular writings that collected admirers and stood the test of time. Writings that begin as popular with the masses are often skewered by critics. Conversely authors declared literary geniuses by modern critics may really prove to be no better than a middle-brow wordsmith.
I read somewhere that literary fiction can be described as well-written with distinctive characters that grow and change, rich dialogue, and interesting story lines, but doesn’t that describe every good tale? Is it not possible that a story categorized as “popular fiction” eventually become recognized as literary fiction if it stands the test of time by exhibiting a well crafted phrasing in a style that is vivid, original, and paints a lasting picture in the reader’s mind?
My mother was an avid reader herself and did not discourage me from reading, but sometimes I had to bend her rules a little - like hiding under the bedcovers after lights out with a flashlight reading until I fell asleep, when I woke I would continue on and be late getting ready for the school. I would try to read at the dinner table, I read when I was suppose to be doing chores, I would even hide books within my text books at school, pretending I was studying while really I walking through the Amazon, slaying dragons, or falling through a rabbit hole to another world . As my family life became more chaotic and unstable books became my anchor and my escape.
Phantom Tollbooth was published in 1961, the year I was born. I discovered Norton Juster’s novel through the school’s library sale when I was in Fourth or Fifth grade. It was not the first book I had ever read, but it was so different that I remember it to this day. The tale begins with the protagonist, Milo, returning home from school to find an anonymous package containing a miniature tollbooth and a map of Lands Beyond. He puts the tollbooth together, gets the map, drives through the tollbooth in his toy car and finds himself driving on a road in a place called Expectations. Thoroughly enjoying the ride, he pays no attention to the map and gets lost in the Doldrums, a grey place where thinking and laughing are not allowed. However, he is found there and rescued by Tock, a watchdog with the body of an alarm clock, and together they continue their travels.
While Phantom Tollbooth is far from being in the literary fiction category, the writing inspired me. Many literary novels were once simply popular writings that collected admirers and stood the test of time. Writings that begin as popular with the masses are often skewered by critics. Conversely authors declared literary geniuses by modern critics may really prove to be no better than a middle-brow wordsmith.
I read somewhere that literary fiction can be described as well-written with distinctive characters that grow and change, rich dialogue, and interesting story lines, but doesn’t that describe every good tale? Is it not possible that a story categorized as “popular fiction” eventually become recognized as literary fiction if it stands the test of time by exhibiting a well crafted phrasing in a style that is vivid, original, and paints a lasting picture in the reader’s mind?
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
I am still here....
...but life in the Northeast is very busy. I work in the agriculture, with such a short planting and growing season in this area of the States time is of the essence. Never fear, I will return to posting to this blog again soon enough. Until then, Happy Trails To You.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Which Do You Prefer?
From This:
“Come back to me, come back to me”, you imagine a voice calling while you watch the setting sun.
As the light fades, night comes courting. His siren song is enthralling coaxing you from the comfort and safety of your kitchen, to the soft glow of the dooryard, and onward into the still of the night.
Gunmetal clouds paint the hills in dancing moon shadows; sky and mill pond dress in flannel grays forever reflecting their kinship. Leafy boughs beckon, caress, and enfold you in their warm embrace. Fireflies dance over the swaying grass accompanied by bullfrog’s bassoon, chirping peepers, owl’s throaty woodwind, and coyotes’ chorus.
Dreams pour out of your eyes, your ears, your mouth and float just out of reach on the dark night air. You grasp at their wisps, chasing after them as they flee into the morning. Shimmering like diamonds in the dew, they evaporate in the light.
So you shade your eyes against the brightness of the day. Brush your teeth and wash your face, and dress to go to work and as you’re getting ready to get into the car and drive to the office you think you hear a voice call.
"Come back to me and remember. I’ll wait for you. Do not forget from where you came. Eden is under your feet.”
To This:
The light fades, night comes courting, coaxing you from the comfort and safety of your house to the soft glow of the dooryard, and onward into the night.
Gunmetal clouds paint the hills with moon shadows. The night sky and mill pond dress in flannel greys forever reflecting their kinship. Swaying boughs beckon. Fireflies dance over the grass to a bullfrog's basso profondo and a chorus of peep frogs.
Dreams flow from your eyes, your ears, your mouth and float away on the dark night air. Grasping at their wisps you chase after them as they flee toward morning; like diamonds in the dew they evaporate with the dawn.
So you wake and shade your eyes against the brightness of day. Brush your teeth, wash your face, and dress to go to work. As you open the front door you hear voices in the wind:" "Come back, come back and remember me. Do not forget from where you came. Eden is under your feet."
“Come back to me, come back to me”, you imagine a voice calling while you watch the setting sun.
As the light fades, night comes courting. His siren song is enthralling coaxing you from the comfort and safety of your kitchen, to the soft glow of the dooryard, and onward into the still of the night.
Gunmetal clouds paint the hills in dancing moon shadows; sky and mill pond dress in flannel grays forever reflecting their kinship. Leafy boughs beckon, caress, and enfold you in their warm embrace. Fireflies dance over the swaying grass accompanied by bullfrog’s bassoon, chirping peepers, owl’s throaty woodwind, and coyotes’ chorus.
Dreams pour out of your eyes, your ears, your mouth and float just out of reach on the dark night air. You grasp at their wisps, chasing after them as they flee into the morning. Shimmering like diamonds in the dew, they evaporate in the light.
So you shade your eyes against the brightness of the day. Brush your teeth and wash your face, and dress to go to work and as you’re getting ready to get into the car and drive to the office you think you hear a voice call.
"Come back to me and remember. I’ll wait for you. Do not forget from where you came. Eden is under your feet.”
To This:
The light fades, night comes courting, coaxing you from the comfort and safety of your house to the soft glow of the dooryard, and onward into the night.
Gunmetal clouds paint the hills with moon shadows. The night sky and mill pond dress in flannel greys forever reflecting their kinship. Swaying boughs beckon. Fireflies dance over the grass to a bullfrog's basso profondo and a chorus of peep frogs.
Dreams flow from your eyes, your ears, your mouth and float away on the dark night air. Grasping at their wisps you chase after them as they flee toward morning; like diamonds in the dew they evaporate with the dawn.
So you wake and shade your eyes against the brightness of day. Brush your teeth, wash your face, and dress to go to work. As you open the front door you hear voices in the wind:" "Come back, come back and remember me. Do not forget from where you came. Eden is under your feet."
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