Posts tagged "writing"
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Notes: 1 / 2 months ago
By Thomas Leuthard. (CC 2.0 Attribution)
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Notes: 3 / 4 months ago
gpoy
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4 months ago
they’ve been around you too long
unhappiness
loneliness
the certainty that you are useless
and worthless
the wish to fall and kick and cry
or to curl up for the rest of your life
emotional cutting
the hatred of living inside your head
the lingering over the option
to commit
the questions of whether you could
really committhey’ve been around too long
you don’t owe them a thingyou don’t have to quickly find
joy
belonging
the epiphany: you matter
peace
affection for your soul and heart
the pleasure of being no one but you
the love for living as long as you canyou don’t have to quickly find them
it might be a quest
i’ll come with you
if i can’t please come with mei want to live for as long as i can
i want to love myself
to be kind to myself
to rest
to know i deserve to exist
to not be lonely
to not be unhappyi want it all for you too
the torturers and interrogators
have been around you too long -
Notes: 4 / 5 months ago from m-c-queen
Reflections on writing an ebook
What I learnt from writing an ebook
1. It takes a really long time
2. I started going crazy.
When I sat down and began writing my first story on a hot summer day, I never imagined the suffering that I was soon to put myself through. Ever since I was a child I always told myself that I would one day become a famous author and travel the world while fending off the hordes of fans, but as the years went by I found that my dream was yet to become reality, mostly because I hadn’t bothered to put the effort in.This was my motivation for beginning “How I was Murdered by a Fox Monster.”
I began writing in July and hoped to finish by October (fat chance) only the find that the writing process continued to stretch on and on for months and months, and if I thought that was bad enough next came the editing. I spent hours every day staring at words on the computer till I felt like I was going crazy.
Of course the whole process wasn’t helped by my aim to fishing by the end of the year, which just resulted in me working like a madman. Not a good idea.
But despite my current amnosity to English grammar I found a sense of satisfaction in knowing that I had finally finished something. I may have had trouble sleeping at night, but at least I managed to fulfill one of my childhood dreams.
On the financial side I haven’t made much money and I doubt I’m going to make much at all. I already have a day job so to me this is just a hobby, but if this was my only career path I’d be living in a cardboard box right now. I think it’s a lot easier to get rich by getting a real job, which is why I’m toying with the idea of giving up to spend more time focusing on a career path.I feel like becoming an author is the equivalent of financial suicide, Yet despite my better judgement I keep finding myself typing away like there’s no tomorrow. I think I may concentrate the rest of my efforts on one more project before I throw in the towel. So please stay tuned for more -_~
You can check out my current ebook hereFree sample download Kindle EPUB LRF
You can also read online here
Reblogging because stories about writing are some of the best stories.
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7 months ago
Indianapolis’ NaNo word count so far, as of a bit after 2 AM on November 1st. 54,338. 883 of those words are mine.
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Notes: 4 / 1 year ago
A book from 1914.
To a Young Lady with an Engagement Ring
“…I venture to request your acceptance of the little token of my regard which you will receive with this. It is not costly, but it is sent with my very best wishes.”
That is one of the crummiest marriage proposals I have ever seen.
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1 year ago
Fiction: Darktimes News #3
Mr. Valentine isn’t answering his cell. Well, now I have to look for him. He’s turned off social tracking as if that has anything to do with the identity tracking still in his phone. A few thousand people in suits could find him with enough accuracy to pepper spray him in the left eye from a moving car. All I can do is look for him, and hope he hasn’t changed his schedule. My car broke eons ago so I walk across a street and into an evil wind. I tug my scarf over my mouth. I appreciate the lingering sweet taste in my mouth from a donut topped with maple-flavored glaze. It fades by degrees every time I swallow.
Someone passes me every few minutes. Light from streetlamps is powdery on the gray walls of generic buildings. A glinting disk of a surveillance drone makes the rounds hundred of feet over my head, silent but for a subtle static that foams inside my ears. It must be due for maintenance. To my right a cautious, solemn drumbeat- pom pompom pom- holds hands with voices singing sincere words, one of the buildings sounding hollow and despairing as the musicians inside gravely repeat the words kyrie eleison, christe eleison, kyrie eleison, christe eleison.
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Notes: 4 / 1 year ago
How Paranoia Is My Writing Buddy
Step 1: Create odd fiction series to play with.
Step 2: Title it Night News.
Step 3: Scramble to sign back into Tumblr an hour before story goes live and change title to Darktimes News after about ten seconds of thinking, if that.
Step 4: Enjoy the feeling of heading off at the pass all accusations of being a hack.
Step 5: Suspect that Darktimes News doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.
Step 6: Introduce in chapter 2 a serial killer waiting to happen.
Step 7: Christen the future serial killer “Regal Dahl” because you can picture a true-crime show basing an entire episode on the bloody exploits of a guy named Regal Dahl.
Step 8: Google the name “Regal Dahl” until satisfied that nobody’s mother really did that to a defenseless infant.
Step 9: Oscillate wildly between thinking Darktimes News is the greatest thing you have written to date and you are actually writing weird crap that will make everyone unfollow you just before Tumblr shuts you down.
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1 year ago
Fiction: Darktimes News #2
A tangle of people shared a bag of candy, huddled under the rain, just out of the reach of a streetlamp’s white rays. This reporter saw Regal Dahl stand under the light and stare at the group until the people noticed him, got edgy, and left. Regal Dahl let them leave. As of the 2 AM hour last night, Regal Dahl has still not killed anyone. Keep buying Darktimes News for regular updates.
I had 300 cards printed with the latest Regal Dahl development. People can’t get enough of news cards about Regal Dahl. Shadowing Regal Dahl is pretty much Mr. Israel’s entire job now. I expect all 300 cards to sell before 4 AM. One of these days Regal Dahl is finally gonna kill someone and that will ruin the mystique. Till that happens, you couldn’t pray for a better boon to business than Regal Dahl.
That didn’t come out right.
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Notes: 7 / 1 year ago
Fiction: Darktimes News
Whenever stuff happens, news is created. It’s a law of God. Stuff happens in the morning, creating bleary-eyed news with little focus- lots of governing figures making statements that won’t make sense after everyone has gotten some coffee in them. I won’t turn on the radio in the morning, keep that news away from me. After lunchtime people have gotten their footing and they start doing stupid shit, or trying to be heroes, feeling pretty important either way. It keeps going like that. By prime time, stuff happens as if people got paid by the hour to be random and the resulting news makes my brain feel greasy. While most of the country is catching up on the evening’s headlines I’m watching DVDs of Breaking Bad. Stuff keeps happening, the news keeps being created, and it gets tired, and it gets hysterical, hitting the wall of midnight and scrambling over it, landing on the other side with eyes a little too bright, voice a little too hushed.
Around 1 AM, the news gets eldritch.
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Notes: 3 / 1 year ago
Flash Writing
Wonder sometimes what it’s like to be male. If I’d been born a boy I would have been named Adam.
Adam wears clothes for males, because he is male. He wants to be taller than he is, and broader than he is. Broad shoulders, broad back. He’s a little scrawny, or maybe a little pudgy. One of those. Adam reads and spends a lot of time online, so he knows why he isn’t exactly muscles and an impressive presence. But he likes to read and spend time online. Exercise isn’t interesting. Adam likes being interested. Maybe wanting to be interested means you can’t want to be strong. As for being taller, there is nothing he can do about God’s decisions.
That annoys Adam, when he lets himself be a little blasphemous between prayers. God makes decisions. Seems like that’s the only thing God is good at, when Adam is feeling blasphemous. God picked Adam’s height, and also Adam’s parents, birthplace, luck stat (it’s kind of low), sexual orientation, and gender. Adam wonders what it would be like to be female. If he’d been born a girl, he would have been named something that came with a lot of baggage and issues, so he- she- would have picked a nickname. God makes decisions but so would JoJo. Adam likes being a little rebellious, just a little sacrilegious. Just enough to make it clear that being a mortal doesn’t make him an object.
If I’d been born Adam I would still be myself.
I wish I could try on Adam for size right now. I want to feel like myself in a new suit.
(Image by Flickr user miggslives [licensed under Creative Commons 2.0 Generic). The person in the photograph is in no way related to the writing, the pic was just the jumping off point for my thoughts.)
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Notes: 20 / 1 year ago
District 7 #3
The paintings are very old, their colors cracking like mud in the sun. Every time an ancient person’s placid face or the cool light of a sunrise flakes onto my fingers I panic and try to blow the paint chips back where they belong. But I can’t stop touching the canvases. I can’t stop petting them where they stand against tall pine walls.
“Why would they keep paintings here in District 7?” I wonder aloud. My voice sounds dusty in the dim warehouse; I clear my throat as if afraid the enormous pieces of art will feel disrespected by my words. I tilt my head back to meet the healthy eyes of a prosperous-looking man with a thick, white ruffle around his neck.
Janus says, “No idea.”
“I almost wonder if we weren’t supposed to find these here.”
As soon as I say it my ears get paranoid. I hold my breath, waiting for a Peacekeeper to slam the warehouse’s door open. My brother puts a hand on top of my head and physically turns my gaze to the right, to a dirty batch of landscapes I haven’t looked at yet.
“I bet these paintings have been here for years,” he says. “Maybe even for decades. For so long everyone forgot them. Whoever stored them here died. No one bothers looking through this warehouse because it’s old and in a sparse section of the forests. No one expects to find anything here but mold and mildew.”
“What did you expect to find?” I ask, distracted from my anxiety by the rosy, smoky sunset of a pastoral countryside swept into being by waves of pigment.
“Mold and mildew.”
Janus chuckles, lets me go, and leans his back against the closed door. He crosses his ankles. “I have to get back to work soon. There are other warehouses and lumber doesn’t organize itself. Give yourself ten minutes.”
I kneel to rest my fingers on the brush strokes that make the country’s grass bend in the winds of early evening.
I’m embarrassed to say it for some reason. “Thank you.”
There is no response. I look over my shoulder, braced to see a Peacekeeper slamming the door open and banging Janus aside- but my brother is only considering the store of paintings, rubbing his chin.
“Maybe someone rescued them,” he murmurs. “Saved them from destruction during a war, or the rebellion.”
I eye the painting in front of me, imagining hands pulling it from a burning museum and passing it to a waiting friend before heroically plunging back into the flames for more.
“Janus?”
“Yeah?”
“Who will rescue them this time?”
My fingers are powdered with decaying colors.
“I show you something I thought you’d enjoy, and you find a way to worry anyway!”
I don’t know whether to laugh at myself or cringe. “Sorry sorry.”
“We won’t tell anyone about them,” Janus says then. “We’ll protect them.”
I imagine throwing myself over the paintings as a Peacekeeper slams open the door-
“Maybe everything has its time to end,” I say.
The thought doesn’t make me happy.
“Sheesh.” Janus makes a disgusted sound. “You are so morbid, Jo.”
I lay my hand flat on the canvas, and take grains of the sunset and grass with me.
[The Hunger Games is copyright Suzanne Collins. This story is licensed under the Creative Commons as derivative, noncommercial fiction.]
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