The Return

I’ve finally found a story to start. It happened just the other day.
Like a star bursting in my head, it started out like an explosion, all ahh’s and oohh’s, then came the crashing sound of thunder as the implication finally settled: I was writing again, truly writing. I had a story and everything!
I was happy for a while then came the other realization that I, now, had to finish the story.
Out of the pan and into the fire, as they say.
But, I wasn’t worried(for the most part).
I had made myself a promise (again) that this was going to be the story that I finished-come Hell or High water and, I mean to keep this promise. This time.
It is a heady thing to write a story. You have to commit yourself to a lifetime of long hours with just you and your your thoughts and, sometimes that’s not an easy thing to do. You can’t hide from your thoughts, they are with you always and, show you your worse and best whenever they feel like it. I know of very few people who would freely want to be alone in a room with their own thoughts, and woe be to you if you try to avoid them.
They just come at you harder and faster, like windmills in a storm.
So with that in mind, we, as writers, sit, and we write.
Hopefully.

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Tom Mison Reads Amazon’s Free The Legend of Sleepy Hollow Audiobook

thenerdsofcolor

Just in time for Halloween, Amazon is giving away a free download of Washington Irving’s The Legend of Sleepy Hollow through its Audible store. Here’s the kicker for all you SleepyHeads, though. The audiobook is narrated by none other than Ichabod Crane himself, Tom Mison!

Unfortunately, this version is the original Washington Irving classic so there are no references to Moloch, the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, or George Washington’s secret society of supernatural soldiers, but that’s not stopping Sleepy Hollow fans from downloading the book in droves.

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Revelation

Lately, I’ve noticed something toxic about my writing.

Where once I had a flourish for the written word, a passion that greatly knew no bound, I’ve now found a subversive undertone that has somehow infiltrated my words making them sound more medical journal than a flowing string of beautifully crafted words.
I want to say that I don’t know when this first started but, I’m not too sure that that would be true.
I think I began feeling the first inkling of something wrong a long while ago, somewhere in the hay day of my lowly stagnation in life where nothing was really going right for me, no matter how hard I tried.
It was as if the tides were against me, pushing back at me with everything they had as if I had done them a wrong that they only knew about and were only were coming to get retribution for.
As petty as it sounds, it all felt incredibly personal…

Anyhow, in the midst of all this, I somehow started writing with my head rather than my heart.
The passion was gone from my words, lost to the realms of who knows where into the ether of nothingness that surrounds us on a daily basis.
But, how did I get here, more importantly, how do I get out?

As yet, I still haven’t found an answer to that one.
Scratch that-I have found an answer-way too many, in fact! But, I have yet to implement any of them into action.
A fault, I admit, that is purely my own.

As I base much of my writing on how I feel that day, that hour, that second-basically, If I don’t feel like writing, I don’t write (sad, I know, unproductive, surely)-no surprise my writing talent has quickly diminished and as a result I have no one to blame but myself.
But, again, what to do?

With each passing second, I miss the days where I once had a flourish for the written word, where it was once so easy for me to passionately craft all manner of words together, string all form of lettering to bring forth my funniest of proses, my most dramatic of characters,and pages upon pages of my utmost haunting of scenarios, all in the name of literature and creativity.

The days where my passion would dictate where I was to go that day, what I was to do, who I was to become.

What is to become of me now, that I’ve succumbed to the depths of this cesspool of wallow I have no rightful name for?
What am I to do now, where am I to go?

A question that keeps chasing me getting me o closer to the answer that yesterday did.

What is to become of the creative inside of me that I know is slowly dying each day? The passion that I can feel within the very pits of my soul that is seeping promise from me like leaky crude oil with each breath I take?
With every scratch I make across an empty page, with every click I make upon the screen in front of me, what will become of the writer I hope is still within me, where will she go to find solace for all that she thinks, feels, she’s lost?

It is said that ‘when you know better, you do better’.
…clearly, I have yet to do better…

Writing podcasts…cont…

I’ve come across some more really great writing podcasts in the last few weeks. These are short in their delivery and precise in their message.

First up is:

Writing Excuses

http://www.writingexcuses.com/

Each episode is fifteen minutes long because, as they say ‘you’re in a hurry and they’re not that smart’.
From what I can gather, the podcast is done by four people but the individuals seem to be interchangeable from time to time.
It’s a great podcast, definitely one of my new favourites. The episodes are short and full of great information that I find so useful.
To listen to an episode go to the ‘Archive’ tab on the left. Once on the page you will see at the top that they have been at this for a long time, nine seasons to be exact!
But, lucky for us, you can go all the way back and listen to back episodes with no problems.
Except one.
I, personally, couldn’t find a way to download the episode that I wanted to my iTunes library. When you press the ‘download’ icon what it does is open up a new black screened page with the audio player in the centre of it and lets loose with the episode.
Still, if you can save the page then you will still have all of these episodes at your disposal, any time you want it.

Next up:

All Write Already

http://www.allwrite-already.com/category/episodes/

As they say it’s a ‘completely unpretentious literary podcast’.
It’s run by two people who come interview a bunch of people from novelists to essayist to successful bloggers.
Their podcast comes across breezy and easy, like a smoothly running stream, you’re just carried along for the ride,and it’s a very comfortable ride. You enjoy every minute of the interviews, which, as with my other favourite podcasts, come across as more conversations than question-answer-period.
Each episode runs about half hour to an hour so you have a good long time with the hosts and whomever they’re talking to that week.
I have to admit, with each of my favourites an hour just doesn’t seem long enough…

I hope you partake of either of these podcasts and find something in them that helps you in your creative writing endeavour.

And also, enjoy.

Lost and Found

I read somewhere that everyone has a story inside of them, and likely as not, it’s a very personal story. Something dark or joyous that is just bursting at the seams to come out of you and see the light, something that may hurt a few feelings along teh way or bruise a few egos. But, deep inside you, you know that this story has to come out, someway, somehow you have to tell this story or else it will eat you up and kill you whole.

I’ve spent years looking for mine and I think I’ve finally found it but-I’m not ready to share it yet. I don’t know why. Fear, I expect, of bruising those egos, of hurting those feelings. You see, the people I’m going to expose are still here and very much awake and walking around. I think that I’m scared of the questions that would come at me when someone may or, may not see the story or that they may or may not hear about it from some nosy busy-body that just has to tell someone close to my family that they heard something or, may have seen something and just wanted to know and be clear that everything was all right with my household.
I would be afraid of the questions. The questions that I have no respectable answer to. The questions that I know I would feel injured at having to answer, insulted, even.
“I’ve written the book, I’ve given you all the answers that I’m willing to give you, isn’t that enough?”
Scared, I suspect…
But then, when am I to write this story? How long will it wait inside of me? Until I’m ready, will it really wait that long? Will it continue to be patient and fester like an open wound waiting for some salve to ease it’s pain? What will it do when it is tired and fed up and can’t wait anymore?
More importantly, what will I do?
Will I finally write it then? Will I finally dip my hand into the festering pond and pull out my story, guts and all, and expose it to the open wind?

I see freedom in this, I can even feel it. It feels like being…unchained, untethered allowed to roam, well, free, like a true wild thing.
Like a thing ready to be heard.
I long for that day.
But, even more, I long for the day when I won’t have to long for it anymore.

Word Alert

Lately-well, more than lately, I’ve come to see myself afflicted with a certain malaise. The type of ilness that can only be described as infiltrating, and sneaky. It stated showing up a few years ago and, of course, I  thought it was an only temporary thing but, in an almost spiteful reaction, I began to see it more and, more frequently. I call it ‘Monomisspellagia’, the constant misspelling of a particular word.

Seriously, this has been the bane of my writing life for a long many years, now! It’s crazy that this keeps happening to me-and the word that I’m misspelling is so ridiculous as to be an embarrassment to the english writing system everywhere!

The word in question is: the.

I know, right??!!
For whatever reason I keep spelling it ‘teh’.

How could such a simple word stump me in my writing-Every. Time?!

Well, I’ve come up with a few theories.

First, I think that there is a Gremlin in my computer.

You know the ones that I’m talking about, they used to hide in the wings of planes and chew on all the wiring inside eventually causing the plane to crash to the ground like some fiery asteroid seeking to rejoin it’s homeland.

They do, exist, people, and I think that one of them is hiding in my computer. If not chewing away at all the lettering I place on the screen then, it’s definitely rearranging them while I’m not looking!

Second, my age.

I’m at a point in my life where I can’t even hide it anymore: I’ve gotten older over the last few years, and maybe, this is just a way for my brain cells to tell me to pay closer attention to what’s going on around me, to remind me that if I don’t I will be missing a few things, like correct spelling.

…I wonder if grammar is next…?

Third, I write way to fast.

This is probably the real culprit but, seriously, when I’m in the groove, finally getting a handle on the thread that had been escaping me for the longest time, I tend to write incredibly fast, I mean, like near lightening fast, speeds akin to a seasoned typist at any big, New York City ad agency. Sometimes, I can’t even see what my own fingers are doing across my keyboard, like they have a mind or a plan all their own. Sometimes, I have to stare down at them in the hopes that they come into focus long enough for me to actually recognize that they are, indeed, still, my own digits.

To me, at that time, the thought of actually slowing dow long enough to correctly spell any word is more detrimental to my writing life than anything else that I could do.

So, what is to be my solution?

For now: nothing.

I figure that if this is the worst thing that can bother me during my writing then I can suffer through it.

…But, the minute this illness spreads over to more and than one word-I’m calling the CDC and the guys in those funny HAZ-MAT suits!

I’d like mine in a pumpkin orange, if you don’t mind.