ezekielsdaughter: (VacationPhoto)

  • How to Sell to Ellen Datlow

  • Gender in SF

  • Fiction about Real Politics and How Writers Get it Wrong

  • Jim Gunn’s Teaching

  • How to write a novel

  • How Arab SF could Dream a Better Future

  • Latino Characters by Mainstream Authors: Diversity or Cultural Appropriation?

The last two presenters speak better for themselves.

http://labloga.blogspot.com/2013/09/a-strange-chicano-in-stranger-con-parte.html

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MdWPM_Vy-Zw

The last gave me a chance to ask what term is better (in a story) --Mexican, Chicano, Latino--because I was criticized by using the word Mexican.  Not surprisingly, Rudy Ch. Garcia said it depends on the era.  He was raised Chicano.  As evidenced by a conference that started a couple of days after our own, many people are not comfortable with Latino.   (I sent some time wondering about what that convention was all about.  An angel stopped me on Saturday and told me that it was a Latino version of the Essence Festival.  There were musical acts at night and during the day, there was panels, speeches, booths just like those set up at the convention center.  This was Target’s third year sponsoring it.)

I was impressed that Yasser Bahjatt's company has committed to publishing in both English and native Arabian dialects in order to get exposure for the writers

Real Politics:

writers were encouraged to remember that even in a totalitarian society, the members of the society receive something in return.  To not indicate that in a story would be unrealistic.  The trains have to run on time.  The bridges have to be built.  The roads must be paved.  That’s why many people remain complacent.

The writers on the panel also mentioned that they books annoying that have missing levels of bureaucracy.  People are able to get into the office of whatever management level they need immediately. 

Ultimately, they ask:  What is the author trying to do. How well was it done?  Was it worth doing?  What does the story have to say about being human?

How to write a novel

Some obvious stuff but it bears restating.

What is at stake?  What does the character want?  What can go wrong? What is the purpose of this scene? 

If you are have problems finishing a novel -- take a moment to write down what you fear.  What is keeping you from finishing the novel? (That one was new to me)

For inexperienced beta readers: Ask them to tell you what they think that the story was about.  Ask them what they think of the character.  Ask them how a particular scene left them feeling.

ezekielsdaughter: (VacationPhoto)

As Worldcon recedes, memories get all timey wimey.  That’s what reflection is.

I took notes, I journaled.  Among the choices, I tried to occasionally drop into a panel outside my immediate interests.  There were around 9 possible choices every hour.  Some were good; others disappointing.  I’ll be back to reminisce.

So a quick list of what I did attend.


  • Bloopers and Blunders of Science

  • Part of the Opening ceremonies--which I left and headed to lunch

  • The Poet as Activist: On Seeing and Saving the Natural World

  • Where There’s a Will There’s Way: Reproductive Technology, Medical Ethics and the Law

  • Tor Presents

  • Scientific Literacy vs. Human Knowledge

  • Latino Characters by Mainstream Authors: Diversity or Cultural Appropriation?

  • The History of Science and the Experience of Science Fiction

  • Pattern Basics (How to use a pattern to make a costume)

  • Reading: George R. R. Martin

  • How to Sell to Ellen Datlow

  • Kaffeeklatsch with Connie Willis

  • Gender in SF

  • Art Docent Tour

  • The Role of the (Doctor Who) Companions

  • 30 Great SFF films you almost certainly haven’t seen

  • How Arab SF could Dream a Better Future

  • Masquerade on Friday night

  • Speculative Poetry Workshop

  • Fiction about Real Politics and How Writers Get it Wrong

  • Reading -- was supposed to be Mary Anne Mohanraj but was not.

  • Jim Gunn’s Teaching

  • Philosophy and Science Fiction

  • a little of the nominated movie Brave

  • Writers, their Fans and Flame Wars, Oh My!

  • How to write a novel

  • reading by Jo Walton

  • Can Traditional SF Communities Survive Multimedia Convention

  • Hugos on Saturday night

ezekielsdaughter: (writing)

I actually entered the last 3 minute fiction contest as a challenge to myself.  The challenge was to submit a short  story in the form of a voice message.  (web site:

http://www.npr.org/series/105660765/three-minute-fiction)

The winner was very inventive.  She realized that the voice message did not have to be from the recipients point of view.  Instead, she wrote a story with the many recording and re-recordings of someone trying to frame a very personal message.  The re-recorded nature helped to give the story a feeling of progression and movement.  When I review my own story now, it just lays there.  Lesson learned.  Here is the link to the winning story.  And my lame story follows.

Winner:

http://www.npr.org/2013/03/09/173722517/sorry-for-your-loss

My entry:

Stardust or History

Jennifer --It’s Kai.  Are you there?

I know that you told me to call you before I left.  And I know that you did not mean at two a.m. when you are still at work--even though you’re probably packing up by now.  I know why you wanted me to call; so that you could talk me out of what I’ve already decided to do.  By the time that you get this I am stardust or maybe I am waking up in first century Rome.  The experiment would have worked.

You want to demand why.  Maybe you’ve dragged your coat back on and grabbed your wallet, your keys.  Stop, listen.

The Institute insisted that I study both Latin and Greek because no cultured person spoke only Latin.  I did it, sitting in those old wooden student desks in a dusty room without a hint of Adderall or even coffee.  Every evening, I worked pine splinters out of my thighs; every morning, the caffeine withdrawal was a wooden stake between my eyes.    Ironically, I still don’t know how either Latin or Greek was actually pronounced at that time.

It was you who taught me how to weave, and I wove my own cloth.  I studied many a book of costumes, made my patterns, and sewed my robes by hand.  I have the wounds to prove it.  There is silver and gold worked into the fabric and I am taking an extra roll of it along.  I am to be a merchant’s daughter.

This is a one way trip.  Stardust or history.

Professor Enitan will play the part of my father, the merchant.  He has the harder task, of course.  We are in hope that people will forgive his poor ability to speak the language because of his obvious foreignness.  There were African traders in Rome at the time, but most of them were from the conquered territories that they called Libya.  We shall be from the Kingdom of Meroe which Rome did not know.  Everything depends on Enitan’s ability to blend into the Forum Magnum as a proper tradesmen.  I am, I know, only a bargaining chip.  He will not sell me but it is possible that he may negotiate position by marrying me to another trader.

I can see you, standing stunned as you hear this.  That I would agree to be traded away like a brood mare to advance a historical experiment.  Are you the same woman that insisted that I read Jane Austen?   That I take heed of a woman’s place in the world and the way she can control her own destiny?  Enitan has promised that I have approval rights.  I laugh when I imagine some Italian-American congratulating himself that he is descended from Hannibal when it is only the genes of a grad student from Alabama that he has detected.

If you’re in the bedroom, the only light is a spear of yellow sodium from the lamp post that you petitioned for.  Because you didn’t feel safe, even on the north shore above New Orleans.   You’re the reason why I chose library science.  It was a safe choice for the future.

This is not safe.  I don’t want to be safe any longer.  This is more like those alternative tales of Genesis that you introduced me to.  Where God destroyed hundreds of worlds because mankind remained childish and never grew up.  In desperation, God plants a new tree in the center of Eden.

Tomorrow, go to the market and buy figs in my memory.  I’ve left the garden.  I plan to make my own future.

ezekielsdaughter: (writing)

I had a therapist tell me (some time ago) that I wasn’t depressed, I was just sad.  Interesting.  It makes me wonder how she could possibly know.  Especially, if depression is a chemical imbalance.  After all, she had done no blood tests.  Therein followed a number of sessions where she offered suggestions to alleviate my sadness.


This is all to say that I find myself, unaccountably, sad.  Tears for foolish reasons.  Waking from dreams of frustrated searching.  I could blame it on Valentine’s Day--no guy--or a birthday--57.  But, in my gut I know that’s not the case.


Loneliness, maybe.  That was part of my analysis for the therapist.  Another reason is that I find myself staring at a 300 page novel that needs revising.  The only way is to withdraw from the world--other than work--and finish the thing.  But I am already starved for human contact.  The novel or friends?  Friends or the novel?  And what type of novel results from someone with little contact with real friends?


ezekielsdaughter: (writing)
Working on a story and wrote a poem instead.

Memory

And Moses took the bones of Joseph with him; for he had straitly sworn the children of Israel, saying: 'God will surely remember you; and ye shall carry up my bones away hence with you.

I carried the bones of Joseph to Shechem
I am carrying them still--
the memory
of a loin cloth for raiment in prison;  the whisper
that the sheerest of linen makes
against parched skin even when
embroidered in gold thread.
I claim this land with his bones.
And exile too.
I will always have a place there.
My coat carries the colors of every
flag on earth; my dust
rides the wind.

ezekielsdaughter: (Default)

Prologue

In the library, I am finally sitting with a laptop and “writing”.  Putting my butt in the chair as the phrase goes.  Nevertheless, I am eased by the thought that Jefferson Parish apparently has wifi in the library and I can get to the internet.  Even as I promise myself not to feed that addiction for an hour.  Exceptions for dictionary.com and thesaurus.com.    I promised myself to open the file for a story back up when though I am too late to send it to armadillocon’s writers‘ workshop.   Courage....  

Seen today....

From my seat at a desk--which is actually too high for ergonomically--the husk of ant  caught in a spiderweb outside the window.  It is over 90 outside but chilly inside.  The glass is double paned and energy efficient, I guess.  Certainly, I can’t feel the heat when I touch the glass.  I can still see the tan form of the large ant as it waves in the light breeze.  The carnivorous spider is no where to be seen even though older meals hang nearby.  The library platform and floor is raised, so the uncut grass is three feet below the ceiling to floor windows.  The grass is studded with white clover flowers which make it obvious that the grass has not been cut in a week at least.  Above the clover flowers are spindly spires of grass going to seed.  Occasionally, fat wasps dart by right about the grass.  Again, I am glad of double-paned windows.

To my left, books that make it obvious that I am in the south.  “The Real Jimmy Carter.  How Our Worse President Underestimates American Foreign Policy, Coddles Dictators...”  This book is facing outwards on display.  Nearby “The Union Reader:  As the North Saw the War” and “Andersonvilles of the North”.   Maybe I happened to sit in the Southern defensive section of the 900’s.  973 to be exact.

ezekielsdaughter: (writing)

Exercises in description: Seen today.....

Two blocks away, I see an fearful elderly man cross the street.  At first, I think that he is homeless or at least quite poor.  He is walking with one aluminum crutch that is designed to work as one of a pair.  The crutch looks like one of those given to people who have broken their leg, but he is using it as an old man might use a cane.  Sometimes, he inexpertly tucks it beneath one arm as he perches on the median and waits for the widest distance between cars to cross.  When he is closer, I can see that his grey pants are clean and pressed to the point where they have a front crease.  However, his plaid shirt in no way matches the grey pants.  That green plaid shirt is long sleeved--much too  warm for a New Orleans summer day--and is tucked into the left side of his neat pants and pulled out on his right side.  Maybe he is not coming from the train station as I assumed.  Maybe he is coming from the temporary location of the Veterans hospital--wherever that is.  Perhaps a glance at his shoes might have decided me about his status.  However, the traffic light changed and I was away.

ezekielsdaughter: (babyWriter)

Exercises in description

Seen today:

I was driving to work; I was taking the “back way”, driving through the neighborhood where I would pass between the Lapalco bridge.

I passed an old woman.  She was Caucasian and rail thin but not emaciated.  She was pale with disheveled hair.  Her hair might have been styled the day before but it looked as if she had awakened and rushed out to her morning routine without combing it.  She wore a very loud flowery printed lounge coat trimmed in braid.  One hand held a lit cigarette as she stumbled down the street.  One hand held a leash as she dragged an blond overweight chihuahua along with her.  The dog does not appear to be interested in walking with its mistress at all.  Not at 8 am and certainly not in the almost 80 degree temperature that we’ve reached at this hour.  The dog that normally guards his yard on that corner by  barking at every passersby does not make a sound.  Perhaps, he is inside enjoying the family’s air conditioning himself.    

ezekielsdaughter: (babyWriter)
http://writersisland.wordpress.com/2011/03/26/prompt-13-for-2011-unlimited/

The thirteenth prompt for 2011 is “UNLIMITED”, inspired by this wonderful image from jaime lluch.
So consider the various meanings of the word, such as… • reaching to forever, • unrestricted, • unconfined, • boundless, • infinite, • vast, • without exception, • unconditional, • unconstrained, • unrestrained, • unfettered — let the word unlimited spark your muse… perhaps let the image above be your inspiration… or choose to go in your own direction with your piece this week. Just let yourself go with whatever it is that moves you to write.



I don't know the morality of using real people's names in a fictional matter in poetry.  Anyway, none of the following implies a knowledge of the Edwin Hubble's personal life.  He just happens to be the person who discovered that Andromeda was actually a separate galaxy.


Hubble's Constant

At midnight, Edwin opens
his eyes on Mount Wilson and realizes that Grace
is receding from him.
Her affection is as variable as the Cepheid star that he pursues.
Now, that star signals to him.
It has barely cleared Mount Lookout, but it’s ready for tonight’s fitting.
One dress for Andromeda, a standard candle in length.
Grace sleeps five nanoseconds away in their shared bed;
M31 is two and a half million light years further,
but both are fleeing from him in a speed that is
measurable
he decides with satisfaction.
What can be measured can be contained--
in a marriage,
in a universe that will eventually fall into order.

ezekielsdaughter: (Default)
This is just what I needed to hear on my morning bike ride.  From Radiolab:


ezekielsdaughter: (writing)
 Last week's word on Writer's Island was "tribute" and I thought fine! because there are people in my life who deserve a tribute from me. However, I feel like an empty soap container right now. Even if you streamed a little water into my head and sloshed it around, no soap would come out. I am drained.

My explanation? I spent a good two weeks being "on" in a training class. Asking questions, wearing makeup, dressing up and wearing heels all day. "We wear the mask", indeed. I've been writing the character of "Marian" for two weeks and I need a break.

At the moment, I am bored. I've been reading "Flashforward" as an audio book. No reflection on that book, even though it isn't my usual fare. And today's study session at synagogue was actually good. But right now, I am bored and not willing to extend myself to what? I could read more, but the boredom is not caused by not enough fluid going in. It's a reflection that not enough creative work is going out. If anything, all the books and TV and entertainment are drugs that keep me from the hard work of writing. So, here is a little "woodshedding", as Kalamu called it.
ezekielsdaughter: (Default)
 I'm pleased to note that my work will appear in Bridges's 21st anniversary edition.   The editor, Clare Kinberg, has been kind enough to send me the Table of Contents:


Felice Yeskel, z’l; A Remembrance
April 6, 1953--Jan. 11, 2011
Rabbi Julie Greenberg

Conversations Begin with Questions
Judith Arcana and Lois Leveen

Why Write Poetry?: A Conversation
Willa Schneberg and Frances Payne Adler

Inside the Rib: Red Hen Press Launch Sisters Discuss their Work
Veronica Golos and Ellen Meeropol

Letters of Uncertainty and Doubt, Bewilderment and Faith
Kazim Ali and Rachel Tzvia Back

Wandering Jews
Lolette Kuby and Diana Anhalt

Straddling Worlds, Bringing Your Whole Self
Aurora Levins Morales and Margaret Randall

Two Memoirs After Seven Decades
Rachel Berghash and Helène Aylon

Translations Tel Aviv to Toronto
Dara Barnat and Gili Haimovich

Lessons in Russian and Yiddish
Sarah Traister Moskovitz and Carol V. Davis

Music, Patience and Form: Two Jewish Poets Interview Each Other
Sarah Antine and Terry Hauptman

African American Jewish Women—Life beyond the Hyphen
Yavilah McCoy and Miri Hunter Haruach

On Editing From the Well of Living Waters and Drash: Northwest Mosaic
Wendy Marcus and Lenore Weiss

A Congenial Anarchy: An Affirmation of Jewish Feminist Space
Marla Brettschneider and Rosie Pegueros

Still Books to Write
Edith Chevat and Jenny Tango

Art, Aging and Legacies
Lili Artel and Rachael Freed

Older and Wiser
Rachel Josefowitz Siegel and Marcia Cohn Spiegel

Choosing life : Ruth Atkin interviews Judith Masur

Way Beyond the Girl-Nots
Elaine Batcher and B.E. Kahn

Attack of the Killer Krows: Hitchcock’s The Birds and The Book of Ruth,
Henri/etta Bensussen and Marian Moore

The Uses of Language
Rita Falbel and Leah Zazulyer

Legends and Legacies from Denver to Berlin
Karen Margolis and Renee Ruderman

Reversing the Gaze
Ellen Cassedy and Susannah Heschel

Talking about Life after the Holocaust
Laura Levitt and Dan Morris

Between NYC and Haifa: Conversations on Being Jewish, Feminist and Peace Activist
Sherry Gorelick (NYC) and Hannah Safran (Haifa)

Love, Hate, G-d and Poetry
Lee Gould and Becca Gould

Discovering Jewish Feminism a Generation Apart
Alicia Ostriker and Alana Suskin

How Enid Dame Led Us Beyond Paradigms
Madeline Tiger and DeDe Jacobs-Komisar

Writing about Family
Suzanne Roberts and Shelley Savren

Familiar Strangers
Lisa Grunberger and Simone Yehuda

They Wrote about Everything: Women and Yiddish
Faith Jones and Irena Klepfisz

Thoughts on Yiddish and Bridges
Lawrence Rosenwald and Kathryn Hellerstein

Class Words
Ruth Kraut and tova stabin

Lesbian Feminists Continuing the Conversation
Elana Dykewomon and Jyl Lynn Felman

Enemies
Helena Lipstadt and Laura Markowitz

Be assured that I will let you know when it's available.  I look forward to reading these conversations!



 
ezekielsdaughter: (BookShelf)
It's a lot easier to write when you can see.  Which explains why I have two sets of prescription glasses.

(Yes, this is the sort of short post that normally goes on my facebook account, but I am sitting here and not there at the moment.)

Back to the editing process....
ezekielsdaughter: (writing)

1

I have it often now, the feeling of having a double consciousness.  And I first noticed it when I was caught flatfooted.  For a moment, I  saw through my own experience.  I was listening to NPR Sunday and the morning puzzle.  The answer to one question depended on a synonym for red.  The answer was “flushed”. 

 

“Nonsense,” I thought.  Flushed doesn’t mean red! Then I did a double-take.  Oh!  Depends on your complexion doesn’t it?   Now, I find it difficult to listen to those morning quizzes without seeing the cultural/physiological references.  Not as simple as “cup and saucer” as “Good Times” simplistically described it years ago.  I remember sneering when I heard that as an example of a cultural reference that only middle class people would know.   I don’t expect to know the Beetles references but “flushed” threw me.

 

2

 

The second case of frisson was reading “Jewish Pirates of the Caribbean: How a generation of swashbuckling Jews carved out an empire in the New World in their quest for treasure, religious freedom—and Revenge”

 

So it begins with the Jews kicked out of Spain at the same time as Columbus sails.  The author plays around with the notion that Columbus had Jewish ancestors but he has more documentation that he had Jewish navigators and some Jews in the crew.  The person who helped convince Isabella to be a patron was a converso.   The author gives the reader an overview of the Jewish exile at the time.  They could not be citizens of any Christian country.  Therefore, they were the prey of all.   There were Jews in the land of Israel, but in general, the crusades and the ascent of Islam had prevented many Jews from remaining in the land.    There was an “idyllic” time when Spain was home to Moors, Jews and Christians.  Ferdinand and Isabella changed all that in their purge of Islam from Spain.  After the Moors were purged, the King and Queen turned on the Jews.  When Spain said convert or die, they tore children from their parents’ arms and baptized them.  You either left or converted.  If you converted, you couldn’t immigrate—less you revert.  Even if you converted, people might still turn you in as a traitor to the faith and you were burned.  Some went to Portugal, a country that wanted Jewish money and navigational ability.  Later, Spain took over Portugal and started burning the conversos of Portugal.  Some were accepted by Holland for the same reason that Portugal took them in.  Some managed to get to Jamaica where they started convincing the English to invite the local pirates in to protect the colony.  (There is lots of summarizing here).   I can’t help but feel for fellow Jews driven from one country to the next and denied citizenship anywhere until Cromwell offers –a few—citizenship in GB.  The desperate desire for citizenship is explained when a few do get British citizenship.  When Spain shows up and starts to cart off British Jews to burn, GB says “ahem” and notes that burning their citizens will be looked upon as an act of war. 

 

The sandpaper feeling comes when you remember what a monster Columbus really was.  Where are the natives of Hispaniola, after all?  The Jews who escaped to the New World are not allowed to farm—even though some try.  They were bought there to trade.  And trade they do, in sugar, in rum—oh this sounds familiar—and slaves.  Farming was taken away from them, the author points out.  As soon as Spain and Portugal realize that sugar is more profitable than searching for gold, the Inquisition is brought in to clear out the Jews.  Even the English merchants in Jamaica begged Cromwell and later King Charles to relieve from “these descendants of the Crucifiers of our Lord.”  Only their continued usefulness to Great Britain against Spain saved them.   The author doesn’t hide the trafficking in slaves but that isn’t the focus of his book.   I don’t know if the trafficking in slaves ended when GB left the slave trading business.  Certainly, the end of the book is more interested in the pirates harassing Spanish ships (hence the “revenge” in the title).   There are mentions here and there of masters who freed their own slaves when the slaves asked to become Jews.  The British describe these Jews of Jamaica as Black because they are a mixture of North African, Spanish, and Portuguese leavened with West Africans.  Looking at photos online, it would be easy to say that they are “Black”.  Louisiana’s old laws would call them so.

 

3

 

So here I am, sister to both the oppressor and the oppressed.  A familiar feeling when American and Black let along American, Jewish, and Black.   As a result, my writing is so mixed.  I expect readers to have a passing knowledge of the Hebrew bible, the Christian bible and a little bit of Black history.  In one story, I expected the reader to know the major Hindu gods and recognize the name of a major African-American college.  Every human being has a mixed or stratified history.  But years and willful forgetfulness separate some readers from the raids, the midnight purges, and rapes that created them.  They know what the word “flushed” means but dozens of other words escape them and those words will never be clues on Sunday morning.

 

My complaining would have more weight if I wrote more fiction.  Lately, I come up with conversations that I wished to write, but no real story.    I am doing a lot of reading.

 


ezekielsdaughter: (babyWriter)
Blast it, I did forget that I wanted to write more cheery poems!  However, what was I to do when the title of the picture was "Charon"? 

I wonder if Persephone could write a cheery poem about Hades--once she got accustomed to her commute between Earth and her new home?  That's a thought.

Persephone Speaks

 

 

When at last he calls
Mother always weeps.  She is
full of chilling rains and wet sighs of wind.
But I am only too glad to remove my garments of green
drop them for the red and gold that favor my darker hue.
My mother calls herself the goddess of grain
but it is at my will that wheat goldens into harvest.
Ceres dallies with Bacchus in the fields, but
grapes do not ripen until I give word.
I was not satisfied with circlets of flowers
after Hades crowned me with black diamonds.

Charon,
hasten I beg you. 
Find your way safely from the River Styx
to this quiet bayou.
Bring my childhood to an end;
return
me to my King. 




 

 

Rejection

Feb. 14th, 2010 08:48 am
ezekielsdaughter: (babyWriter)
Who on earth sends out rejection notices on sunday morning? However, they did respond. I was begining to think that the ether had swallowed one poem.

Posted via LiveJournal.app.

ezekielsdaughter: (writing)

I opened “Black Fire...” today and realized that I had not touched it since August of last year.  And I was so close to finishing a second draft!  I think that I will leave it open.  I will shut-down with it open so that the operating system opens it again when I start the machine up.  In order to do something else, I will have to migrate away from that page.  Finish the blasted thing and then pay a friend to formally edit it for me!    I’ve let another birthday go by with unfinished work in the hamper.

Writing poetry each week has probably helped.  But it only really helps if I can look back on this as finished also.   I guess sitting in front of this keyboard needs to become my "third place".

 

 

ezekielsdaughter: (writing)
Why do I record the minutia of daily life?  To the point of creating a tag for those entries.  Partly because whenever I get back to my benighted novel, I am confronted with the realization that I don’t really know what daily life was like in the time period that I chose--especially for women.  I’ve read tons of books, many of which have “Daily Life” in the title.  It’s difficult to get the feel of it in my head, however.  And there is the very real knowledge that no one wants to read about the boredom of “daily life” anyway--especially for women.  At least I don’t.  I’m the girl who read “The Count of Monte Cristo” and the “The Three Musketeers” for classics.  Jane Austin novels still make me shiver.  This at the same time that I insist that minority lives and women’s lives must be documented.  Who says that I have to be consistent?  


I started reading several novels suggested by friends.  The language is delightful but ultimately, I put most of them down for “another time.”  In the case of “The God of Small Things”, that time did come and I did love the book.  But it took dedication and vacation time to do it.    Keturah had me start reading “The Corrections”.  Delightful language, but I kept getting distracted.  I told myself that I just didn’t care about this family.  That’s the latest book in the “go back to later” stack.  Sorry to be so trifling about literature, but there I am.  My workshop members would find this hilarious because I am the one writing stories with no car chases and no sword fights but plenty of earnest conversation and arguments.  Mainly because women don’t get involved in car chases and sword fights.  They get to watch them, but a viewpoint character who is watching a sword fight is--well--boring.  I am still finding a way to bring believable “action” into those women’s lives in my story.


Meanwhile, the washer just finished.  Another load and then maybe contact a friend to see if she needs company today.  Daily life. 
ezekielsdaughter: (writing)
The subject is topic, so I am "giving away" poetry again. George would be appalled. Of course, we didn't workshop poetry during his era.


ON HEARING “YOU LIE”

Maybe humans weren’t meant to fly.
Maybe, like Icarus, they will always

fall.
Maybe the birds laugh to see us
try

on wings.
Maybe they weep, 

remembering
our 
common ancestor.

Goals

Sep. 10th, 2009 11:01 pm
ezekielsdaughter: (babyWriter)
Did I finish a story for workshop?  Yes, I made my goal.  A bit late.  And it means that I didn't log on to "work" work tonight.  But it was emailed out to members.  Now I guess that I have to do real work.     And think of another story.

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