If you’re like me, the seemingly endless choice of what to read next can be overwhelming. New books come out weekly. Established authors keep writing. New/emerging authors keep writing. For us English speakers, new translations are released exposing us to even more talent from around the world. Factor in the books that already exist whether you’ve heard of them or not and it’s like how does one even start? Should I read my way through classics, keep it contemporary, or mix it up? But then what? Keep Reading
“Write it down, type it down, speak into your phone, just get it down. Ideas won’t stay in your head forever.”-Me
We like to trust our memories because we think of them as steel traps and a sign of youthfulness. And it’s true that some people are far better at remembering things than others. But it’s good for us as writers or creative persons to put our concepts and ideas into some physical form.
Short term memory only has so much space before it eventually dumps the input to make room for new information. Long term memory is great, but I’m not sure that a spontaneous idea is going to get placed there unless you run it over in your head repeatedly to commit it. Even then, the more you run through it, the more it’s changing, shifting, and parts could end up missing by the time you believe you’re ready to address them. Think of recalling a dream. When you retell it to someone, no matter how vivid it may be in your mind, it’s never a whole recreation. So why would you expect your ideas to remain whole after you let them sit in your mind?
I know, sometimes there just doesn’t seem to be a chance in the hustle and bustle of jobs or simply inopportune times the ideas spring up. Not only does technology make things easier, having traditional standbys work just as well. Keep Reading
brought together not through birth,
Locked eyes in a stare down
Filled with the “eye of the tiger”
One daringly taking the first leap
clashed to the ground wrestling, thrashing
A frantic separation not knowing who was the victor
The youngest paced in contemplation whipping its tail.
Brought to you in part via this Daily Prompt and the other links provided.
When I think of having someone write my biography. My first thought is why wouldn’t I want to write my own memoirs, plenty of authors & writers do or have. I’m not, nor do I expect to become, a celebrity. Nor do I consider myself incapable of doing so. That aside, would I still be interested in seeing how someone else would paint my life? Sure, why not? And given the option of any author living or dead. I give my knee-jerk vote to…Richard Castle.
Screen capture via amazon.com
Why Richard Castle? Not only is he ruggedly handsome (or so I’m led to believe), but have you read his books? They’re action packed, humanizing, engaging, maybe even a guilty pleasure (to some, not moi), and his journalistic experience means he’s thorough with his research. Not to mention he’s dedicated to his pieces. His ego wouldn’t allow him to do a sloppy job regardless of how great or simple the task. Granted, my life is not filled with the same level of excitement as drug cartels, or life tagging along with members of the NYPD. But I’m sure there are a couple of highlights he could run with, and I’d love to see them.
Who would you choose or did choose? Leave a comment below and/or a link to your own post answering this Daily Prompt and just maybe I’ll edit this post to include links to my favorites 😉
In honor of #WorldPoetryDay, I decided I would do some browsing around and read someone I haven’t read before. The title caught my attention, and who knew the simple arrangement of words therein could be so spot on. As such, I’m sharing my favorite snippet… For A Depressed Woman
She sleeps late each day,
stifling each reason to rise,
choked into the quilt.
Please read the short poem in its entirety here and check more of Emanuel’s work. I know I will.
I found a quiver of arrows in the forest. What the hell? It’s 2015.
I never learned archery, perhaps this was a sign from the fates to start. I stowed them in my messenger bag and searched around for any clues to the previous owner. Nothing.
I continued walking oblivious that someone was watching me. Discovering a clearing, I placed a blanket down next to a stream and started reading. Several pages in, I heard someone emerge from behind the trees.
“You have something that belongs to me.”
I handed them over, what an unusual way to make friends.
As part of the Advanced Placement English curriculum during my junior year (11th grade) of high school, we had the option of reading one of two plays. This and The Glass Menagerie by Tennessee Williams. I read the latter with no problem. I purchased both works, but never got around to reading A Raisin in the Sun. Unfortunately, I think some of the reason I didn’t select Hansberry was because there was this sense of you should learn more about your heritage. But when it came to the students it seemed as if ones blackness was called into question if you weren’t reading all of these prominent black female writers when given the option (Toni Morrison, naturally another). I certainly appreciated the fact that a southern suburban high school, gave us the option, and didn’t insist on only reading white American male authors. However, all the other females in my class of black heritage were reading it, and this notion of we’re going to determine who you are was a huge turn off. So, I resisted. Plus the synopsis for Menagerie appealed more to me. What amused me later, was when we watched film adaptations, these students were some of the first who seemed disinterested in either play. Further encouraging me to remove myself from this display of false pride flag waving. Years later, it’s still in my unread pile…until now. After reading one play I was in the mood for another and thought what better time to rectify this wrong that was no fault of Hansberry’s, but self-exploring adolescent circumstances.
If interested in a written review or just to hear my opinions on the work let me know in the comments or contact me 🙂
The year was 1995. What was I doing? Enjoying life to the max by still being a kid. Old enough to have a vague sense of the world, but young enough to have a thirsty imagination, seek adventure and not take things too seriously. Responsibilities were simple, go to school, try not to be a pain to my mother and just live. Sometimes I ask myself. Whatever happened to that little girl? She was damn near fearless, even with being someone conscious of mortality. She knew how to entertain herself when friends weren’t around, but also capable of making and keeping friendships, neighbors and classmates alike. Invited to slumber parties often, a “delight to have over” was a frequent compliment of parents. Actually looked forward to going to school, talking about her day, and had an optimistic disposition regarding her future. The…
Cupid’s arrows stabbed me in the heart and brain the moment I saw your little runty face
Your eyes were blue and filled with stress
Your appearance was rodent like, even though your lineage is one of predator
I looked at your brothers and sisters
Mewing and clamoring for attention
Most of them were claimed, but I didn’t care
Your dark fur historically the shade of superstitions suggested why you hadn’t already been chosen
But you were my ideal
I scooped you up and held you close
Oxytocin must have flowed because it was longer than twenty seconds
We took you home
That was ten years ago
Your eyes turned a yellowish green as you aged
Your size doubled, tripled, then quadrupled
Runt of the litter?
It’s amazing what a little tenderness, love, and care can do
I spoiled you rotten
But I’ve never regretted it once.