I simply had to share this with all my visitors. My friend Ross Long has such a complex way with words. He, often times, uncensored and powerful (both good and bad) can really speak volumes. He posted this (see below) on Facebook a few days ago with regards to his love, Jenna, and I felt it was incredibly beautiful and needed to be shared with others.
Category: Literature/Writing
We
Dear Writing,
I’ve missed you greatly. I went to a local SCBWI “I Love To Write” mini-workshop focused on you, writing (spurring on ideas, thoughts, getting it down on paper). Familiar faces showed up, followed by friendly warm hugs, and new acquaintances were made.
How often I forget that you, writing, is where I can explore, grow, challenge, and feel confident and proud. The creativity which I find and love in life comes out in you, my…writing.
So thanks for staying in my back pocket when my life is crazy and remembering that I haven’t forgotten you.
Sincerely,
Karin
I have had a life full of ups and downs and the last three months have been some of the worst. Yet I’ve been lucky enough to have several friends that I communicate with via Facebook, email, and text messages who have been a nice support system. And in this day and age it seems as supportive as in person that one with a busy life can get. (Of course nothing is better than in person support).
The healing process for one’s self is a complex set of emotions, whether it is mental or physical. And I sure have been attempting to find the answers or at least start to put together answers while living life in the process. Thankfully I have only lost one really good friend in my latest set of ups and downs, the rest I have discovered were, dumbasses (thank you Red Forman…more on That 70′s Show in a future post) to begin with. I have had to deal with the friendship loss and learn that it requires healing and understandings I have yet to learn. And I have to learn how to accept that I know the truth and if others are not willing to understand and forgive that I have to learn to heal regardless.
I won the first drawing from Small Yellow Songbird!! 
And….as you can tell I’m not the best at discussing this or the advice that one can impose. Sooooo, gratefully, my friend is doing a much better job than I could and I’m happy to direct you to her wonderful new blog “Small Yellow Songbird.” She post a new message of wellness every Tuesday. (She also has giveaways bimonthly) Small Yellow Songbird is regarding women’s wellness, but men should also feel free to check in because of her global message of understanding your health and body is universal. Because I am overwhelmed and behind, I didn’t get the word out soon enough, so be sure to check the first post which explain why she is blogging.
Like this:
I had to digest/read, My Sister’s Keeper by Jodi Picoult for my Marriage and Family class (still not sure of the connection).
While I am not surprised that it was a very popular book, made into a movie, sold millions of copies and floated to the tops of book lists, I had other thoughts…
Was the story different? Yes
Was the story interesting and moving? Yes
Yet the seven different point of views was down right confusing to go back and forth with in each chapter. Half of the time I had to go back to the start of the chapter and see which character we were focused on. There was no real connection to any character because we didn’t spend enough time with them.
Additionally, what we did know showed a lack of differences within each character. They all seemed the same, same voice same emotions, same everything. I’m not sure how this point of view writing made it past editors red pen…
I’m sure the movie was better, but I avoid dramas…too much of THAT in real life.
Like this:
It came in the smallest of small packages, yet made the loudest thud when dropped on the ground in front of the door.
The man behind the door jumped at the loud noise and opened the door to investigate. He looked at it, bent down a bit, then quickly stood back up and closed the door in silence.
The box jumped and flipped over, the man swung the door back open.
“Ahhhhhhhyyaaaaa,” he blurted and pointed at finger.
The box jumped and flipped again. The man slammed the door once again.
Like this:
I have learned on my rather short journey that some stories are true. Like the long absences of being in touch with your publisher. I took the nearly two month absence from any contact or replies as normal. Yet I started to doubt that I had even signed that piece of paper (the one that had a glowing light when I opened it and the sound of ahhhhh coming from it as I removed it from the envelope).
Alas I made contact with my publisher like a grateful alien finding human life.
But with contact comes the feeling of being overwhelmed, and thus…actually being overwhelmed. (Life does not put things aside or make things happen in perfect order)
I was well aware of this of course…that I would have a lot to do with the process of “before the book” and “after the book.” But actually doing it is mind-boggling in the sense that I feel like I’m trying to handle a sticky octopus shooting its legs in all different directions.
I had to start by controlling at least one of the legs, before I could move to control the next leg. And so that is where I am in the process of my first book. Controlling what I can, when I can, and never happier to get a little bit of octopus goop on my hands.
Her fingers, long…dainty…soft, dragged along the wall, the pinky finger nail stopped to tap.
Her eyes rolled up to the ceiling where water slowly dripped to the floor in front of her. She matched her tapping to the dripping.
The man on the other side of the wall began to scream, agitated from the racket her nail was doing through his wall. A man in the hall started to slap his hands on the floor like that of a drum. The screams in the room grew until the thumping of shoes hitting the concrete floor echoed in the hall.
The men in white were coming.
Like this:
He sits on the curb. His shoes scrape the black-top underneath them. In his hand he holds a worn and bent ace of spades. The design on the back is flaking off from constantly being handled.
Several cars drive by, nearly in slow motion, the drivers glancing at him sitting on the curb.
Foot steps approach, painted toes and a flowing dress.
He notices her and squeezes the card harder into its familiar bended shape.
She reaches her hand down, he reaches his up with his empty hand, and grabs tightly.
In the world of children’s writing, and probably adult writing, online magazines, for the most part are not considered anything special when it comes to a writing “making it.” For starters a lot of them don’t pay, or they don’t pay industry standards. They are almost looked down on because they are not something tangible to hold, like a real paper magazine. So why would a I “waste” my time on submitting to e-zines.
For starters I submit my stories to all different magazine venues. And while I would prefer to be able to see my work in a tangible form, like I have a few times, the point of my writing is to get my story out there, to children or adults. And the cheapest and easiest way for families to get stories to their children (especially with our struggling job situations) is through online venues.
Over time I have decided that why I write is more important than what the writing industry thinks of e-zines. And while many of my long time blog visitors know my stance on e-readers :/ I feel that magazines, because they offer short reads, are okay to be apart of the industry’s way to promote easy ways for children to get excited about reading.
After all, the point of writing is reading.
My brain is mush, my writing brain is stuck on idle. The thoughts are not there, the ideas don’t probe and poke to get out, to be put down for all to see. As a writer (or I guess I can now say author) my ideas and words are what I use to move forward, to produce, to free my mind of what sits inside. Maybe it is not that there are not any thoughts, but that there are too many. In the quietest of times I am unable to stir up anything of meaning, and I guess that is a author’s biggest fear….writer’s block. But why is it never called author’s block?
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