Has it really been two weeks since my last post? Ah well, I better put one up now, just so that I can continue to read my own writing. The last two weeks have been busy week--the battle of the bug, a flurry of paper, and getting stumped on a short story are the highlights.
The battle of the bug was more "bug" than "battle," actually. Last Saturday, as we were finishing up getting ready for bed, I was done with my toilette and was lying on the bed reading, while my wife was finishing up. Suddenly, I was jerked out of the world of George R.R. Martin by a loud gasp (I get the feeling it would have been a scream if our daughter weren't asleep upstairs). Sitting up immediately, I asked Megan what was wrong.
"Oh, just sit up and look," she said, stage left. I did so, and saw what could only be described as a hockey puck moving slowly across our carpeted floor. Thankfully, it was moving very slowly, and so my brain immediately realized that it couldn't be a cockroach. I approached the piece of sporting equipment carefully, a glass in hand. It was a bug, a black beetle with exceptionally long legs and a hard carapace. Moving nonchalantly across our rug, he seemed to be heading toward our closet--no doubt to commit suicide by hiding in a pair of my shoes (ok, they don't smell that bad, but still). We slipped a thin calendar under him, and placed him, and the glass, on our countertop to be dealt with on Sunday morning. That night, I couldn't get up without thinking I would step on something crunchy . . .
As for the flurry of paper, we purchased a new desk--actually a convertible sofa table that folds out into a sort of writing desk. Transferring our mail to the sofa table has resulted in small piles of paper where you least expect them--on the couch, on bookcases, ottomans, and elsewhere. Of course, we don't put any paper on the floor, because our daughter loves, I repeat loves, paper. Or more specifically, the taste of paper. So we're careful about what we let drop.
And the short story--it's for a contest where I can win, if chosen, the fabulous prize of $50, and the only requirement is that it start with the phrase "It was a small box, but . . . " And so I ask you, dear readers, what sort of story would you tell that began with a phrase like that?
BillG
Monday, July 31, 2006
Monday, July 10, 2006
Freelancing
So I took a class on writing last Saturday.
Well, not really "writing" writing, as in how to use the language to get people to feel something or experience an emotion. No, this class was designed to teach you How to Be a Writer, or how to write for a living, which is something that, more and more, I think I might just try to accomplish. All of the updates from my friend Brent, and my experiences with a friend here at work, Steve, have helped me to believe that this is something that I not only would be halfway decent at, but also something that I could make a halfway decent living at. (How's that for a budding writer's sentence!)
The class itself was an eminently practical excercise. From 9 a.m. to 4 p.m., Mr. Dennis E. Hensley, published author and director of a local writing program, instructed me and seven others on the finer points of writing novels and short stories. What was interesting about him was how compelling he was as a salesman, an ability he used in order to illustrate his points in a captivating and memorable way. It made me wonder if all writers had to be like him, because if that was the case, it certainly wasn't for me.
Of course, that was only if you listen to how he was saying it. If, as I did, you listened to what he was actually saying, you came away with more hope than that. With the proliferation of media has come a proportionate proliferation of publishing houses and presses, making it even more possible to get published someplace. The thing that gave me the most hope? Mr. Hensley talked about how one of the things writers must do is to continue to read, both the classics and modern works, esp. in your chosen genre. Reading? Now that's something I know I can do.
I'll keep you, my faithful and loyal readers (all six of you) posted on how this little odyssey turns out.
BillG
Well, not really "writing" writing, as in how to use the language to get people to feel something or experience an emotion. No, this class was designed to teach you How to Be a Writer, or how to write for a living, which is something that, more and more, I think I might just try to accomplish. All of the updates from my friend Brent, and my experiences with a friend here at work, Steve, have helped me to believe that this is something that I not only would be halfway decent at, but also something that I could make a halfway decent living at. (How's that for a budding writer's sentence!)
The class itself was an eminently practical excercise. From 9 a.m. to 4 p.m., Mr. Dennis E. Hensley, published author and director of a local writing program, instructed me and seven others on the finer points of writing novels and short stories. What was interesting about him was how compelling he was as a salesman, an ability he used in order to illustrate his points in a captivating and memorable way. It made me wonder if all writers had to be like him, because if that was the case, it certainly wasn't for me.
Of course, that was only if you listen to how he was saying it. If, as I did, you listened to what he was actually saying, you came away with more hope than that. With the proliferation of media has come a proportionate proliferation of publishing houses and presses, making it even more possible to get published someplace. The thing that gave me the most hope? Mr. Hensley talked about how one of the things writers must do is to continue to read, both the classics and modern works, esp. in your chosen genre. Reading? Now that's something I know I can do.
I'll keep you, my faithful and loyal readers (all six of you) posted on how this little odyssey turns out.
BillG
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
