100 on Writing

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It comes in waves, the good, bad and ugly. It sits in my soul, scratching to get to a page. It is my nemesis, my beloved, my best friend. Word upon word, building, crashing, digging deeper into the shadows where others live. Schizophrenia? Maybe. Lurking below the surface of a rational mind is a Dr. Suess inspired ride. Voices of pasts, of futures yet to live. Waiting. Waiting to dance across the stage, speak whatever words fall from frozen mouths to ink dipped quills that tap, tappity tap, tap, tap tap, in keyed up rhythms on letters fingers dance upon.

Reading While Writing

I tend to read less when writing. (Something about too many words running around my head and eye glaze.) Then something fantastic happened. The book I was reading to avoid my own writing turned to shit 500 pages in. Kinda sad considering I would have bought the rest of the series. Not only did said book go to the great give away in the sky, the author’s chances of ever getting me back are slim. Yeah, as a reader I’m harsh. Reading time is valuable and there are a gazillion great books just waiting to crowd my already crowded bookshelves. Yet I am forever thankful I read that book. More thankful even, that I read it when I did, which was while struggling with my Continue Reading →

Why Stephen is King

I’ve been behind on my Stephen King reading, he is prolific, and just finished Blaze – a good fun romp of a read. Even knowing how the book was going to end, (it is his homage to Of Mice and Men) I had hope I was wrong. As a reader/ writer, I love the way words can be strung, creating a sensory delight, their sound and picture tinkling in my mind’s eye as their meaning evokes feeling. They are the great lines that pull you momentarily from a story just so you can pause, reread and reflect before plunging back into the plot. Stephen King has strung lots of those through the years and something else. He offers hope (for his characters & the Constant Reader) in the rarest of times and reminds me Something Greater exists. Continue Reading →

Self Professed Book Nerd

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I admit I own more books than I do shoes, clothes and animals, although there may be a healthy debate as to who owns whom on the latter. Books are not mere things. They are the dust collecting chasm of my soul, the pulp on which tree and author have given their lives. In them I live and breathe a different life, as many as I chose. I have always been a dreamer. Diversity thrives in every writer’s words, in sentences that lay them bare. Found in the oddest of characters, settings and plots are rare sparkling gems which gleam with words so clear one rereads them, momentarily pulled from that other world into the something greater which connects us all. Here where the author and universe bleed through even the most clichéd of books has something to tell.

Maybe this is why I write, to capture that feeling which a great book gives once it is read. Fingers caressing that last page, a tinge of remorse at the parting, knowing it is time to say goodbye yet satisfied at having met.