Hallowe’en is coming and houses are being decorated in preparation for the big night. Parents will usher their kiddies up and down the street, teens will dress up one last time in hopes of scoring a vomit-worthy stash. Our little ghouls and goblins who are out to trick and receive treats are anticipating not only the sweets, but also the scares. The frightening begins and ends with monsters, ghosts, jack-o-lanterns and creatures of the night. Or does it?
Personally, I find the worst – the most chilling of the lot, are the yearly list of warnings:
Check the candy before you eat it!
Don’t accept anything not prepackaged!
Of course the safety list goes on. But what the hell with the poisoned, razor-blade-ladened food? Do we distrust our neighbours this much? Is anyone actually stupid enough to still attempt to get away with such abominations? After all, it’s been what… 40 years since all this paranoia began? I suppose we’ve become so accustomed to being told that there are real threats everywhere that we accept this the way we do anything else.
So kiddies, watch out, because it’s not the vampire hovering at your window, or the mummy banging at the lid of its coffin you have to worry about. It’s the nice little old lady down the street who spent weeks making candy apples that you need to fear the most.
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Edit: The statistics of poisoning in Hallowe’en candy – here.
Opinions. We all have them. As bloggers we put ours out there for the public to scrutinize every day, and scrutinized they are. Some of us know more intimately than others how harshly our opinions can be crushed by a troll. But still, the strongest of us brush it off and persist.
Is it possible to write without, in some capacity, revealing an opinion? Even in fiction there must be a part of our lives, our experiences, in what we say. So we write and we hope that people out there will find something of value in what we say. If we didn’t feel passionate about what we do, or what we have to share, we wouldn’t do it, right?
After all, we could just stick to posting pictures of flowers…
The posts in the category “Yesterday’s News” reflect inspiration found in the previous day’s edition of my local newspaper. They are not a retelling of the news. This is a challenge to post a blog entry once a day, every day until Hallowe’en, and possibly beyond.
In the pursuit of changing it up once in a while, we are encouraged as writers to search for different words to say the same thing. Using the same ones over and over can distract the reader from the point we are trying to make. But at the same time, if we do a bad job of it, the wrong turn of phrase can be even worse than the repetitive one.
Take the article I found in yesterday’s paper for instance. The piece is well written; it concerns the annual recognition of immigrants, refugees and international students learning English as a Second Language. There is no credit given to the writer of the article – credit is given to the paper’s “Staff,” and I have to wonder if this is the reason why:
I don’t know about anyone else, but for me this phrase conjures up all kinds of horror.
Is it possible to take the whole “find another way to say it” process too far? Absolutely. You have to appreciate it when someone has the guts to publish it in a font four times the size of the rest of the text… but then again, whoever did, lacked the balls to put his/her name on it. I know I wouldn’t.
“Yesterday’s News” is a challenge I have set for myself to post a blog entry once a day, every day until Hallowe’en, and possibly beyond.
In the interest of trying to write at least one blog post day, I’m going to start something new. I rarely have the chance to read the papers I deliver until the next day, so I thought I’d start writing an article based on something I read in yesterday’s paper, thus the title, “Yesterday’s News.” It may not last long with Nanowrimo coming up, but I’ll give it a go.
In yesterday’s editorial section there was a piece on Thanksgiving and how we, as Canadians, should give thanks just to live here rather than a war torn country. The article mentioned people complaining about ‘first-world problems’ when there are others starving to death, homeless because of weather and ongoing battles etc. etc. It didn’t take me long to put this into the perspective of my own life.
When I tell people of my home situation (that I’m single with two handicapped kids), I almost invariably hear the same things: “And I thought I had problems!” is one of the most common. I have a hard time responding to this statement, because, I believe, it truly is all a matter of perspective. Just because I have a lot to deal with, doesn’t mean you don’t too! is what I really want to say.
I was thinking about all this this morning as I was pouring my second cup of coffee – precisely the same time I realized that the filter in the coffeemaker had collapsed and I was getting a cup full of grounds. First-world problem, I thought. See? We all have them!
Another example is this:
This is the dashboard of my 2001 Pontiac Montana. You may notice the engine light is on. The gas tank appears full, but I have to reset the tripometer every time I fill up because the gas gauge doesn’t work. I have to say though, at least it has a positive attitude.
From my perspective it is worrying to drive around with the engine light on, especially when one of my kids has an out-of-town doctor’s appointment, but I can’t afford to fix it. Case in point – the gas gauge has been acting this way for about six years. BUT, take all this from the perspective of someone without insurance, whose car is sitting in a tree after a tornado rips through, and my problems seem to hardly register.
I had a friend once, who, every time she had a bad day, would phone me up to listen to my problems, just to make her feel better. She was very upfront with the fact she was doing it, and I was happy to oblige. But it makes me wonder why we read the news from other countries. Does it make us feel better? Does it help us to be thankful for what we have in the place we live? Perhaps. But we still have to give ourselves some room to breathe. It’s okay to let first-world problems give us grief, and we shouldn’t beat ourselves up for it.
Everyone has problems. It’s all a matter of perspective.
Every once in a while I feel the need to reach out to my fellow writers, and I consider it a gift to have, here at WordPress, so many friends who are sailing along with me in this boat. Up until I began my blog, writing was a solitary endeavour if ever there was one.
So, I’m here once again to see if anyone else out there shares my experience.
Inspiration comes to me from everywhere: from an unusual sight; from people I see when I’m out; from music, art… you name it. But only once in my life have I found someone who could inspire me to write an entire novel. His face, his movements, his physique, his voice – there is nothing about him which doesn’t inspire me. And without fail, every time I see him I am compelled to write the character I have found through him.
I can’t imagine I’m the only one who has felt this seemingly unlimited amount of inspiration from a single person or thing.
So tell me. What has been your boundless inspiration in the past? What, or who, is responsible for giving you the excitement necessary to write tirelessly, and on occasion, effortlessly?
From every thing that exists, when affected by another element, there comes the potential for vibration; energy transformed into sound. Consider the leaf hanging from a branch on still day. It is alive and in all its glory is a a source of energy that can be sensed by any who are sensitive to it. In its existence is potential. When a breeze picks up and the leaf brushes against another, it is able to sing. Energies clash in a song so fine, so perfect – it is nature’s own harmony.
Silence holds potential. Silence is energy, energy produces vibration, vibration is sound, silence is the loudest sound on earth.
I had to drive and hour out of town to feed my youngest son his lunch today – the teachers aren’t allowed (according to school board rules) to give him a gastric-tube feeding.
Normally I get pissed off when I have to do this, but today, as you can see from the picture I took with my phone, it was worth it for the scenery.
I have to say, I’m probably enjoying my online courses more than I have a right to. When I was a teenager I hated school. I took off every chance I got – would drive to Niagara Falls for a day instead of going to classes. But now that I’m an adult I don’t understand my mindset back then. Okay, sure, to me high school seemed pretty useless. After all, what better way to learn about life than live it? The walls of an institution didn’t seem the most conducive setting for LIFE with capital letters. I suppose, now that I’m writing about the life of a teenager in my novel, it’s good to look back and remember as much of that time as I can.
But I digress.
This post is supposed to be about my current schooling. I passed my grammar course with a fairly decent 83% and now I’m on the last phase to getting my certificate – Writing Short Stories.
Before the course started I thought I was just going to sail through it, much as I thought I would with the grammar course. Why wouldn’t I? After all, I can bang out a respectable short story in an afternoon. When I received the lesson plan however, I was stopped in my tracks. You see, the course will take me almost up to Christmas and I will have one short story to write. First I must submit an idea. A few weeks later, my task is to hand in a first draft, and at the beginning of December I must write the final draft.
So I’ve got all this time to write a short story. No problem, you would think. But I’ve got all this time to write a short story, and that’s the problem! To come up with ONE idea and ruminate over it over the course of two months is torture to me. You see, I’m what is commonly referred to these days as a ‘pantser.’ I get an idea, but I not only have to write it down right away, if I don’t actually write the story right away, I’ll lose it.
You might say, so just write the story and have done with it. Hand it in when it’s time. That would be fine, except my OCD won’t allow it. If I know myself well, I will write it, review it, edit it, edit it some more, and given that much time and that much editing, it’s going to look like a pile of steaming crap by the time I go to submit it, because I’ll have overthunk it to death.
I have decided, then, to try for once to actually take my time. Do the whole outline thing, maybe even draw myself a storyboard; create characters before I write the thing… I’ll treat it like an experiment. Do it the way the other half – the non-panster – does it. It’s going to be a challenge.
It is the empty shell of what I believe is a June Bug. I didn’t even realize they shed their skins, but there you go. [Edit: It’s a cicada.] The thing is, I’ve been contemplating these remains for the past week, and how they relate to my life.
The fact is, I am full. It would be easy for me to say I need to shed my skin and let out the real me, but that isn’t quite the case. For many months I have felt oppressed by a relationship in which I felt unable to speak my mind. In those months, feelings, thoughts, visions, and opinions have built up which I have repressed, for fear of pissing someone else off. It’s no way to live, especially for a writer who lives to put to paper her every inspiration. It’s difficult to function in every facet of life, for me, when I am unable to express myself.
There’s a teaching in Taoism, in which the example of a full cup of water is used. At first glance, a cup filled to the brim with water may be considered a positive thing. And yet, a full cup holds no potential. The usefulness of a cup is its empty space… When I’m full of thoughts and ideas, I’m also of no use to anyone.
My problem now is twofold. Although I’m out of the relationship that caused me to keep quiet, I am so full of the things I want to say, I don’t know where to start. The other part of it is that I know the person involved may be reading my blog. So, do I say to hell with it and speak my mind, the other person’s feelings be damned? Or do I continue to tread cautiously?
I found, in examining the second of two pictures I took of this bug, there is something that looks like a face inside it. This picture is not doctored. But the face inside the empty bug shell, I think, may be me, still afraid to come out.
What I mean to say is, I am most happy when I am alone. My imagination and I get along very well, as do I with my loud music. I am happiest when I can dance when no one is watching. I am free-est when I can sing at the top of my lungs, knowing no one is judging my ability. I am most content when I can write without distraction.
So, am I alone in this? Is it a artist thing, or is it just that I grew up as an only child and got used to it at an early age?
I wonder if it has anything to do with the ability or the need to create. I’ve always had my imagination to keep me company. I remember (and it was a memory just jogged this morning) trying to write a book at my mother’s friends’ dining room table – when I was five or six years old. As I grew up I would imagine for myself a different life, in which I had friends and enemies alike. I would write pages of conversations.
Of the people in my real life: an artist friend of mine, with whom I was discussing this topic the other day, told me that she also is happiest and most content when she’s by herself. My mother and my other friend (yes, I only really have two) dislike being alone. Both are creative in their own ways – my mother knits and sews, and my friend is an inventor – but they are not artists as such.
Neither of them understand this need I have to be alone, and so it makes me wonder if I’m strange. I can only ask my artistically inclined acquaintances…
