Changing the Rules

I have been busy in my head of late assem­bling a (hope­ful­ly small) col­lec­tion of new rules for myself vis-à-vis blog­ging (in par­tic­u­lar) and mak­ing stuff for the inter­net (in gen­er­al). This has been fun, excit­ing, a lit­tle mad­cap, but most­ly sober­ing. I am real­ly crap at per­sist­ing in mak­ing any­thing, online or off, almost…

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I need to buckle down

Oh, to strike out bold­ly, suck­ing in deep ded­i­cat­ed draughts of knowl­edge and digest­ing rapid­ly and ener­get­i­cal­ly, then turn­ing and plac­ing with both hands, as far out into the world as I can reach, my own craft of words and think­ing. This is my goal, this my desire: to light a fire in my own…

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Memory to Meaning

Mine is not a hero’s jour­ney. I have not been a war­rior,(1) nor a war cor­re­spon­dent.(2) I did not track down an entire East­ern Euro­pean nation­al soc­cer team and defeat them at ten­nis on a whim,(3) nor invent the Cos­mopoli­tan.(4) I have nev­er been a vio­lent drug addict, or even pur­port­ed to have been one.(5)…

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The Writer (Day 17)

He was a fic­tion writer. At least, he kept telling him­self that, although as yet he had not pro­duced any­thing that would impress even his dot­ing girl­friend, let alone a dis­cern­ing read­er. He didn’t real­ly even have any drafts of any­thing. He had a lot of ideas for sto­ries, sprint­ed neat­ly on index cards and…

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Two Weeks In

I have been dash­ing off (1) very short short sto­ries dai­ly (2) for two sol­id weeks now. If you won­der why, take a peek back to last week’s post where I explained all this already. This has been, as I have (I think) already observed else­where, an excit­ing and ener­giz­ing expe­ri­ence thus far. While I…

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Voice

I didn’t real­ly think about voice in my writ­ing until my last year of col­lege. I was tak­ing a course with a pro­fes­sor I had pre­vi­ous­ly had for my very first Eng­lish course three years before. She had tak­en me to task then for the absurd­ly grandiose style of my prose: an ado­les­cence spent pri­mar­i­ly read­ing Dick­ens was bound to leave a mark. Now, near­ing the end of my major, I had done a lot of writ­ing and grow­ing, yet I remained large­ly unre­pen­tant when it came to my prose style.

hitting my stride

I walk to work each week­day morn­ing, and unless a co-work­er offers me an unso­licit­ed ride, I walk home again at the end of each work­ing day. I have a thir­­ty-minute pedes­tri­an com­mute each way, untrou­bled by traf­fic and impact­ed far less by sur­face con­di­tions. I will be glad when the last of the snow…

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Courage to fail

I have not writ­ten in quite a while. I have tak­en up my pen many times, jot­ted quick notes to myself of top­ics or turns of phrase, or just stared at the emp­ty page, as if I was not sure what its inten­tions were. But noth­ing has emerged whole or near­ly so, noth­ing has got­ten…

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