The Art of the Short Story (Friday’s free for All)

I was going through an old notebook earlier this week and came across notes from a presentation I made a few years ago.

You don’t realize how much time has slipped by until you come across little things like a card, or an old electric bill you forgot to pay or, in this case, some silly old notes.

I intended to publish them yesterday as a Throwback Thursday but the day was gone before I knew it and BOOM, it was Friday.

I’m posting them here in snapshots because if I typed these few pages out this post wouldn’t make it to you until August… of next year.

The Handout

The SurveysFlash Fiction Word Count & Classifications

AIW press also graciously lent me material to use in presentation. I don’t have a snapshot but here’s a link to the article.

Happy Friday Y’all and here’s to stories of all shapes and sizes. 🍻

Writing For Children (No, really)

Espionage ACX Kendra Lords (800x800)

Kendra Lords makes her audio debut reading Espionage (A juvenile short story).

Espionage is short story centered on five juveniles. Chris, Matt, Tony, Jesse and Sam entertain themselves as amateur agents in a game of espionage with a delightful twist.
Plus the poetic tale of Hailey & Taylor’s Adventure.

This truly is writing for children unlike my other attempts. Of course it is also the brain child of my late mother.

Available at Audible, Amazon and iTunes

The Thinker, Buddy & The Gossiping Reeboks.

Why I chose The Thinker for the final post of National Poetry Month.

A few months ago we acquired Buddy from a lovely family after our Blue Heeler was killed. His prior family said they couldn’t keep him (for a number of reasons), said they hadn’t even named him but I suspect they were fibbing; a little white lie to ease our grief.

Right away our family asked what we were going to name this little fellow. Without thinking (in my typical weird, off the cuff manner) I blurted out, “He told me his name is Patrick, but that we could call him Buddy.” The grand-kids believed me, excited that I could communicate with dogs. The children mumbled something about having me committed. I just smiled and thought, at least I don’t talk to shoes.

Weather casts a green hue (1280x1229)

The Thinker

by William Carlos Williams

My wife’s new pink slippers
have gay pom-poms.
There is not a spot or a stain
on their satin toes or their sides.
All night they lie together
under her bed’s edge.
Shivering I catch sight of them
and smile, in the morning.
Later I watch them
descending the stair,
hurrying through the doors
and round the table,
moving stiffly
with a shake of their gay pom-poms!
And I talk to them
in my secret mind
out of pure happiness.

We later found out that Buddy’s name was ‘Gus’. My husband couldn’t wait to share that bit of information.  I said something like, “Aww, I knew they sacrificed their sweet puppy out of pure kindness.” He of course really wanted to make the point that the dog had NOT told me his name was Patrick.  At that point I had to be honest…

“Hmm… Well, he didn’t really say his name was Patrick.” I admitted.

“I KNEW IT!” Husband gloated.

“What he actually said was that he was born Patrick Gustav, but he prefers to be called Buddy.”

The husband politely conceded and took Buddy out to find a new stick.

I was relieved that the issue had been settled once and for all until Buddy ran back in to tell me something; a disturbing bit of gossip actually. He said after the lights are out and the house is quiet that my Reeboks snicker and mock me, they laugh at the way I run!

The shoes, of course have the right to their opinion and I (of course) have the right to stomp around in altered footwear.

I find they fit much better minus the tongue. 😉

“The Thinker” was published in Williams’s book, Sour Grapes: a book of poems (The Four Seas Company, 1921).

Don’t let poetry die from neglect or sit gathering dust until next April.

May I suggest a nice anthology by HWA,

HWA Poetry Showcase Volume I

AND I Have 25 free promo codes from Audible for Pose Prose & Poems narrated by Linda Roper if anyone is interested.

A Look Inside: Bookfest

This weeks photo challenge correlated fabulously with a post I had planned for My Indie Adventures.

As a few of you may know I attended the East Texas Bookfest this past Saturday. What you may not know is that it was my first.  Of course I marched up in there like an old crow pro because I refuse to be intimidated.

The event started Friday evening with a reception for the authors at the Potpourri House in Tyler. I had a glass of Chardonnay with a little fruit, cheese and artichoke dip.  The chicken and meat balls looked very appealing but I’m pretty sure I would have choked on them so I had another glass of wine when my handler wasn’t looking.  The receptionThe dip was delicious by the way.

Saturday morning we arrived on time (yay!!) and within minutes our table was set up.

Inside the Bookfest (1)

With all of that out of the way (thank you Kim) I’m like what am I supposed to do now?

What do I do now?

What do I do now?

Thank goodness I just happen to have a camera hanging around my neck so I roamed around taking pictures.

Maybe taking pictures was not exactly what I was supposed to be doing and I probably shouldn’t have let people think I was with the press…  Oh well it was another funtastic indie adventure and a chance to see the inside working of a book festival.

Writers are Bizarre

 

Writers are Bizarre, oh yes they are. I feel certain the majority of authors know this – those who don’t have not yet had their epiphany or come to terms with the fact. If the truth be told they are more than strange, they are obsessive odd balls bordering on schizophrenia. I suspect many have prescriptions but refuse to take the psychotropic medication because it hinders their creativity. They need to feel alive; to interact with the personalities dueling inside their heads, not subdue them. Their characters must be allowed a chance at life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness as well as the right to die.

Writers are bizarre, oh yes they are. From my observations this peculiarity seems to afflict creative writers especially. Creative writers and poets. Oh, poets are creative writers? Okay. Poets are a also a grievous lot. They are constantly imagining, seeing, and feeling or thinking. They are a curious hand with six digits and a raw nerve. Most of them are bereaved with some sort of incurable pain. Odd thing is it’s usually not their pain but the aches of every one and every thing around them as if they carried the weight of the world on their shoulders. On occasion one will write about the joy or beauty found in something. Usually that something is what the rest of earth’s inhabitants dismiss or take for granted on a daily basis.

Writers are bizarre, oh yes indeed they are. They carve out niches for indolent thoughts, sow seeds of cerebration, offer rest to weary secrets, and give birth to imagination.

Now what sort of world would this be without these flaky, freakish, alien-like individuals?

Gone would be the greens and reds, lost to slow decay. In place of all the rainbows bled – a shade of muted gray.

The final words of Unjustified Favor

I’m sending me flowers because I just sent the book over to the editors. Typed the final words about a half hour ago.  Yep -that’s right, I did it.  [me strutting arrogantly and wallowing in oleanders  until the corrections come rolling in]       But tonight I sigh a deep sigh of relief filled  with self respect (( :)))    It’s a thin bubble ladies and gentlemen that I dwell in .

congratulations to me for beating the first deadline.