The Six word story or the six word novel is a concept that was supposedly started by Earnest Hemingway . It is said that he was bet by a friend that he could not write an effective story in 6 words. There have been many that said that it was not Hemingway that actually wrote the passage but I like to think that the very Manly Hemingway did think up the sweet , sad story of a life cut short, and hope dashed. Funny , takes more words to explain the story than it was to write .
This is a very good article … and the picture is FANTASTIC!
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Social media in particular can be a writer’s best friend, or her doom.
I am old enough to remember working in an office where I had to share a clunky desktop PC that only displayed pixilated green type on a black screen and was not connected to anything other than the electrical outlet. I remember a world before ubiquitous email, incessant social media updates, and text messages that follow you everywhere.
Though I sometimes recall those less technologically bound times wistfully, as a self-employed writer of the twenty-first century, I know that I could not do my job without the Internet. No way. No how. I work with almost all of my clients on an almost 100% remote basis – conducting all our business via email, Skype, conference calls, and cloud-based document and project management services. I do my research on the…
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you and I are living through history. We are living in the time that has produced the most new words in the dictionary in almost 100 years. We have added words like D’oh , Bootylisious, and Google to the actual dictionary . This year is no different.
We have added “twerk” Thank you Youtube/Miley Cyrus and Refollow but also wonderful words like flexitarian, a nonsense word that basically just means you don’t eat red meat , and the winner of this years word of the year “selfie” which probably means that the ultra-hip people that thought us the word will quickly abandon it for something like “frontie” or “headshot” . Last years winner omnishambles is a much more useless word and much much more fun!
It is not easy to write a sexual scene that isn’t a little cheesy. In truth, it’s what will always keep porn out of the true art-form class no matter what , seriously how many different ways can you put two things together before you are hitting redundancy?
This time has come round again for the bad sex award put out by the literary review. In the article by Zeljka Marosevic for MobyLives we see some of the sadly comic samples from the past. I guess we can take the idea away that 1. it’s an award and 2. It’s happened to some of the best of them.
My mouth lingered on hers; I tasted her. I felt for her tongue with mine. I felt the blood surging through my body. We pressed against one another.
She gripped my arms. Her nails tore into me. Soon we both were burning. Sweat pooled in the ridge of my back as I moved like a tide determined to crash against those ancient rocks.
Then – a moment before – inside, I kept very still. Our bodies moved of their own accord. Hannah’s body was swallowing, digesting all that was mine to give. For those final moments, we existed seamlessly – all memory negated by a desire that both belonged to us and controlled us.
After, we kept very still, like the only two roots of the forest.
This is the thing about being a writer. You can produce and get things all done and buttoned up and then you may be looking at 500 pages of your blood sweat and tears only to realize you have no god damned idea what to do with the final product.
I am not an expert in this, am in fact a novice since I am just getting my book into that wonderful stage one could call a manuscript but I did find some resources that might help anyone else that , like myself , is getting to the point where your life long dream and your actual life are about to intersect.
My week is going to be dedicated to the flash fiction genre. I have been having some issues lately with my ability to write fiction. My story well is a bit rusty. I can write, I have words but the pump is not very well primed. I find the idea of stoking my fire with a fresh 300- 1000 word story exciting and unbelievably scary. The subject matter will be varied.
This is my attempt to gear my mind up for the task that of getting down the business of writing as a business. I have not been doing much writing in the fiction realm for the last year or two, I have been more into wring prose and nonfiction, a lot of things like my writing here, observational semi-humor. I want to give rise and texture to the characters that are in my head. I have a few reasons for wanting to do them now. Not the least is my own age, as I get older everything seems to be slipping away. The other thing is that there are some people in this world that I want to read my work. People that I want to see it, to critique it, and hopefully love it.
I am also open to Suggestions, requests and ideas.
Beautiful eyes and jet black hair, the sound of the high heels hit the street with the mild, slight Click. Delicate and feminine that sound, the man looks across the street and smiles. Lovely, he thinks, and wishes he was young again. Hips concealed in pink fabric , tight , taut and intimate , cupping firm buttock and lovely curves. Onward with the sounds of click , click , soft lovely and sensuous . The sound of dreams, click, and click, swish and click. down the road , ahead the door opens and inside , to the bedroom.
The sound barely audible in the hushed silence of the room, on carpet now, still the slight click of heels. Hard bottoms, cheap but not unlovely the shoes that were favorite and slowly unclothing the body. Looking down and feeling all the sexy, sensual beauty brought by the heels. Behind the door, a voice, that calls, “James, is that you sweetie?” his mother asks
“Yes, Ma, it’s me “
“That is so strange I could have sworn I heard heels,” and he hears her move away from the door.
- 5 Tips to Lessen High Heel Pain (shoes.answers.com)
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The more you live in this world , the more baffled by it you will be. Or maybe that is just me. I have this moment in my day that I just feel like standing up and screaming ” REALLY!”. Every single day . working with the public affords me more of these days all the time , days when dispite my genuinely pleased way of being thinking and doing , I just have that ” I can’t take another minute of this crap ” kind of thought. I usually go for a walk, or listen to some Hip Hop . Right now I feel like I need some Rough Riders Anthem .
The urge to interrupt him was overwhelming. She was the one that had started the conversation after all and here he was in his usual spot of taking over and making the world about him. She hated that about him. She hated a lot about him. She was coming to understand that the day would soon come that she was going to have to leave him, and that filled her with equal measures of joy and sadness. That was scary. The joy.
“I told you this, didn’t I “he was saying, his eyes on her and not on her. He was in his world and she was nothing in it,” I told you that this would be the way that they would do it. These people,” In John’s world “these people” was everyone that didn’t always agree with him. She smiles inwardly at the fact that he was not at all bigoted, he was equally hateful to everyone.
John knew everything. He knew what would make the world better, which leaders were corrupt (all of them), which companies were scammers, and he had to tell her. She realized that she was his only friend because he was insufferable. She thought of the times when they were first together, how she had waited for him, longed for him, and loved him. But had she loved him? Had she?
“John,” she said finally, knowing that his name was the only thing that would get his attention, “why are you talking like this?”
He goggled at her like she had suddenly started speaking French, or like she was the dog and had just piped up and asked for the paper. “Talking… like … what “he spoke slowly and in staccato, “Like what Lindsey.”
“Like you are a pundit on an overzealous news program. It’s just us. “She was pleased with his facial expression, half anger, half confusion and he was trying to mask it with a smile, she thought of that look as his Asshole smile.
“I shouldn’t have to explain myself to you, Lindsey” he said, and she knew it was just so he could say something.
“Why not?” she replied.
“Because you are my girlfriend,” he said hesitantly, his asshole smile hanging on his face.
“Then why do you feel the need top pontificate this way at me?” she said, she knew how it grated on him when she showed her vocabulary, “why are you being so supercilious?”
“Why are you being a bitch?” he said, and the corners of his smile began to curdle, “I don’t even know what that means.”
“I know you don’t, which is why you being it is ridiculous” she said, wearing her own version of the asshole smile now. She was getting angry, but she was also enjoying herself, and all at once, it broke, “you are a ridiculous little man, you are angry, and mean and there is no reason for it, John. There is no reason for the way you are. You could be … better”
His face was red and she knew that she was almost to the end of his tether, “You … what? “ He said in answer
“You didn’t used to be this way, John, you used to be something finer. You used to be a person. You have decided to let the world ruin you. And I think, I really do think, that you are happy this way. You want to spend your days yelling at the things that can’t yell back. Jumping on bandwagons and being this terrible little person with no good thoughts. If the world is wrong, all the time, it’s not your fault.”
He had regained the smile again, THE SMILE, and she knew he was going to get ugly soon, “what’s not my fault” he said, baiting her, he wanted her to say something that he could bite down on with that smile. “What exactly is my fault?”
“You” she said. She just looked at him and let the word stand for everything else.
He jerked his head at her and said “me?”
“What the hell does that mean?” he asked angrily
“It means, “and she sighed, she had to make a choice, a life changer, go on, or stop. She thought of his anger, his days of impotent rage and that he used to be happy. She thought of his change over the last year, the last five years. She thought of him in ten years, he would have ground himself to a fine angry point, stabbing at everything that he saw and stabbing into her. Or using her as his whetstone to sharpen his tongue on. Every day, her light would anger him, and he would do all that he could to put that light out. Would she have it in another ten years, or two? “It means, that I can’t watch you become this bitter angry man anymore.” She said finally,” you choose to be unhappy, every day and I don’t know how to help you. I also know that it isn’t me, or the world, politics or the economy. You are just unhappy. I believe you think it makes you seem interesting”
“That’s stupid “he said, but she saw in his face that she was right “That’s just stupid”
“Maybe,” she agreed, “but it’s also true.”
She stood up and began putting her things in a bag.
“What are you doing?” he asked, real emotion in his face for the first time.
“I’m leaving John. I should have done it before, but I was too afraid,”
“Don’t “he said and put his hand on hers, “don’t do this, not now”
“Why not now?”
The question sat between them, she was looking into his face, lined, and creased now, where it had been smoother. He was aging faster than he should, faster than she was, and he was beginning to look old. He wasn’t but he was beginning to look it.
“I don’t know, I just can’t lose you,” he said and she saw the truth of that too. Fear was in his face and he suddenly became the man she loved, that lost boy and he put her hand on his.
It’s just a few days until November, and you know what that means: National Novel Writing Month, better known ’round these parts as NaNoWriMo, is near.
Have you always wanted to write a novel?
We know some of you have been waiting all year for this month! For those of you who are new to this project, here’s the gist:
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There’s a lot of buzz each November around NaNoWriMo — you may notice some of your favorite blogs dedicating themselves to churning out 50,000 words this month.
If 50,000 words seem like 49,000 too many or you’re more interested in blogging than writing a book, NaBloPoMo — National Blog Posting Month — might be your speed: a challenge to post once every day for the entire month of November. No theme, no word count, no rules; just you, your blog, and 30 new posts.
NaBloPoMo started in 2006 in response to NaNoWriMo; not every blogger has the time or inclination to write a book, but the idea of a challenge that forces participants to stretch themselves, grow as bloggers, and be part of a supportive community is undeniably appealing. As founder Eden Kennedy, the power blogger behind fussy.org, put it:
If there’s one thing creative people…
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