writing group

Being a member of a new writing group. tTrying fiction. Some of the people have never written before. I must be kind. My own pieces need work. I must be fierce.

I love it when people say they're going to do a little writing after they retire. You just don't do writing. You must live writing. Do a little writing about what? If your life's been such a drag that you have to stop living to start writing

Fiction should be easy for all of us once we get rolling. All life's a fiction.

But do I care about it? Not for pride's sake but for everyone else's. It's always been this way. It's time to let 'er fly and see what sticks. It's time now.

I call my post wise crow because the crow is my totemic bird. I can watch a crow fly and hear in his wings' beating the answers my heart is seeking. What is better than a crow winging home, tired, but steady against a fall twilight.

Black and white. A crow in the snow. Theere can't be gray in a writer's life. I'll leave you to figure out why.

My badge of brotherhood - feather messages bound to beaver-gnawed wood.

Longer this time. Now longer and longer until sense and heart and soul are linked.



Is there another side? I want to get there to see myself from another angle.

turn off the chatter

Forget the experts who tell you how to hink. Listen, learn and judge with your own heart and soul.

first thought for the day

The man moved a little further away, as soon as he could, and the mender of roads fanned himself with his blue cap: feeling it mightily close and oppressive. If he needed a King and Queen to restore him, he was fortunate in having his remedy at hand; for, soon the large-faced King and the fair-faced Queen came in their golden coach, attended by the shining Bull's Eye of their Court, a glittering multitude of laughing ladies and fine lords; and in jewels and silks and powder and splendour and elegantly spurning figures and handsomely disdainful faces of both sexes, the mender of roads bathed himself, so much to his temporary intoxication, that he cried Long live the King, Long live the Queen, Long live everybody and everything! as if he had never heard of ubiquitous Jacques in his time. Then, there were gardens, courtyards, terraces, fountains, green banks, more King and Queen, more Bull's Eye, more lords and ladies, more Long live they all! until he absolutely wept with sentiment. During the whole of this scene, which lasted some three hours, he had plenty of shouting and weeping and sentimental company, and throughout Defarge held him by the collar, as if to restrain him from flying at the objects of his brief devotion and tearing them to pieces.

"Bravo!"said Defarge, clapping him on the back when it was over, like a patron; "you are a good boy!"

The mender of roads was now coming to himself, and was mistrustful of having made a mistake in his late demonstrations; but no.

"You are the fellow we want,"said Defarge, in his ear; "you make these fools believe that it will last for ever. Then, they are the more insolent, and it is the nearer ended."