Soapbox tirade: the white knight

Writers are passionate about their writing and no few probably see themselves as white knights leading the charge, astride their charging destrier of determination, welding the lance of justice.

No? Just me, oh well. Excuse me while I get this armor off, its kinda heavy and cumbersome.

As I was saying writers tend to feel passionate on topics they read and/or write about. In a previous soapbox tirade, I wrote about my eight or nine year old self writing an editorial on sharks secure in the unfailing knowlege that it would read and taken seriously. That passionate youngster had no fear of being rejected, ridiculed, or otherwise ignored. How wonderful to recapture that youthful vigor, that unabashed rightous fire. Oh if I could have bottled it and sold it. The zilllions I could have made.

You are probably going, yeah, so what does that have to do with me now. A good question, it means going back to when the need to voice yourself in words first arose. What catlyst was the spontanious combustion that set your writer’s heart and soul aflame?

Then you hold onto that ever burning spark, bringing it back from the distant or not so distant past to your current writing. Recapture the moment when the pen leaped into your hand and pen strokes became magical words, your words. Secure in the knowlege that they are powerful and deserve the chance to be read, because they are words from the depths of your writer’s heart and soul.

Glad we could have this little chat. You’ll have to excuse me, I have dragons to ride and villians to slay, the horse is getting antsy and that lance isn’t going to work itself. Cheers on a Thursday night, james

USA Today: Kids get big surprise after giving up field trip for sick friends

From USA Today

Kids get big surprise after giving up field trip for sick friends

http://usat.ly/1HnxQlb

With all the bad news in the world, stories like this should be cherished. An entire class doing something to help two classmates. Wow, it gives you hope.

Memorial Day Holiday

A special day to remember the soldiers that fought and died and for the soldiers still fighting, not just here in the USA, but worldwide. Remember the conflicts, current and historic. If we do not know our past and are unwilling to learn from those mistakes, then we are surely doomed to repeat them.

I am neither passive nor warhawk, I believe in the sacredness of home, family, and the ablity to raise our children safely. I believe in protecting me and mine and you and yours should the boogeyman creep out of the shadows to threaten. My rights as a person and a living being coexist with the rights of other people and beings. We have the right to respect others and be respected. We do not have the right to trample down certain folks because they may seem different. If any man, woman, child, or animal is cut, we all bleed red.

Hmmm kinda soapbox preachy. Just my two cents worth. Cheers, james

A Changing Wind

In sailing speak, a changing wind could be good or bad. Either way those hardy folks had to prepare for whatever was coming. This is a lesson writers could learn from.

When our writing is in danger of hitting the dulldrums, a changing wind can reinspire us and breath new life into our work. I was having a slow spell in my writing and I needed a change of perspective. I started writing a scene further into the story. It was totally unrelated and it gave me more insight to my characters. I don’t know if I will include it in the finished first draft, but I will never consider them wasted words. By allowing myself to skip forward to that scene, I gained a hindsight perspective on the part I had become stuck with. A new path opened up by stepping back and coming from a new angle, a changing wind.

Mr. Hemingway reminds us the first draft of anything is s**t, and Mr. Block says the first draft is just getting the story on paper. So fellow writers, change in the wind. Hold fast cause its goina be a wild ride. Cheers, jamrs

Mom’s Tribute

I am the life you created,
I am the child forged in your heart,
I am the woman made,
I could not exist without you,
Your love, your care.

I am graceful,
Because you showed me,
I am strong,
Because you led me,
I am,
Because you let me,
And most of all I am loved,
Because you loved me.

Thank you Mom, I know I don’t tell you nearly enough. Your loving daughter, james

Soapbox tirades: expression without fear

Do you remember way back into depths of your mind to when your were a child. We were fearless, fighting the battles of injustice, punishing the bad guys right along side our cartoon heros. We wrote without fear, expressing our thoughts and knowing they would be taken as seriously as our much older/wiser peers.

I was talking to the hubby about an old typewriter, my stepdad gave me and the various forms write has evolved. I told him about the first editorial I wrote. A blazing scathing piece about sharks and why we need these incredible apex predatots in our oceans.

I remeber going grocery shopping with my mom and this magazine had the classic jaws shark photo. The article talked about how sharks were bad, killing people, desimating fish populations etc. I somehow convinced my mom, I need that paper, and she bought it. I took it home and poured pver every photo, every article, every word. The next time we went to the library, I asked for every book on sharks I could get my hands on. This was where I learned to use the card catalog (pure magic all the information I could ever dream of) and pulled a dozen books and poured over them. Taking notes, memorizing, absorbing that knowledge, all fueled by the burning desire to know.

Back at home I asked my mom about using her Brother word processor, a true behemoth of tech history. She showed me how to use it and away I went. Furiously typing my opinon and knowledge I had gained and typed until I was out of words. Mom still has the old behemoth, I saw it in the attic last time I was up there. And that editorial is still there too I’m sure.

Moral of the story is, I wrote with the belief I was contributing to the world and would be taken seriously. Never did it cross my mind as I mailed it off , a nine year old”s tirade that would probably never make it past File 13 aka the trash can. But if we could go back to that moment of fiery passion, that surety of being heard and bring it back to our writing how much better would we be?

Okay I”m off the soapbox. Cheers, james