|Posted by firstname.lastname@example.org on October 31, 2018 at 3:00 PM||comments (0)|
When I pick up a pen, I often pause to consider if a story is worth writing. I make this decision by how the inspiration and the influences that surround the idea of the story affects me. If the story affects me to the point that I must sit and write, I set a timer, and do it.
I seldom pause when writing with a pen in hand, therefore the scribbles are most likely only legible to me. I once tried to learn shorthand so that I could write faster, but the dashes and slashes and symbols were too forieng to understand.
The cool thing about handwritten rough drafts is that I can abbreviate, use private symbols or even write the word "ELAB" when I want to elaborate more in the typed version of the story. Typing the rough draft is easy, editing is not so easy. When typing the words I slow down seeing the edtis that need to be made such as punctuation, verb tense, and spacing.
My type A personality doesn't allow me to h and editing over to just anyone. My trusted sources provide me with what I need, yet I am still responsible to make the final edits, something I want to let go of a little. Every page I type, I can get sidetracked wihtthe aesthetics of the layour. But truth is I just want the storiues to be as pleasing as the visual words on the page.
The reality is the effective words on the pages in some of my stroies may not bring peave when the cover closes, but they will certainly affect the reader.
In my journals and my everyday life, my writins are often reflective. In the stories I write, I have many moments where I reflecgt on the what ifs, whys and the what would I have done in that circumsatance. I suppose that is the way effective writings work. An effective story, has words that provide an effective way to affect someone's thoughts. They certainly have affected me or I wouldn't have picked up the pen.
(Submitted to Write Angles Conference 2018 )
|Posted by email@example.com on February 20, 2017 at 2:10 AM||comments (0)|
The train passes inthe middle of the night to share the visions of the days we would like to forget. My days are accounted for even those I forget because the Lord keeps watch over them as he proteccts and guides.
One day I locked my keys in my van, it was a simple act of forgetfulness, yet the day I left the post office on April 15, 1992 is a day I can never forget. That man at the light gave me a terrible fright. I thought of the vunerability so many women face. I drove safely home not knowing the fate of another young girl that looked like me that night.
She not only died, but her mystery remains a terrifying thought of who would do such a thing. The why, the who, the what ifs, flood so many. She was so beautiful, so young. It was so voilent, so public. Her life left a mark that no one can erase. The how she got there question simply began to justify there was a trace of someone, but who? And the why...is the question that's been in everyone's face.
Ignoring the rumors and finding the facts is simly something the officers faced and still today, the case remains unsolved. Cold. Doesn't anyone have a guess?
Wanting peace for the family, the town. Needing apiece for the case, I simply shed ink to a page to allow some sort of grace. AN answer could unfold for some, but not for all. The metaphors might just find their rightful place.
The truth I know is that Jesus was real. He is real. His story was shared so all might hear that when something terrible is near, Mother Mary can hear.
With a gift of a prayer, a spirit can share. Spirits do soar and often board a train in the middle of the night.