tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65920308650348324102024-03-04T21:21:59.380-08:00Artist Spotartistspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00331310815080105667noreply@blogger.comBlogger16125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6592030865034832410.post-85382510324429260852012-06-04T09:05:00.001-07:002012-06-04T09:05:35.441-07:00Crafts and Cats<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Yesterday Boyfriend and I went to Michael’s Crafts, because I wanted to learn how to knit. I figured there would be some books on knitting. There were, but I decided to learn crochet instead, because I found this awesome book. </span></span>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Look how cute those little crochet cats are! The book has lots of cute little comic-style stories about them. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And it of course shows you how to make them. </span></span>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px; text-align: -webkit-auto;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I’m so pumped! Do you realize how many of these little crochet cats I’m going to make? So many. I thought of putting pipe-cleaners inside them so they can make poses and then using them to make stop-motion movies, like I did with my stuffed animals and with clay creatures as a child. I also bought this beginner’s crochet set to re-learn the basics of crochet. One of my friends taught me how to crochet scarves when I was a kid, but I was very young and I don’t really remember how to do it. I hope it comes back to me. </span></span>
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<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I think the girl on the book looks kind of odd…I mean, what is she there for exactly? She’s not crocheting, or anything…she just looks uncomfortable…. </span></span>artistspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00331310815080105667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6592030865034832410.post-32593106508929061802012-05-27T22:00:00.004-07:002012-05-27T22:00:56.341-07:00Chernobyl Diaries<div style="background-color: white; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; outline: none 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I saw Chernobyl Diaries this afternoon. The trailer had much more promise than the film fulfilled. The most interesting things about the movie were the setting and the cinematography, but everything else was pretty bland.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The story was very weak and full of holes, and while I jumped with shock at many things that happened, I wasn’t filled with that pervasive chill that follows you out of the theater that some horror films produce. I thought the acting was so-so: not quite “oh my gosh, someone <em style="margin-bottom: 0px !important; margin-top: 0px !important; outline: none 0px;">please</em> take them off set,” but also nowhere near “wow, they really nailed it.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I thought the overall plot was flimsy, especially since the characters were all extremely under-developed. I understand of course that a horror film’s main objective is not to thoroughly develop a set of hyper-sensitive and deep characters, but let’s face it: you have to know the people a little bit to really care when they are drug down a stairwell and beaten to death. The only way I was really led to care about these characters when they died was through their relationships to other equally flat characters, i.e. someone was someone else’s brother or fiance or best friend. I also felt that the ending was underwhelming and not at all satisfying, though Boyfriend disagreed with me a little on that, so…to each his own. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The one thing this film did slightly better than most other horror flicks is allow the characters to be at least nearly smart enough to save themselves. I didn’t find myself shaking my head in disgust and whispering things like, “Now <em style="margin-top: 0px !important; outline: none 0px;">why</em> in the world would you go through that creepy door” and “He told you to stay in the car…<em style="outline: none 0px;">why are you getting out of the car??</em>” near as much as with some other scary movies (though of course it still happened some). More often than in other movies, when something scary appeared, these guys at least <em style="margin-bottom: 0px !important; outline: none 0px;">ran</em>. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So all in all, not a great movie. I didn’t hate the hour and a half I sat there in the theater, but it wasn’t riveting either. </span></div>artistspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00331310815080105667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6592030865034832410.post-72205274672119959902012-05-25T20:38:00.003-07:002012-05-26T10:02:08.102-07:00Everything<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; line-height: 28px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Here is part one of a short story I am working on called "Everything." </b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We’re sitting in my car, Pete and me. It’s my car, but I’m in the passenger seat, left leg tucked up under the right one at the knee, my calf-length black dress fanned out over the number four shape my legs make. I’ve taken off my six-inch black heels and shoved them up under the dashboard in the floor; they were killing me. Pete sits in the driver’s seat, hands resting gently on the wheel, though we’re not going anywhere. Not yet. We’re waiting. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Are you sure this is where we’re supposed to wait?” I ask, chewing on my fourth finger nail. We are parked in a small parking lot behind the theater, and we are the only ones. Behind us looms the back of the giant dark theater, quiet from this spot, and in front of us is a little bit of green shoulder before the landscape gives way into a very steep long hill down to the street below. There are a few trees, but not enough to hide the view of the city street below, faintly honking with impatient cars. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Well, I don’t know,” Pete said, glancing around with a slight uneasiness in his voice. ”This is where she told me to wait, as far as I know.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We’re waiting for Marie Penn, the starring actress of tonight’s performance. Pete took me to the premiere of <em style="margin-bottom: 0px !important; margin-top: 0px !important; outline: none 0px;">The Shape of Things</em> as a sort of gift; he has been taking me to a lot of performances and fancy events to show me off to the upper tier in the heirarchy of the theatrical world. ”We need to get you connected,” he told me. ”I’ll introduce you to the right people; we’ll find you something.” I’m twenty-four, I live in a hole of an apartment and can only afford to pay rent every other month, so my boyfriend Henry helps me out in between. I’m certainly what you could consider a starving artist; I use whatever chump change I have left over from my bartending job at Audrey’s Winery to pay for cheap acting classes at Downtown Ritz, a small community theater owned and run by Pete Glazer, the man sitting in the car with me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“The show was incredible, didn’t you think?” Pete says. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Mmm,” I murmur, a small smile pinching my cheeks. ”Incredible.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“You’ll meet Marie soon. I’ve told her about you.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I feel my hands clam up cold. ”You have?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“Oh yeah, I told her how great you were in last spring’s <em style="margin-bottom: 0px !important; margin-top: 0px !important; outline: none 0px;">West Side Story</em>. I said I’d never seen such a moving Anita.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My cheeks are warm now. ”Oh wow. Thank you.” I’m beginning to feel very excited and also nervous about meeting Marie. Not only did she just blow my mind as Evelyn in one of my all-time favorite plays, but she also knows me as “such a moving Anita.” Something big could happen here. Perhaps by next year I’ll be lighting up the stage here at the Corman, no longer reduced to the drab peeling walls of Downtown Ritz’ black-box. I could be making money to act, rather than spending it. My whole body feels warm. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I roll down my passenger window and pull a cigarette out of my purse. I reach around in my glove box until I find my hot pink Zippo. I lean out the window to light my cigarette and then relax back in my seat, right hand propped up in the window to let the stream of smoke from my cigarette float out into the thick night air of summer. ”You want one?” I ask Pete, pointing to the pack of cigarettes. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“No thanks,” Pete chuckles. ”I don’t smoke anymore. You know, when I was a kid, everyone smoked. Just about everybody! My mother, who is an extremely straight-laced, tight-lipped woman, religious in every sense of the word, used to light up pretty much every hour, right there in our house. People don’t smoke near as much as they used to, which is good. It’s so terrible for your lungs. AND your singing voice.” His tone changes to a slightly teasing one. ”You should quit, Anita.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“I know, I know,” I say, smiling and rolling my eyes. ”I will.” I take another long drag from the cigarette and let the warm smoke settle in my nose and chest for a moment before I release it with a long, tingly exhale. I flick the end of the cigarette out the window and notice that another car has pulled up beside us. It’s a long wine-colored car, and it’s sitting two parking spaces over to the right of us. I never even heard it roll up. A brown-haired man, overweight and clean-shaven, between forty-five and fifty, sits in the driver’s seat of the wine-colored car. He’s alone. He’s looking at me, so I nod cordially at him and take another drag of my cigarette. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“You know,” Pete goes on, looking straight forward, “my brother used to smoke too. Funny thing was, he was so much better at smoking weed than tobacco.” He cracks up at this like it’s the most amusing thing in the world. I conjure up a polite giggle. ”I mean, smoking cigarettes he would get all choked up and gaggy, but he could smoke the strongest weed around for hours and be cool as a cucumber.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I glance out my window again and notice that the man in the wine-colored car has not moved. He is still gazing at me with a bemused look on his face. I am washed over with a creepy feeling that he is somehow looking at me unaware that I can see him too. I picture him slowly slipping his pants down to his knees, all the while gazing at me, and then pleasuring himself right there in the front seat still looking at me. I shake this image out of my head and take in another puff from my cigarette. As I tap it out the window, I turn to Pete and ask, “Do you see that guy over there? He just keeps…staring at us.” I don’t say staring at me, because somehow that sounds more paranoid in my head. But yes, he is staring directly at me, and it’s obvious; here we are sitting in a parked car, a graying fifty-ish professor type and a young blonde with luscious, wide lips. Yes, it makes sense that he’s looking at me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Pete looks over at the wine-colored car with a drawn expression. He clearly hasn’t noticed it there until now. ”Huh,” says Pete. ”He does look mighty curious. You stay here and I’m gonna go see if he needs something.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I stay put while Pete gets out and shuts the door behind him. I hear the crunch of gravel behind me as he’s walking around our car. I take another drag from the cigarette and gaze up at the stars. It’s a nice night, not too hot but plenty warm. The sky is clear and there are plenty of stars visible from our spot on this hill. I vaguely notice Pete and the man in the wine-colored car interacting. I don’t pay much attention; I feel much more at ease now that Pete is handling the situation. I mean, it was probably overreacting to feel slightly scared by the man’s gaze. He is probably just a lonely gentleman who likes to look at pretty things. It’s not like this is the first time I’ve been ogled by strange men. I just need to relax and enjoy my cigarette and the stars. I prop both legs up on the dashboard and lean my seat back a little so I have a better view of the night sky. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Pete gets back in the car. He looks like a young boy who has just peed his pants. ”What did he want?” I ask. Suddenly my door is flung open and my right elbow, which was resting on the edge of the open window, plummets to my side. ”What’s going on?” I shriek. The man from the wine-colored car wrenches me out of my car by my right arm. My cigarette flutters to the ground. I try to grip onto the doorframe of the car and scramble back inside, but the strange man is quite strong. ”Let go of me!” I bite, but of course his grip only grows stronger at that. ”Pete, what the hell?!” I scream. Pete is still sitting there, staring at his hands in his lap and not moving a muscle, as I am thrown onto the grassy shoulder just in front of our cars. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I get back on my feet immediately, but the strange man kicks me in the knee, and the sharp pain sends me right back down. ”You too,” the strange man says to Pete. ”You get out here too. Need to keep an eye on you, in case you try to pull something stupid.” As gruff as the man is clearly trying to sound, there is a noticeable wavering to his voice. I am pretty sure he has never done this before, whatever “this” is. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Pete stumbles out of the car and plods over to where I am sitting in pain on the ground. ”You’re an asshole,” I yell up at him. I would never have dared call Pete an asshole before; he has been my teacher, mentor, and something like a friend. Of course, I never thought he would sell me out to a crazy man, either. ”What does he want, money?” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Pete’s face is ashen, and he doesn’t say anything, only looks at the ground. The other man barks at him to sit down on the ground with me, so he does. ”Listen up,” the man says, rocking back and forth from toes to heels, his hands jiggling nervously inside his pants pockets. ”We can do this the easy way, or the hard way…” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“You’re an asshole!” I scream up at him. I realize I am crying and wonder how long I have been doing so. My hands are shaking. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The man reaches down and smacks me across the right cheek with an open palm. It stings, but I whip my head right back towards him and spit in his face. I instantly wish I had not done that, no matter how amateur a criminal the man seems to be. I can see the lines in his wide, greasy face, shiny with sweat, only inches from my face. His brown eyes grow darker. He suddenly pulls out a pistol from his pocket, and now its face is level with mine too. Oh shit. ”Alright, so you wanna go straight to the hard way, do ya?!” </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-top: 10px; outline: none 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Suddenly I am all tears and sweat and whimpering sounds. My quivering voice is sputtering things against my will. As a reflex, I suppose, I can hear myself shouting, “Alright, alright, whatever you want! I’ll do whatever you want! What do you want me to do?” Pete might as well have disappeared. I sense that he is still on the ground with me, three feet or so away, but he is not making a sound, not even to breathe. </span></div>
<div style="background-color: white; color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-top: 10px; outline: none 0px;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">With the shiny black eye of the pistol still glaring at me, shaking a little in his grasp, the owner of the wine-colored car says, “Everything.” A hesitant smile hangs on his face. ”I want you to do everything.” </span><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">- Lindsay </span></div>
</div>
<strong style="background-color: white; color: #444444; line-height: 19px; margin-bottom: 0px !important; margin-top: 0px !important; outline: none 0px;">
</strong></div>artistspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00331310815080105667noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6592030865034832410.post-91826959308668803822012-05-10T13:31:00.002-07:002012-05-10T13:31:45.840-07:00Untitled Short Story<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Last night, I sat down and wrote a six-page short story without stopping. It felt good. It doesn't have a title yet. If you have any great title recommendations, let me know ;) </span><div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<div align="center" class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">PART
ONE<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I
successfully ran away from home for the first time when I was twelve years
old. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I
suppose every kid tries to run away from home at some point in their
childhood. I had made previous
attempts. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When I was five, one evening I plotted
an escape with my favorite teddy bear, a stuffed animal named Ralph who was so
threadbare my mother had sewn his stuffing entrails back into him numerous
times; she had also patched up his bottom where the neighbor’s dog had taken a
chunk out of him trying to rip him from my shrieking, four-year-old grip. I wrapped Ralph up in my blankie and sneaked
into the kitchen while Ma and Daddy were watching TV in the living room in the
dark. I still remember the narrow
rectangle of light the refrigerator spilled onto the linoleum as I cracked the
door open ever so slightly. I remember
how anxious that line of light made me as my young self realized I hadn’t
planned this well enough, and that line of light was going to get me <i>caught.</i>
Just as vividly, I remember the relief I felt shimmying through my body
when I saw that Ma and Dad hadn’t noticed the fridge light at all. I heard Ma’s soft laughter in the living
room; perhaps they were watching a comedy.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Very quietly, I pulled out three
grape-flavored juice boxes (they were my favorites) and carefully tucked them into
the blankie with Ralph. Hugging the
bundle closely to my stomach, hoping desperately not to drop it and spill my
reserves loudly onto the floor exposing my presence, I tiptoed out to the
garage door and very slowly opened it and slipped through. I knew the big garage door would be open,
because my big brother Marty wasn’t home from his after-school job yet; Daddy
always left the garage door open and the driveway light on until sixteen-year-old
Marty got home from the Safe-n-Saver where he worked then as a bag boy. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Five-year-old me made it all the way
to the end of the driveway in my Disney Princess nightgown and fuzzy pink
slippers before my hands began to clam up, and I began to worry that three
juice boxes might not be enough to make it for very long, and I began to wonder
if I would never see Ma and Daddy again if I ran away, and that seemed like a
lot to take in. I returned to the house,
put away the juice boxes, and put myself to bed. No one knew I had even left the house. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> When I was ten, I again tried to
make a break for it. Ma and Daddy were
fighting a lot by that time over finances and future plans and a bunch of other
things I was too young then to understand but now believe had something to do with
sex. The worst time for me was after I
had been tucked-in and was lying in my pink-and-green-flowered canopy bed
trying to drift off to sleep. During the
afternoons when Ma and Daddy fought, I could drown out the noise by focusing
hard on my homework or going over to our next-door neighbor’s house (the old
couple with the mean dog had moved out a couple of years prior, making way for
a nice family with a daughter my age named Martha). When Ma and Daddy yelled in the evenings, I
could barely hear them over my own laughing as I watched my favorite television
shows, or over the squeaking of the trampoline springs as I jumped for hours in
the backyard. But at night, when the
whole neighborhood seemed to have gone to sleep, and it was just Ralph and me
cuddled up in the dark, the sound of Ma and Daddy arguing sounded like fingernails
running down a chalkboard and felt like that pain in your chest when some bully
dunks you underwater in the neighborhood swimming pool and holds you there even
as you flail your arms and kick him. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So Ralph and I prepared for a get-a-way,
again at night. This time I planned
things a little better. I waited until
my parents had finally yelled themselves to sleep, Ma on the couch in the den
and Daddy at the kitchen table, slumped over a heaping pile of bills. Slowly,
quietly, carefully, I packed myself a lunch box with all of my favorites: two
grape juice boxes, one peanut butter and jelly sandwich (grape jelly, of
course), a carton of milk, a box of animal crackers, and a banana. I also snatched a twenty from dad’s bedside
table; I knew it was there, because I had seen him put it there after
retracting it from my brother Marty for taking his girlfriend out in Daddy’s
car without asking (but also, I think, for still living at home and still
working at the Safe-n-Saver and smoking a lot of pot at age twenty-one). I felt a little guilty about taking the
twenty, especially since money seemed to be the cause of a lot of Ma and
Daddy’s fights, but I had to be practical.
My poor planning before would have really cost me, had I made it past
the driveway. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This time, I made it almost all the way
out of our neighborhood, but a man who lived in the house at the entrance and
worked with Daddy recognized me, apprehended me, and returned me to my very
sleepy, very worn, very angry parents.
The same twenty was retracted from me, also. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But by the time I was twelve, I’d given
my escape strategy a lot more thought.
Daddy had run away from home himself the year before, but he had plenty
of twenties and a car, so he got a lot further than I had. Ma didn’t do anything anymore except watch
soap operas and game shows and smoke cigarettes. I believe that soft laughter coming from the
living room as five-year-old me opened the refrigerator in the dark was the
last sound of happiness I ever heard from her.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Marty had finally moved out. He’d knocked up the girl he had taken out in
Daddy’s car without permission, so he had to marry her and get a real job and
stop smoking so much pot. He quit
working at the Safe-n-Saver grocery and took up residence as a bank teller. What a life, surrounded by twenties, all day
long (but snatch one of those, and it’s the big house for you). With Marty and Daddy gone, watching Ma smoke
herself to death on the couch had become too much to bear. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So one day after school I took my
allowance on my bike into town and bought a small fold-up camping tent at
Walmart. I brought the tent back home
and hid it under my no-longer-canopy bed, still in the box. The next morning at school, I invited Martha
to come with me. “We’ll be renegades,” I
promised her. “Fancy free, like in the
movies.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“But I <i>like</i> my family,” Martha replied.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I hated her guts until lunch. We always ate together outside at the picnic
table under the biggest oak, farthest away from the building. She met me there with her brown bag, plopped
down next to me, and sighed. “Okay, my
sister just got a greasy boyfriend who wears all black and looks like an
elf. I just saw them together, and it
made me sick. I’ll run away with
you.” I gave her a hug, and I loved her
again. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After school that afternoon, Martha came
over to my house. She brought a giant
yellow duffle bag full of clothes and shoes and books. “What do you need all those clothes
for?” I asked. “We’ll be on our own in the woods. No one will care if we wear the same three
outfits over and over. It’ll be
great! All those clothes and shoes will
only weigh you down.” Martha consented
to giving up some of the clothes and shoes, but I let her keep the books
because, well, books are marvelous and always necessary. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Martha helped me pack my own bag, and when
I was certain my mother was passed out on the couch in front of the TV, Martha
and I sneaked downstairs and into the kitchen where we poured water into our
matching pink lunch thermoses we had bought together at school a year ago. We packed lunch boxes again, and this time I
stole a whole fifty from Ma’s purse (if it helps, I do regret it now). The image of Ma sprawled out on the couch in
the den as Martha and I were leaving will be imprinted on my mind always:
skinny, fragile, sickly-looking, tired and heavy breathing a low rumble, a
simmering cigarette propped upright in her half-open hole of a mouth. Before going out the door, I quickly turned
on my heel and ran over to the couch where I removed the dangerous burning
cigarette from Ma’s mouth, snubbed it out in the ashtray on the coffee table,
and draped a throw-blanket over Ma’s body.
“Good-bye, Ma,” I whispered, and then I quickly followed Martha out into
the night. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">PART
TWO <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I
go back to that spot in the woods where Martha and I made camp often, these
days. It’s truthfully the only place I
feel quite at home, as sad as that may sound.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I went back there on Martha’s eighteenth
birthday, to fill myself with her presence and all the pleasant memories
attached to her. Thinking about Martha
brings on a flood of memories from jumping contests on the trampoline, to tea
parties in my bedroom, to looking at our middle school yearbooks and giggling
over the cutest boys, and the most annoying ones. I don’t ever want to lose any part of Martha,
even the small window of time I hated her back when she told me she wouldn’t
run away with me because she liked her family.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> When I went there on her birthday, I
wasn’t expecting anyone else to be there.
No one went to that spot anymore; it’s as if the accident had tainted it
for everyone else. I don’t know if many
people had camped out in that little clearing by the lake before what happened
to me, but I know they certainly did not after they read about it in the
papers. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> But on Martha’s birthday, there was
a small cluster of tents set up around a campfire burning brightly in the
night. Curious, I crept towards it and
listened in on the conversation taking place around the campfire. I couldn’t see anyone from where I was, but I
could hear voices and make out vaguely-human shadows cast on the tents circled
around the fire. The voices sounded
young, like kids. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I crept forward more until I could
make out the people sitting on sleeping bags around the blazing fire. They were teenagers, probably
high-schoolers. I didn’t recognize any
of them. I wondered if I had known any of
them from before and over the years had just…forgotten. I was standing behind an orange tent looking
on and listening when I heard a familiar voice pipe up from directly in front
of that tent, only feet away from me: “…Yeah, but I told you I didn’t want to
have my birthday out here.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I gasped. Was it…could it be? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “I know, but we really thought it
would be good for you,” a girl from across the circle said soothingly, a
brunette with freckles. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Yeah, therapeutic and shit,” a
red-headed boy added, ever so tastefully.
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “But you’re right, Martha, we
shouldn’t have drug you here anyway, no matter how much we thought it would
help you,” a handsome dark-haired boy said from beside the person who was
hidden from me by the orange tent. My
breath caught in my throat as I hurried around the tent to see who was sitting
there…gasp! Yes! It was her!
My dear Martha, a beautiful grown-up version of herself, still with long
blonde hair, though instead of twisting into two braids that hung down her
front, it was free and wavy and flowing down her back. I hadn’t seen her since the accident; I hadn’t
seen anyone from my life. It would have
been too hard to stay away, I believed.
Instead, I had spent the last six years wandering around to different
spots I had gone to as a kid: the fishing hole, the Safe-n-Saver, the bike
paths, this spot in the woods…. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “It’s just so creepy out here,”
Martha said with a shiver. The handsome
dark-haired boy put his arms around her.
“It’s like she’s…<i>still here</i>,
or something.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> A magnetic pull wrenched me forward,
as if my soul desired to go to her against my own will. But I stood my ground, forcefully. <i>No</i>,
I told my shaking self, <i>that would do no
good</i>. I could think of no greater
rejection than to run to my best friend whom I hadn’t seen in six years and not
be greeted with so much as eye contact, which I knew would be the dire
case. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> The dark-haired boy glanced around
the circle of glowing campfire faces, and a few of them nodded. He looked back to Martha. “Would you like to…talk about her?” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “No,” Martha said quickly. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> My soul shivered. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “You don’t have to if you don’t want
to,” the freckled brunette girl went on, “but we all think it might be good for
you. We know you were close to her,
but…but you’ve never really talked about what happened. We thought bringing you here might finally
give you closure.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “I don’t want closure,” Martha said
weakly, looking up with tears in her eyes that sparkled like sapphires in the
light of the fire. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I would have cried too if I still
had tear ducts. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “She was my best friend,” Martha
said softly. “I am…reluctant to let her
go.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> None of the others said anything,
but their faces urged her to go on, because they all knew she really needed to
let me go. I could tell Martha knew it
too. She heaved a sigh before saying,
“She lived next door to me. She was very
unhappy. Her family was…weird. Her parents had never gotten along, at least
not since I had known them, and her brother was…just a deadbeat, really. He was kind of cute though.” Martha laughed and blushed a little with this
admission. “I never told her, but I had
a bit of a crush on her deadbeat brother.”
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I knew that. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “To tell the truth, I was always a
little bit jealous of her, as much as I loved her. She had this sucky situation, and she wasn’t
happy, but she was still…fiery and innovative, sort of like a candle resistant
to being blown out. I always wished I
could be that strong.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I did not know that. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Anyway, we ran away from home one
night, like a lot of twelve-year-old kids do,” Martha went on, her voice
getting colder. “As usual, she had
thought of everything; we packed a tent, some clothes, some books, a couple of
lunch boxes, a flashlight…” she laughed.
“Boy, we believed we had thought of everything.” The dark-haired boy squeezed her
shoulder. Martha kept talking. “So, we set up the tent and crawled inside
with the flashlight, and we giggled like silly girls having a sleepover and
talked about our next big life plans as we ate our peanut butter sandwiches and
sipped our juice boxes. She said she was
going to join the circus someday, and I remember thinking that would have been
the perfect job for her! Then she could
have a new sort of family, a family of circus freaks to travel around with from
town to town with no deadbeat brother, no distant mother, no cheating
father…you know? I don’t know, that’s
just what I remember thinking then.”
Martha’s eyes looked glassy-gray now as she stared hard into the dancing
orange flames. “And then, we decided to
go down and see the lake. It was very
dark, but we brought the flashlight and used it to swat the tall grass and
weeds out of the way as we went. When we
got to the edge of the lake, I leaned out over it, trying stupidly to see my
reflection in it. I didn’t see anything,
of course. The lake was as it is now,
murky dirty brown, and again, as it is now, this clearing is not quite clear
enough to let in enough moonlight for a reflection. But in leaning over the lake, I lost my
balance, stepped back quickly, and dropped the flashlight into the lake. It bobbed for a few seconds on the surface,
and then the batteries weighted it enough to sink.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I stepped closer towards Martha
reluctantly. I wanted to see her more
clearly, really <i>see</i> her for the last
time. I lowered myself down in front of
her, between her and the fire, so that we were almost touching noses, if I had one
anymore. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Martha suddenly stopped telling her
story and cocked her head to one side slightly, like a confused dog. She blinked hard once and stared directly at
me. For a moment, I felt her really <i>looking at me</i>, but then it was gone and
she shook her head and continued telling her story to the group gathered around
her. “Anyway, I couldn’t swim, but she
could. She told me to step back while
she dove in after the flashlight. I
should have told her to forget it. I
should have told her we could make our way back to the highway without a
flashlight much easier than she could find it in the murky, dark, cold
water. But surprise and fear in the
darkness kept my mouth shut, and she was in the water before I even realized
how truly dangerous it could be. And
then suddenly, my mind jerked an old memory to the surface forcefully: I was a
little girl, probably five or six, when we lived in our old house on the other
side of these woods, and my dad had read a story in the paper about a little
boy who had gotten bitten twice by a very poisonous snake by this lake. The boy was rushed to the hospital, and he
survived, though he came frighteningly close to death before he recovered. ‘Don’t ever go down to that lake alone, girls,’
my dad had told my sister and me then. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> She was already in the water, but this
memory seared me like a fire-poker, and I started screaming. I saw her head bob up out of the water, at
least I think it was her head, it was very <i>very
</i>dark, and I just kept screaming and screaming. In my head, I was saying <i>Get out of the water, get out of there, there are snakes in there, get
out get out get out</i>, but I know that aloud it just came out as very shrill
shrieks of terror. Though it was
maddeningly dark, I did see the white flicker of its head surface, the one that
got her….” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I could feel myself backing away
from Martha slowly, though I didn’t want to go.
<i>No</i>, I whispered into the warm
night air, <i>just a few more minutes with
her, just a few more minutes before I go</i>….
<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “Still screaming, I turned around
and ran. I couldn’t see where I was
going, and I hardly cared, as long as I could somehow get back to civilization
and tell someone, anyone, that there was a poor girl stuck in a lake of
snakes. I did, finally, but it was too
late.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I felt all warm and watery then, as
though I was evaporating. The sensation
was a nice one, kind of like resurfacing from a good, refreshing dunk in the
swimming pool. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “They searched the rest of the night
and found her body early the next morning, bloated and floating half-submerged
in the middle of the lake. I didn’t see
her body (the funeral was closed-casket), but I still have this horrible mental
image left in my head when I was told that they found her like that. Sort of like the old lady in the bathtub in <i>The Shining</i>, or something…just morbid
and awful and a reminder.” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I was getting warmer and more
watery, and I was beginning to feel something closer to happiness than I had
ever glimpsed before. Was I smiling as I
drifted away? Yes, I think so. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> “And that’s that,” Martha was saying
below, her voice growing fainter as I floated up and up and up… “You were right,
guys. Surprisingly, I <i>do </i>feel a little better having talked
about her, freer somehow, as if a weight was just lifted from my
shoulders….” <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I was so far up now that the people
below were just a circle of ants, and the tents were their mounded
anthills. The lake was a shimmery black
hole down there, less water and more space, just an empty void I no longer
filled. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I kept floating up and up and up,
and as I did, the happiness spread larger and the black lake-hole kept
shrinking and shrinking. And all of the
sky was soft and welcoming as she let me go, and I let her go, at last. I was finally high enough to see the stars,
which on a night as lovely as this one looked less like stars and more like the
twinkling, happy lights around the circus ring.
Step right up! Ladies and
gentlemen, a spectacle like this you have yet to behold…introducing, the one,
the only, Lady of the Lake, a sensational performer indeed, a candle forever
resistant to being blown out. </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNoSpacing">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">- Lindsay </span></div>
</div>artistspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00331310815080105667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6592030865034832410.post-59720721925323217582012-04-26T15:58:00.002-07:002012-04-26T16:00:33.860-07:00Agreement and Beliefs in Fiction<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I was reading an article on writing the other day that really resonated with me and opened the door to new freedom. The article was talking about how often when a writer feels like his/her characters are starting to blend together, it is because the author is writing him/herself into them too much. Sure, a lot of a writer's characters are going to be filled with bits and pieces of the author, sharing some experiences or traits every now and then, but as a writer you should be careful not to write yourself in <i>too much</i>. This will lead to flat or too similar characters, and it can also really restrict your freedom as a storyteller. I fall into this trap a lot, especially when writing female characters. The writing becomes boring and stale even to the writer sometimes, if the characters are too similar to the author or to each other.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This article discussed ways in which to make your characters different, one of them being to remember that <i>you as a writer don't have to believe everything your characters do</i>. This might sound obvious, but when you get to writing, it can be the first thing you forget. You don't have to agree with every idea you set forth! In fact, the best writing often stems out of the author feeling very uncomfortable, stretching his/her boundaries, and going outside of his/her comfort zone into new territory. I suppose I knew I didn't have to wholeheartedly agree with everything I put into my novels, but once I get going, I sometimes forget that. Once I read this, it hit me that I have a lot more room for stretching my story than I had previously seen; it was like new worlds had opened up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So remember, you don't have to agree with everything your characters do, and all of your characters don't have to (and really should not) all agree either either. </span></div>artistspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00331310815080105667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6592030865034832410.post-23712328367971091432012-04-22T12:33:00.003-07:002012-04-22T13:02:10.914-07:00On Writing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY8AMSAb9OlWq4aiOSS3ihTLBpKQr6o2sREPFK2LlGda4FKDIgyDst54X2M8wx4fYHxGnl7FVTLIRRV0BWeLGrhpzJIraDrREAPjIW-42GeQmfdzW45ZGvTpMdruwrCf9pI7f33dPaNwg/s1600/stephenking.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgY8AMSAb9OlWq4aiOSS3ihTLBpKQr6o2sREPFK2LlGda4FKDIgyDst54X2M8wx4fYHxGnl7FVTLIRRV0BWeLGrhpzJIraDrREAPjIW-42GeQmfdzW45ZGvTpMdruwrCf9pI7f33dPaNwg/s320/stephenking.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">“</span><span class="quote" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px !important; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;">This is not an autobiography. It is rather a kind of <i>curriculum vitae</i>—my attempt to show how one writer was formed. Not how one writer was <i>made</i>; I don’t believe writers <i>can</i> be made, either by circumstances or by self-will (although I did believe those things once). The equipment comes with the original package. Yet it is by no means unusual equipment; I believe large numbers of people have at least some talent as writers and storytellers, and that those talents can be strengthened and sharpened. If I didn’t believe that, writing a book like this would be a waste of time." </span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px !important; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span><br />
<span class="quote" style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; margin-top: 0px !important; outline-color: initial; outline-style: none; outline-width: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">~ Stephen King, <i>On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft </i></span></span><br />
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<br /></div>artistspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00331310815080105667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6592030865034832410.post-66475301691028174522012-04-14T12:15:00.000-07:002012-04-14T12:15:26.564-07:00Nashville Music: VITEK<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPEOnjzT37BRR0URjMPQdhERlfFLJYVVntsZrwnEeFwUzHFznRowH-2D5obnmQcby-gqOAf_6t_91pa4LWp2TreF4Ygt66nmtB83m41063LTSA0KJliFhVKzqmW5y72tL4xvaXIRoMs_8/s1600/vitek4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPEOnjzT37BRR0URjMPQdhERlfFLJYVVntsZrwnEeFwUzHFznRowH-2D5obnmQcby-gqOAf_6t_91pa4LWp2TreF4Ygt66nmtB83m41063LTSA0KJliFhVKzqmW5y72tL4xvaXIRoMs_8/s320/vitek4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I went to VITEK's new album release show last night at the High Watt above Mercy Lounge. It was amazing. As objective as I can be while dating someone in the band, I think this band puts on the best live show I've seen in years. They are so energetic and fun, playing off each other and having fun while remaining tight and looking well-rehearsed. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAO_ZyHmGCv0OKoDmqghvqo0-KeS9opCNqr_ms42QI6rUlyj3w00EIjnzXQ-WBApeHuzuDweh2YMBsqcmrIydXG2AcIL06ptEXnVMocitsH9wp7N_chhXSOKlVBMmapkrFvlRGriNcHmg/s1600/vitek.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAO_ZyHmGCv0OKoDmqghvqo0-KeS9opCNqr_ms42QI6rUlyj3w00EIjnzXQ-WBApeHuzuDweh2YMBsqcmrIydXG2AcIL06ptEXnVMocitsH9wp7N_chhXSOKlVBMmapkrFvlRGriNcHmg/s320/vitek.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The trumpet player in the shades is my boyfriend. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgybASTWC06V-fYjOD5GeRVSWbqE0ihhAnneu6GJnti9ArM9xyouyuLCtkS0D1c2Cu0NDLFMw_xvVay8kQuHPZ8VtQ7AUE8eiV5-5ERlW0RHiDqXPliOLo1Q4vf022QM4IbGcnuVj0cpuE/s1600/vitek7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgybASTWC06V-fYjOD5GeRVSWbqE0ihhAnneu6GJnti9ArM9xyouyuLCtkS0D1c2Cu0NDLFMw_xvVay8kQuHPZ8VtQ7AUE8eiV5-5ERlW0RHiDqXPliOLo1Q4vf022QM4IbGcnuVj0cpuE/s320/vitek7.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">These people are talented music-making machines. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOx1UVFW0p5716sf7wlNqBVflh_ELVOU8-NslhaUnAqNdTPa5E0AOoBCmJG94nnbi95vY8F3wyxzcbYWRyevR3QP4qcZ9oduk3qMz4fYcPii88_8HTNKcJslo68OEp66GJIoUTz6ZHIFo/s1600/vitek5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOx1UVFW0p5716sf7wlNqBVflh_ELVOU8-NslhaUnAqNdTPa5E0AOoBCmJG94nnbi95vY8F3wyxzcbYWRyevR3QP4qcZ9oduk3qMz4fYcPii88_8HTNKcJslo68OEp66GJIoUTz6ZHIFo/s320/vitek5.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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</div>artistspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00331310815080105667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6592030865034832410.post-67531783367734663792012-04-13T11:38:00.000-07:002012-04-14T12:18:41.248-07:00Making Movies<div style="background-color: white; font-size: 13px; line-height: 15px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-top: 0px;">
<br />
<div style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: white; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I was in a couple of short films this week: one on Monday,
and one on Wednesday. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The shoots both went really well. I felt that warm, bubbling
energy inside me that I get when I’m really honed in on my character and
hitting everything just right. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">At the end of the night on Wednesday, the boom operator (who
is also a director), asked me if I was available to act in one of his upcoming
projects, because he “likes the way I act.” </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So, one gig led to another. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It was a pretty good week, you guys. </span></div>
</div>artistspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00331310815080105667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6592030865034832410.post-42228121094823247512012-04-07T09:49:00.003-07:002012-04-14T12:19:30.894-07:00Titanic<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Last night, I saw a really beautiful movie re-released in the theater: <i>Titanic</i>. I was much too young to see it in the theater when it first came out, so I was super excited to see it this time around, even though I have seen it several times at home. It was re-released in 3D, which I was slightly apathetic about at first, but once the movie got going, I realized how much cooler this masterpiece is in 3D. I definitely recommend going to see it while it's still out; it's worth the money. This was probably the best 3D movie I've ever seen. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I've always loved the movie, but I could appreciate it a lot more this time around than I could as a pre-teen. The cinematography is breath-taking, and honestly it really doesn't look like it came from the 90's. It's much better than that. I could also appreciate the story a lot more as an adult, and the acting is brilliant, of course. I know probably everyone reading this has seen <i>Titanic </i>before, but I <b>highly </b>suggest going to see it while it's back out in the theater, as it was a completely different experience for me. You won't regret it! </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And for those of you like my boyfriend, who have been living under a rock since you were ten and <i>haven't </i>seen the movie, I won't spoil the ending for you ;) </span></div>artistspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00331310815080105667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6592030865034832410.post-25318855929345879622012-04-02T08:43:00.006-07:002012-04-14T12:19:53.842-07:00Kwellering the Night Away<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Last night, my boyfriend and his friend and I went to Ben Kweller's concert at Mercy Lounge. It was <i>great</i>. I knew it would be worth going, even though I wasn't feeling well at all yesterday, because I saw Ben perform a few years ago in Birmingham, and it was incredible. He is an amazing live performer. He sounds great and you can understand everything he's saying (I hate when you go to live shows and can't hear the lyrics over everything else). He's also really good at getting a crowd involved and singing along. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">There are a couple of things that Ben does undeniably well, like write beautiful melodies and improv like a beast, but something I noticed particularly last night is how good he is at...um..."sound assimilation." (I just made up that term). What I mean is, Ben puts random "oohs" "ahhs" and "sha shas" in nearly all of his songs, but instead of it being cheesy or overdone, he plays it off perfectly. A lot of times when an artist starts randomly "ooohing" I just wanna pack up and go home. But Ben incorporates these random sounds into his songs so well, it's as if they are real lyrics with meaning. I don't know how he does it...but it's awesome. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In high school, I had a five-minute crush on a Ben Kweller look-alike. Coincidentally, I also recall him wearing a t-shirt with "Kweller" on it. It was appropriate. </span></div>artistspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00331310815080105667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6592030865034832410.post-74771403496408804872012-04-01T17:56:00.001-07:002012-04-14T12:20:14.075-07:00Sew Fun<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I don't have much to post about today, but I <i>am</i> currently working on a quilt (slowly but surely), which is pretty artsy. I started it over a year ago as a birthday gift that fell through, and I have decided recently to take it back up again. My goal is to finish it sometime during this year. I don't want this unfinished project hanging over my head any longer! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I like sewing, but I hate sewing machines. To be honest, sewing machines kind of scare me. (I mean, what if you put your finger too close to that feisty little needle? OUCH). Quilting is good for me, since in my opinion it's easier to quilt by hand; though it would probably be <i>much </i>faster on a machine. </span></div>artistspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00331310815080105667noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6592030865034832410.post-26201981461902726162012-03-31T11:19:00.001-07:002012-04-14T12:20:27.835-07:00Video Killed the Radio Star<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Today was my first day on the set of my first music video. Most of the scenes were done in a bedroom, and I had to put on my makeup like I was getting ready for a date on camera. This was more challenging than I had expected! It's more difficult than you might think to put on lipstick with a camera in your face blocking a good portion of the mirror you're using to see what you're doing, while you're trying not to move out of frame. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It was really fun though. I must admit, I love being on camera. I've done a small bit of film acting, but I've never done a music video before. I'm really excited to see how it turns out. I've got another shoot or two for the rest of the scenes coming up; I don't know when the whole project will be completed, but I can't wait to see it. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My character in the video is getting stalked, so we took some paparazzi shots of me through a window and exiting my house and such. My paranoia switch has been flicked, and as I'm sitting here typing this at a coffee shop, I half expect to look out the window and catch someone creeping on me with a camera ;)</span>artistspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00331310815080105667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6592030865034832410.post-85783879519207878692012-03-29T09:35:00.003-07:002012-04-14T12:20:40.749-07:00Music Makes the World Go 'Round<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So...here's a little bit of what I've been listening to lately: </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>The Young Veins:</b> <a href="http://www.myspace.com/theyoungveins">http://www.myspace.com/theyoungveins</a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">These guys are really cool. The music has a nice, old-timey feel to it. Their album "Take a Vacation" came out in 2010, but it sounds like it's from the 1960's, and I like it. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Say Anything: </b><a href="http://www.myspace.com/sayanything">http://www.myspace.com/sayanything</a> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Max Bemis' indie-punk band is really edgy with some pretty biting, clever lyrics. Just make sure you only play these songs for people age 18 and over.... </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Fun: </b><a href="http://www.myspace.com/fun">http://www.myspace.com/fun</a> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This band's music is precisely what its title promises: a lot of fun! The genre is indie-pop, but I think it has an almost electronica flavor to it. And the lead singer is Nate Ruess of The Format, another great band. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><b>Robert Gay: </b><a href="http://www.robertgaymusic.com/home">http://www.robertgaymusic.com/home</a> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">This guy is a really talented songwriter and lyricist. His music is a little bit of Americana, a little bit of indie-pop, and a little bit of old-fashioned rock. Check out the music previews on his website from his first album "When This Goes Bad" and his upcoming album "When I Was Young." Check the website soon for the release of "When I Was Young" for purchase. </span></div>artistspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00331310815080105667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6592030865034832410.post-31467775781214066392012-03-28T15:50:00.002-07:002012-04-14T12:21:01.602-07:00Not So Smooth Seas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I saw this picture on pinterest today, and it made me think of some points regarding writing. Sure, this sentiment can be applied to life in general, but it's also a good tip to remember when creating plot. When writing fiction, mastering good ebb and flow in terms of plot takes a lot of time and practice. You have to play around with things like timing and emphasis. For instance, you don't want to build to your main climax too quickly, because then you probably have (a) not developed the characters enough by the point of climax for the reader to really care what happens to them, or (b) left too much space post-climax, ending the story/novel on a dull note. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Remember the quote above when experimenting with plot. Well-developed characters must encounter enough obstacles along their paths in order for the reader to care about them. It usually works out best if <i>all </i>of these obstacles are not either so menial that they don't seem like such a big deal, or such fantastical barriers that the average reader cannot at all relate to them. A good example of utilization of this method is Suzanne Collins' <i>Hunger Games </i>trilogy: in each of her books, the heroine Katniss goes through a series of ordeals much unlike our every day occurrences (like going into man-to-man combat with twenty-three other teens). Those kind of obstacles make the story exciting, but in the face of that, Collins makes sure to include some regular sixteen-year-old-girl-stuff to Katniss' character, like the fact that she is somewhat torn between feelings for two boys, or the dynamics among her and her sister and their mother. Those more "normal" conflicts help make Katniss a relateable character for the teenagers and young adults reading the story, instead of allowing the exciting and nearly other-worldly violence complete take-over of the plot. </span></div>
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<br /></div>artistspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00331310815080105667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6592030865034832410.post-47859586930811321622012-03-27T07:50:00.004-07:002012-04-14T12:21:14.411-07:00Write a Little Something Every Day<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">For at least the past seven years, I have hated Tuesdays. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My junior year of high school, I attended the Alabama School of Fine Arts for ballet and lived there in the dorm. My roommate and I decided pretty quickly that our worst classes/rehearsals/everything always fell on Tuesdays, and from then on every time something bad happened, we would look at each and our eyes would say: "Oh my gosh, it's Tuesday, what a correlation!" And thus, my abhorrence for Tuesdays was born. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Today is Tuesday, but instead of resigning to the horrible state of this glum day, I'm going to make this Typing Tuesday. I'm going to distract myself from all this Tuesday-ness by adding a little something to Projects X, Y, and Z. (Project X: the new novel-in-progress I began three days ago; Project Y: the novel-in-progress I've been working on for about a year, of which I have seven chapters; Project Z: a compilation of all the stories and poems I've started over the years and haven't finished). Putting a little bit of writing out there, even if it's total crap, usually makes me feel somewhat more productive and useful in going about my day. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Writing a little something every day is great exercise for avid writers. Just like you have to keep your body in shape to play a sport or dance or do gymnastics, you have to keep your mind in shape to be a good writer. I think writers should put out <i>something </i>every day, even if it's just going to be erased later. No one is in their element every single day without fail, churning out Shakespearean works of greatness before breakfast. But you should still write a little something every day, because you may have ten days...fifteen days...a year of crap that finally leads to three days of Shakespearean glory. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Many times, I will go back ten days...fifteen days...a year later and sift through some of the crap I have saved in folders on my computer entitled "Don't Read This" or "Useless" and find something good that I hadn't thought was good before. Many times, I will take that "something good" and insert it into whatever I'm currently working on. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Often during the creative process, we need distance to really show us where our work stands. This is always true for poetry and often true for prose. This can also apply to live performances; I rarely watch a DVD of me dancing, singing, or acting right after I am finished with the performance. I try to give it some time before watching, because usually that can prevent (or at least lessen) some of the disaster thoughts, like "Oh my gosh, I should never be allowed to step foot on a stage again, this is terrible." Giving ourselves some time between creating art and experiencing it is a must. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">So writers, write a little something every day. These somethings may not always be gold, but putting forth not-gold is better than putting forth nothing at all. Don't let fear trap your voice inside. </span></div>artistspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00331310815080105667noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6592030865034832410.post-84725466076198648082012-03-26T13:13:00.001-07:002012-04-14T12:21:23.938-07:00The Beginning<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Hello readers. Welcome to my artist spot. I recently began writing a new novel...recently as in yesterday. This does not mean I have abandoned my previous projects by any means, but it does mean that I will probably write a <i>lot </i>about this new project as I go along. Hopefully writing about the writing will aid me in my process and help keep me on track. We'll see.... </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I hope you enjoy this silly blog about the artistic process in a variety of forms. I also hope that this blog may be of some use to other artists out there...and if not use, then at least a source of amusement. Creative people are a rare breed and typically flock together. We are all very similar, you see. Whether you're a writer or a painter, a dancer or a singer, or all of the above and then some, at the base, artistic souls have a lot in common. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As author Stephen King includes in the narrative of his story "Everything's Eventual": </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">Think of those fingers as abilities. A creative person may write, paint, sculpt, or think up math formulae; h</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">e or she might dance or sing or play a musical instrument. Those are the fingers, but creativity is the hand that gives them life. And ju</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: left;">st as all hands are basically the same - form follows function - all creative people are the same once you get down to the place where the fingers join." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: -webkit-auto;">Enjoy :) </span> <span style="color: #181818; font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div>artistspothttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00331310815080105667noreply@blogger.com0