Showing posts with label Writing Stuff. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing Stuff. Show all posts
Friday, January 31, 2014
no image


I don’t really know if I consider myself a "writer." I write on occasion. Whenever an idea comes to me, I write it down, then after letting it sit for a while I go back to it and see if it still holds the same magic for me as it did when I originally thought of it. If it does, then I work on fleshing out the idea. I do believe that not all ideas are gems, but I know after some thorough refinement which ones work and which ones don’t.

There’s no one thing that I’m inspired by, but if I had to say what inspires me the most it would be other children’s books. Graphic novels and some movies are also pretty inspiring, but it depends.

For me, the hardest thing about being a writer is the same thing as the hardest thing about being an artist: Finishing. I can’t count how many times I’ve started something then just let it die off. I guess it’s more of a matter of keeping my inspiration going for extended periods of time. It’s especially tough when I have a lot going on. Usually the summer time is when I feel inspired the most. I have plenty of time to relax and pretty much bury myself in whatever project I’m working on at that point.

--

Julia Williamson was born in Poughkeepsie, NY in 1987. She received a Bachelors of Fine Arts in Visual Arts and New Media from Fredonia State University of New York in 2009. Currently she lives in Buffalo, NY with her wonderful husband, Brandon, and their over-active imaginations. Books she has written and illustrated include Little Pig, Little Pig, Throw! Rocco! Throw! and Dickens’s Mittens. You can visit Julia's professional website here.


Read more
Monday, December 23, 2013
no image


I often worry about the impact my stories will have on those that read them. I worry that the need to root myself into everything I write will alienate people who don't share any common experience or worldview. I worry by writing what I know, I will push away those that I don't.

This is especially tricky for me because in my private life I aim to be as inclusive as possible. I find myself harboring bigotry for the ignorant and for the hateful, but, besides that, I do everything I can to approach situations and people by seeking to understand before I condemn, if at all I should.

I've written before about the Bechdel test and how it's a good sort of cultural thermometer. In the same stroke, I've tried to paint a picture showing how such a test is ultimately ineffective, but that doesn't mean its ideas are useless. Stories with varied characters, whether of different sexes, beliefs, backgrounds, etc., are important for the sake of variety and because those are the stories that aid us in telling the truth. Of course, the truth, at least in a literary sense, is more about intention than it is about factuality, but I digress.

The Predicament
I've been making some great progress with a short story I've had in my head for some months now. The main character, a young girl, has surprised me more times than I can count, taking on a life of her own, as our creations so often do. The problem is that I find her world populated by many of the same types of characters; namely, they're big, scary men with  a bone to pick with my young antagonist. Even if they aren't of the big scary variety, they tend to be male.

So, I find myself wondering: am I doing myself and the story an injustice by not populating it with other female characters? Surely, in the instance of the world being the main villain, the sex of the minor antagonists is superfluous at best, but what does it say about my writer's mind, my thoughts about the roles of the sexes in general, that the villainous nomads are all male?

The Double-Edged Solution
I want variation of character in all of my stories, but this decidedly monotonous representation of minor characters has left me to wonder what the implications would be on a bigger scale. What if, in this instance and others, having female characters or male characters or straight characters simply doesn't suit the story? Maybe what my narrative needs is a uniform type of bad guy. Does it make the tale inherently weak if it has no place for diversity?

This is something I've taken to calling the double-edged solution; truly, I want to satisfy the need for good female characters in storytelling, but if it doesn't serve the story, should I push to fulfill these sorts of "equality requirements" just because? It seems that forcing anything creative to fit into any kind of mold is the best way to stifle that creativity.

It's something I've thought about for quite a long time, and I've yet to come up with the answer to the question. I think that more stories should be written to fulfill the Bechdel specs, but I'm torn by the idea that they should all have to.

What do you think, creative community?

--


 Charles Hayward is a web writer, short story author and novelist, and a social/political activist interested in furthering the cause of humanity, the well-being of the environment, and improving the world in general. His work has been featured on Examiner.com,Unplug the Matrix, and on the Japanese culture-themed blog They Call Me An Egg.


Read more
Sunday, December 22, 2013
no image

Almost everyone has sat down in a moment of mental lust and tried to touch pen to paper or mash out a few meaningful words on the computer in an effort to express themselves. What makes them do this? Interestingly enough, I feel that there are three main reasons that people usually blame for their need to puke some words onto a page. These reasons are like a verbal color wheel, and can be mixed with each other to create art; well, let’s just say art is subjective.

  1. Catharsis- People need to emotionally purge themselves. Whether it is political venting, romantic
    woes, or purely the need to scream in the world of font to empty the head a bit, writing down anything usually has a draining effect. I have on occasion felt like I had to enjoy a proverbial cigarette after writing because I felt pleasurably spent. Sometimes writing is like a verbal shower that washes away the soil of civilization.

  2. Expression-The need to be heard. From the time babies cry for everything to the time that kids babble on and never stop, we as a species have been creating a latticework of information exchange all in order to be understood. Poems, books, letters, even rage-flaming kids while playing online games, it is all done with the goal of being understood. This gets dangerous when the need for Catharsis bleeds into this; some pretty harsh things can come out of a letter meant to express oneself while venting. *cough*inebriated e-mails to your boss*cough*cough*

  3. Immortality-The fountain of youth may not exist, but it can surely be written about, and it has; this is why pretty much everybody has heard of it. If the fountain of youth were real, I bet it would spew forth ink, which is far more costly than water. When words are put to page, more than mere ideas are expressed, but the very mind, heart and daresay soul are silhouetted on paper. Reading and writing is interesting this way. When an author bleeds ink onto paper, he is really holding out his arms ready to receive a partner in a complicated dance of the mind. When a reader cracks open a book, they join the author in a waltz where the two minds join and create something new, an understanding born of two minds. Think of it as a mental love-child conceived from a mixture of thought and ink. In this way, the words of the author live on. Never in the same way, but proliferate like children, changing the world, making an impact one way or another. Sometimes, people like to pass something on.


Mixing these three can yield some amazing results, but can also create monsters, like Frankenstein, that venture out into the world and grow on their own. When Mary Shelly authored Frankenstein while trapped in a ski-lodge with her husband Percy, Lord Byron and John Polidori, she tapped into this color wheel in order to craft something that was definitely more than the sum of its parts. It grew but only because of a special blending of all three. I tend to incorporate all three in an effort to satisfy my own needs to bleed off a bit of my stream of consciousness along with the desire to pass on, well, something.

 Other than the three needs of inspiration I mentioned above, there are definitely more that can be added to the list, I am sure. I would love to hear about what some of you readers feel inspires you to write. 

Wayne Ceallaigh is a renaissance man. By day, he is a father, but when school lets out, he tutors children in Science, English, Writing, Philosophy, Religion, History, and sometimes Math. He specializes in special cases where grades need to go from failing to above average in a very short amount of time and getting students into the colleges of their choice. When the evening slows down and melts into the night, he writes game content for Glacier Studios. He is currently working on a project that puts the hero in a historically accurate Norwegian proto-Viking establishment where the Aesir and Vanir rumble the outer worlds and meddle in the affairs of Midgard. In his downtime, he likes to relax with his family or swing his swords in either the SCA or Dagorhir.

Currently, Wayne holds a B.A. in English with a minor in Philosophy and has earned complete doctoral credits in Contract Law, Criminal Law and Tort Law. He is constantly learning and loves to hear new stories. Don’t be afraid to comment on this post if you want to know more.
Read more
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
no image


I haven't been doing this whole writing thing very long, at least not in the professional sense. I started very slowly in October of 2012 and since that time, there have been some things I've discovered that I never would have thought about when I was still completely green. These are the little things that can easily gnaw at you as both a creative professional and as a person; Many of these, perhaps, apply to other disciplines outside of freelance writing, but for me, these have been unique to my fledgling "wordsmithing" career.

Even if They Ask for It, Very Few People Want Your Opinion
This seems to be most prevalent when you take on ghost-writing projects, whether it's a novel, website copy, or what have you. Clients want exactly what they want, and they expect you to give it to them without a fuss. What you'll learn very quickly is that you can hand a client a piece of gold and have them sneer at it like it's actually horse droppings. You have to remember in these situations that there's a reason you're a writer and they're not. Swallow your pride, keep your nose to the grind stone, and other idioms implying that you need to simply soldier on.

Everybody Thinks They're Writers
The sting of non-writer folk telling you how to do your job and the rage that wells up inside you when accountants tell you they do exactly what you do will never really go away. Having said that, ridiculous responses from clients who hate Oxford commas, don't understand why semicolons are used, and are confused about the difference between its and it's (it happens) are going to be a regular part of your life. When these things happen, simply explain to your clients why you write the way you do; oh, and make sure you do it without any sarcasm.

People Expect Free Work
As a freelancer, there are few things you'll learn faster, perhaps, than the fact that people somehow view what you do as cheap work. There are times when this will manifest itself as low-ball asking prices for an assignment. Much more frequently, unfortunately, is a call or e-mail from a potential client offering only "exposure" in exchange for giving them hours of your life. It can be hard, even impossible, to pass up this kind of offer when you're starting out. It is unarguably hard to find writing work until you've built up some steam, but don't fall into this trap. If you do take a pro-bono assignment, make sure it's a short-term deal. (Note: This doesn't apply to work for volunteer groups)

You need only look around to find evidence that being a freelancer is only getting harder. There's an interesting Business Insider piece about the recent explosion in freelancing across the board. Pay may be rising and jobs may be more common but so, too, are the people you're competing against. Know what you're getting in for before you dive in, and make yourself a far better freelancer out of the gate.
--

Charles Hayward is a web writer, short story author and novelist, and a social/political activist interested in furthering the cause of humanity, the well-being of the environment, and improving the world in general. His work has been featured on Examiner.com, Unplug the Matrix, and on the Japanese culture-themed blog They Call Me An Egg.

Read more
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
A Writer Without Tragedy is Useless


People don't really get writers. Well, I should say they don't really get them unless they are writers themselves. From a completely objective position, it's not hard to understand why. If you're a journalist and you're writing about the really interesting, important stuff, then you're probably putting yourself in the way of some kind of harm. Fiction writers, arguably the most difficult to understand, spend their lives telling stories, inspiring the idea that we aren't really doing anything, but the "why" of us doing so is a lot more complicated than many people think.

Carrie Mathison Cry Face
You know Carrie has some tales to tell.
Source:http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_mczxud39sS1risuxpo1_1280.jpg
To a certain extent, writing is about storytelling, pure and simple. Telling a tale about a great character, a great story; that's what it's all about. However, if you're willing to dig a little deeper, you will find that most of us are maladjusted in some way. Some of us have had addictions and use our writing to figure out that ever present plague. Others have experienced some sort of violence and use their words to try and make sense of it. If you're seeing a trend here, then you're on the right track; a writer without tragedy, big or small, is useless.

What Makes Tragedy Our Lifeblood?
I argue that tragedy is so important to a good story, a good writer, because it gives you an answer to search for. You may know why you had to get a divorce or why sexism exists, but in the same way that knowledge is differentiated from wisdom, so, too, is knowledge separate from understanding. That understanding, more than anything,  is what gives the writer so much power to craft an honest, authentic story.

Anecdotally, I recently had the misfortune of being defrauded by a debt collector. In trying to do the right thing and improve my financial status, I attempted to pay off a legitimate debt to an illegitimate collector. This, in its own way, is a tragedy. It placed severe limits on weeks of my life, a sacrifice that would have been well worth it had it been legitimate. This is an insignificant type of tragedy when compared to heartache, death, and the like, but it nevertheless serves as a catalyst for a story I'm really interested in telling. (Being proved naive is a great driver it turns out)

Surely, You Can't Mean Every Writer Has Experienced a Tragedy!?!
No, I don't mean to say that every person has experienced tragedy, at least not in the first-hand sense. Even writers who cover the stock market, however, understand a type of loss; they understand what it means for the markets to crash and for people to lose their livelihood, if only in an abstract sense. In the end, this sort of understanding, whether from a first person or third person observer perspective, is essential in crafting a story that people want to read, whether you're droning on about the change in federal interest rates or bringing truth to people in the form of thoughtful fiction.


Read more
Monday, December 2, 2013
no image



An Apology for Equality

It sickens me that the thing you do so much better than I
winds up being less because of the chance of birth.
If I were to speak about science or math,
you'd be drowned out; my gender determines my worth.

The conversation, for the time being, will shift to your hair,
it will shift to your chest, your supposed promiscuity.
I could speak of things I do not know
and I'd be trusted over you intrinsically.

It's important you know that we aren't all alike.
Some see intelligence, instead of a potential "wife."
I can do no more than stand with you, cursing them down.
Is that enough to bring equality to your life?


This one was inspired by Emily Graslie of the Brain Scoop's video talking about gender issues in the field of science and in general. Thanks to Upworthy for bringing this to my attention.




Read more
Sunday, December 1, 2013
no image


Perfect Permanence

It's far too easy to think of life as wasted; that's especially true when you feel like nothing is permanent. Even the Buddhist, his life built on the concept of ephemeral reality, can rely on his belief as something of a compass rose. If your life has become a series of supposed failures punctuated by long-lost lovers, hated jobs, and crushed dreams, what else could you possibly think?

We have too many thoughts, too many dreams, that we think will drive us forward. When it comes down to it, their true conflicting nature is more damaging than a weapon aimed directly for the heart, but we hold on tight, hoping they'll save us. Too many learn far too late that dreams can pull you down faster than anything else. 

The problem lies in our concept of dreams. Why are they called that? Frankly, because they don't exist, because they're near impossible to achieve. "Dreams" need to be reduced to dream; the plural exchanged for the singular. Finding our perfect permanence is about reduction. If you've ever made a sauce, you know that reduction is hugely important for flavor and substance. Just as reduction allows the cook to obtain that perfect flavor, reduction allows the dreamer to find their direction.

It's been said that choice is the enemy of happiness. This is especially true of the dreamer. We think of how we can change the world with words, by giving our time, or just doing something off the beaten path, yet while we decide, all of the options pass us by. In finding our perfect permanence, progress is made, the ephemeral slain, and the dream realized.








Read more
Saturday, November 30, 2013
Friday, November 29, 2013
no image



The Black Plague

As you gave thanks, did you leave something out?
Clearly, it's worth leaving a footprint on a face.
Does your new debt leave new doubt,
or does it leave you feeling stout?
I doubt it furthers the human race.
Today, you give your life, your time,
putting material in love's place.
Remember, as you stand in line,
the precious few things money can't replace.








Read more
Thursday, November 28, 2013
no image



The Lumberjack

There's a man who walks with an ax,
though he needs it not for work. 
He knows he'll pass my brambles,
by ivy, by stands of thick birch.
While some require
little more than a climb,
others need for the swift cut,
separating the pieces entwined.
He hopes that his blade
will remain stayed by his side,
but he fears not
the cut given in stride.




Read more
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
no image




Floaters

There's a blue light in the sky.
I wonder if you see.
Is it only in my eye,
or do you see what's in the sky?
I hope it's not just me
who sees what's floating here.
For if it's just me,
if my vision's unclear,
then I worry what it might be.






Read more
no image

Writing, like any form of art, takes on different meaning as it's used in different ways. Journalism, marketing, fiction writing; all of these different styles tend to mean something different to those within the community of the written word. Journalism is useful but corruptible. Marketing is a sell-out, a place for people to go when they're getting started or don't know how to move forward. Fiction writing, it seems, is the purest form of the craft for many; I know that's what I used to think.

Writing professionally has changed the way I think about writing, the way I write, and so much more about my life. For all the rest of you who live with the near drug-addiction-like pull of words in your life, here are the five things I've learned about writing since I started doing it professionally.

No Form of Writing is Better Than Another
This is something you learn really quickly when you've got hands in multiple cookie jars. My day job sees me writing a huge volume of marketing material for a wide variety of businesses. My freelance work has me ghost-writing creative pieces and translating work from language A to language B. In this type of setup, you quickly realize that no form of writing is "better", any more noble, than another. In the end, writing well is all that matters.

You Really Do Get Better
When I first started doing this whole thing, I wondered if I'd ever get better. Will I ever understand how to use a semi-colon? Will I become better at tying beginning and end together? The answer, it turns out, was a resounding yes. It might take your editor giving you a little tough love, but in the end, you will be much better than you were. As far as I can tell, this part never ends.

You Can't Trust Writers
Writers of all types make their living off telling a stories, real or constructed. Even non-fictional work is presented in a light that best suits the author's story. When you spend enough time weaving threads together into your own narrative, you quickly find that you can do that just as well on the page as you can off. The more evil writers, the Bill O'Reillys of the world, will take full advantage of this superpower. Though I hate to say it, you can't trust writers.

A Good Writer Can Do Something with Nothing
For a long time, I held the belief that it was the subject that gave a finished piece its pizzazz. In the end, though, it's what's written around the subject. Having written now on everything from ramen to bow-ties are cool (redacted so I don't violate any NDAs), I can say that anything can be made interesting when a good writer takes it on.

Payment Pales in Comparison to the Craft
In the earliest days of getting paid for words, I thought that I should just pump out whatever I could, as fast I could. Eventually, unless it is just a job to you, this sort of mentality fades. Instead of focusing on how much you're getting paid for something, you focus on how well you're doing something. (Note: Translation is an absolute exception to this rule) This mentality might be why so many of us are broke for a while.

What have you learned through your own writing experience?



Read more
Monday, November 25, 2013
no image




A Sap Covered Invitiation


Though my days are spent writing, a vacation getaway here, a recipe there, every so often I feel the gentle breeze of pine sap brush ever so lightly across the tip of my over-pronounced nose. It's strange, to say the least; after all, I sit in a room lacking windows, and there are no conifers for a few blocks around my office. Perhaps, then, some form of winter magic beckons me to play?

What do you want with me, Lords of Winter? What would you have me do when my livelihood depends on these letters, linked together, as they are, by purpose and meaning? Should I drop everything to frolic in your falling children, unique to the finest detail? 

Well, I'm certainly beginning to think so. At last, your Douglas Fir-infused aura has weakened my resolve. No longer can I distract myself with a mug of black energy. No longer can I ignore your summons in favor of a lightsaber-wielding avatar. 

I'll close the screen now, shut off the phone that is a constant reminder of things I don't truly need to do, and I'll meet you on the hill. Please, however, keep in mind that I've been away for a while. My belly has swollen, and my legs resemble hams, but I'll try my best to keep up with you; your snowfalls, your woodland denizens, and your constant winds of winter's change.



Read more
Sunday, November 24, 2013
no image



You're Looking the Wrong Way


When we are defeated,
it's often a surprise
to find that the way forward
is simply to raise our eyes. 

It's too easy to look backward,
focusing on everything you regret.
It may be trite, but the best,
well, you haven't experienced it yet.

Looking back on the past can be smart,
but ultimately, it's a rouse.
An excuse to hold yourself back,
instead of a chance at a life you choose.






Read more
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Friday, November 22, 2013
30 Days of Prose: Day 20: The Ninth Was Right About Cardiff


The Ninth Was Right About Cardiff

Doctor Who Tardis flying through space
Markwiggy's 'The Flight of the Tardis'
Source:http://www.wallpapergate.com/wallpaper21197.html
Cardiff, Cardiff, you're ever the fool.
I write you by day, by night I dream of you.
Cardiff, Cardiff, at least four hours a day,
I dream of never writing of you,
not for free and not for pay.

I'm sure you're a lovely city, despite all accounts.
The ninth thought you terrible, but the Doctor lies, I'm forced to recount.
If you would quit haunting me where I work, where I live,
I'd be so much more likely, more ready to forgive.

But Cardiff, Cardiff, cause of my pain,
when Monday comes you'll just wound me again.
I'll write of your charms, though I'm told they're few,
and I'll suffer sickness when you come into view.






Read more
Thursday, November 21, 2013
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
no image



Vale Amicum

I remember thinking, once, that you were like a father to me. Of course, I had my own, as so many others do. The thing is, well, at the time I knew you, I hardly knew myself. More often than not I wore the mask of the fool; seems I thought stupidity and arrogance were better traits than understanding and knowledge. I know that now, but it didn't seem to matter to you then. 

I remember the days spent slinging winter revelers down a mountain; you got me a job that I hated but that's besides the point. You knew I needed something more than sunless days spent in front of a computer screen, World of Warcraft intravenously pumping into my system in the same amounts it was poisoning your own flesh and blood. I lost touch with him, with you, and I went away to college.

I remember five years or so later, seeing you at a stop sign. Well, truth be told it was a blinking light and you pulled out in front of me. I cursed you with all the expletives I could muster, guilt seeping in as you nodded toward me in apology. I don't think you realized who I was that day, but once I remembered you, a friend, a man who had done so much for me in rougher years, I wished I'd had a second to say hello instead of a fleeting half-reunion filled with sailor spittle.

Here we are; more years have passed. I hadn't seen you until your name flashed across my screen. Gone. After a separation of time amounting to years, we're too often given to think that feelings fade, that memories and gratitude somehow grow stale. Yet, as my arms began to tremor and images of the pain of someone I once called brother erupted effortlessly, I realized that your impression was lasting, though I hadn't given it any real thought. Not until now. Not until the things I say fall on eternally deaf ears.



Read more
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
no image



The Pitch

What should I say?
What do you want to hear?
I've got an idea, but
to you it may sound queer.

Here are my qualifications,
though admittedly they're few, but
I've got this really great idea
to share with you.

This man who lives down the way,
he spends his life singing.
He hasn't any money and he lacks smarts,
but he sings true, to that life he's clinging.

No?
Well, that's fine; you see,
I've got one more.
By this point you might be impatient,
but let me try for the score.

There's this woman
she's opened a shop.
It sells soup and sandwiches and...
"stop?"

What should I say?
What do you want to hear?
I thought these were great ideas,
but they don't belong here.



Read more
Monday, November 18, 2013
30 Days of Prose: Day 16: The 47 Year Old Snowman


The 47 Year Old Snowman

Source: http://bit.ly/1cEdcix
Every winter, the time-bent man makes his way outside with a bag full of hats, scarves, and buttons. For 20 years, two snow-folk have been built in his front yard. One was tall and especially portly; I say especially portly because no snow-person will ever have the physique of photo-shopped, emaciated Victoria's Secret models. 

Yes, the one was tall and especially portly, he held a pipe in his mouth, and a bushy mustache made of an old comb adorned his top lip. Well, if he had lips, that's where his mustache would be. On his head sat a flat cap of gray wool, around his neck a Gryffindor scarf hung just tightly enough to grant warmth without being uncomfortable. His bottom half, as was so often the case, was bare, except for the handful of buttons that made to form a frosty jacket around his chunky, chilly frame, and the gnarly maple branches he used for arms. 

Next, the man turned to building the companion. She, like him, was curvy as could be, though her diminished height made her easier to build. For the last 20 years, this was the snow-person the man focused on. He knew exactly how the buttons were supposed to sit, exactly how her own Gryffindor scarf was supposed to be tied; delicately but tighter than her friend's. For her eyes, he used mother of pearl buttons that, with the blue-white sheen of the snow, took on a distinctly sapphire sheen. Gingerly, he sat the red beret atop her head, one of those cheap suckers they give at the doctor's in her mouth,  and placed her own slimmer, yet stronger, arms into place. She was perfect. 

He took a step back to look as he had for decades; he did so alone as he had for three years. She looked as she always had; strong and happy. Then, he looked to his own crystalline analog; pudgier around the mid-section, haphazardly wearing a scarf too loosely; he'd apparently lost his eyes. 

Sighing, he took a few black buttons from his pocket, roughly shoved them in the spots they should be, and stared into the opalescent circles for too long. At length, he turned away from the snow-folk, their arms linked hand-in-hand, as the man must have placed them absent-mindedly. Walking inside, he turned on the Christmas lights, warmed up a mug of cocoa, and turning on a showing of "It's a Wonderful Life" in the background, he sat and looked out the window, as he had for 20 years.








Read more
Subscribe to: Posts (Atom)