"How do we leave the
readers feeling appeased by what they read instead of cheated? That
is why I think that short story endings are one of the hardest things
in the world to write. I'd take a 75,000 word novel any day."--Stephanie Campbell, "Closure
in Short Stories"
To write one true line, macho Hemingway said long ago when the words weren't flowing. It has been that way for me for many days, very hard to write a sensible sentence. Losing the taste for words and the stringing of them. However, the joy of reading is intact--they can't take that away from me. But getting into the groove of writing coherently and clearly can be such a pain when one is having one of those gray episodes in one's life, exacerbated by acts of delay (a.k.a. procrastination) that heightens the sense of dislike for this nameless aaaarrgh!
So there I was this morning, trying to put on an imaginary apron so I could get a simple and decent breakfast done; Rolly took the trouble of brewing coffee and adding a dash of cinnamon to each cup (thank you, sir). All I had to do was prepare a pair of big pancakes by beating an egg and adding milk to the ready mix. My sighs were audible, amplified by a slight clanging of pans until I found one that could fit the batter for a pancake.
I had an English teacher who once saw me writhing in angst over my inability to overcome a strong dislike for simple housework. To my declaration, "I'd rather bleed while composing a poem or a story than cook," she had this retort: "But any idiot who can read a recipe can!"
This is where I write a senseless end to these even more useless ramblings. Here's to more important things in life than a blogger in her limbo (even that is a non-place already).
To write one true line, macho Hemingway said long ago when the words weren't flowing. It has been that way for me for many days, very hard to write a sensible sentence. Losing the taste for words and the stringing of them. However, the joy of reading is intact--they can't take that away from me. But getting into the groove of writing coherently and clearly can be such a pain when one is having one of those gray episodes in one's life, exacerbated by acts of delay (a.k.a. procrastination) that heightens the sense of dislike for this nameless aaaarrgh!
 |
| Illustration found in the World Wide Web |
So there I was this morning, trying to put on an imaginary apron so I could get a simple and decent breakfast done; Rolly took the trouble of brewing coffee and adding a dash of cinnamon to each cup (thank you, sir). All I had to do was prepare a pair of big pancakes by beating an egg and adding milk to the ready mix. My sighs were audible, amplified by a slight clanging of pans until I found one that could fit the batter for a pancake.
I had an English teacher who once saw me writhing in angst over my inability to overcome a strong dislike for simple housework. To my declaration, "I'd rather bleed while composing a poem or a story than cook," she had this retort: "But any idiot who can read a recipe can!"
This is where I write a senseless end to these even more useless ramblings. Here's to more important things in life than a blogger in her limbo (even that is a non-place already).
No comments:
Post a Comment