Daily Science Fiction rejected “Snowball The Wonder Cat.” That wasn’t really a surprise, but I just thought I’d try.
However, the rejection gave me the impetus to show the story to my writing group. A couple of members gave me suggestions that have proved very helpful. So, I’m now working on developing the story. It’s already twice as long as it was and considerably deeper. Developing Cassie’s personality and the relationship between her and Snowball. It’s going well and I’m excited about it.
...and all because of a rejection.
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Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Writing, and it feels so wonderful!
I started a brand new song, donno exactly, maybe an hour ago. The lyric is shaping up nicely, and the melody for the refrain is set, and set down. Even got the last part of the coda roughed out. Only thing left is, hm,mm, what do you call that? The main melody? The bit in between, that isn’t refrain. You know what I mean. Too tired and too high to care a whole lot if I’m making sense.
I’ve worked it out, and this is the first song I’ve written in some six years. I’ve noodled around, kicked around melody ideas, but this is the first real song. For me, the lyric usually comes first, and the melody follows quickly, or at least parts of it. So it was this time. I had the rough lyric in about five minutes. As I refined it, the refrain melody slowly took shape in another layer of my mind, so to speak, until it was defined enough to start setting down. Then there was some logistical stuff with Cakewalk, the antiquated but excellent music software I use (recommended to me many years ago by none other than Fred Schendle of Glass Hammer) as t how to copy and paste just the music so I could put the refrain melody in with each occurrence of the words. And, by the time I’d sorted that out, I had the very end. As to the remaining blank spots, I’m not worried. There may be an existing fragment I can shape. If not, the bits I need will come. They usually do. And, I have a really good feeling about this song. The way it flowed felt so right, so wonderful.
I don’ know if it uses different muscles or what, but songwriting is very different from writing prose or, curiously, even poetry. The flow is different; the feel is different. I haven’t experienced the particular kind of creative expression in so long that I’d almost forgotten what it feels like. But, it’s one of those things that comes right back. And it sure feels great!
I’ve worked it out, and this is the first song I’ve written in some six years. I’ve noodled around, kicked around melody ideas, but this is the first real song. For me, the lyric usually comes first, and the melody follows quickly, or at least parts of it. So it was this time. I had the rough lyric in about five minutes. As I refined it, the refrain melody slowly took shape in another layer of my mind, so to speak, until it was defined enough to start setting down. Then there was some logistical stuff with Cakewalk, the antiquated but excellent music software I use (recommended to me many years ago by none other than Fred Schendle of Glass Hammer) as t how to copy and paste just the music so I could put the refrain melody in with each occurrence of the words. And, by the time I’d sorted that out, I had the very end. As to the remaining blank spots, I’m not worried. There may be an existing fragment I can shape. If not, the bits I need will come. They usually do. And, I have a really good feeling about this song. The way it flowed felt so right, so wonderful.
I don’ know if it uses different muscles or what, but songwriting is very different from writing prose or, curiously, even poetry. The flow is different; the feel is different. I haven’t experienced the particular kind of creative expression in so long that I’d almost forgotten what it feels like. But, it’s one of those things that comes right back. And it sure feels great!
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Still Stewing and Brewing
I’m still struggling with “World Enough and Time.” It’s pretty much settled in my mind at this point that Mark knows what he’s doing. That is, he actually builds, not a time machine, but a device to move between realities, parallel universes. Conveniently for him, Kathleen is not terribly interested in Quantum Mechanics, and doesn’t know the difference. So far so good. Here’s the rub. Kathleen is the first person narrator. Not only does she not understand Mark’s work, she doesn’t understand his motivation for that work. Not understanding his motivation, she can’t convey it to the reader, not directly at any rate. And, without understanding Mark’s motivation, the reader only gets half of the story.
The obvious solution is to recast the story in third person narrative. The problem with that is grammar, even language itself on the most fundamental level. There’s a scene in which Kathleen, the Cat who is narrating the story has a mind meld with the Kathleen in a parallel reality. The grammar gets extremely tricky for a few lines, but between first and third person, it remains possible to tell who’s who. If the story were written in third person, this passage would be unintelligible. So, the narrative has to stay in first person; which brings me back to the problem of Mark’s POV. The circumstances in which the characters find themselves do not allow for him to write her a thirty page letter explaining everything, a handy if sometimes slightly forced device. There is a point at which he could make a speech, a point at which her sudden understanding of what has been going on is handy for the plot development but stands, just now, totally unsupported by any kind of previously laid information or clues.
Hmmm... That might work, though a speech, like a letter, has to be handled carefully to prevent its seeming forced. Also, there is the danger of its becoming something of an infodump. I guess the thing to do is to have a speech to pull everything together and spell it out for Cat while placing clues throughout the rest of the story, things that she reports without understanding their significance. Yes, that might work.
Again, writing out my ideas and difficulties has helped me work through them. Or, at least, it has helped me realize that the problem may not be insoluble.
The obvious solution is to recast the story in third person narrative. The problem with that is grammar, even language itself on the most fundamental level. There’s a scene in which Kathleen, the Cat who is narrating the story has a mind meld with the Kathleen in a parallel reality. The grammar gets extremely tricky for a few lines, but between first and third person, it remains possible to tell who’s who. If the story were written in third person, this passage would be unintelligible. So, the narrative has to stay in first person; which brings me back to the problem of Mark’s POV. The circumstances in which the characters find themselves do not allow for him to write her a thirty page letter explaining everything, a handy if sometimes slightly forced device. There is a point at which he could make a speech, a point at which her sudden understanding of what has been going on is handy for the plot development but stands, just now, totally unsupported by any kind of previously laid information or clues.
Hmmm... That might work, though a speech, like a letter, has to be handled carefully to prevent its seeming forced. Also, there is the danger of its becoming something of an infodump. I guess the thing to do is to have a speech to pull everything together and spell it out for Cat while placing clues throughout the rest of the story, things that she reports without understanding their significance. Yes, that might work.
Again, writing out my ideas and difficulties has helped me work through them. Or, at least, it has helped me realize that the problem may not be insoluble.
Sunday, February 07, 2010
Juices Flowing Again
My friends and colleagues in the writers group were very sympathetic and generous with suggestions about how to beat the block I complained about in the last post.
I want to thank them all, again, very much!
We need Edmund to experience some Man versus Nature. This shouldn't be too hard, since he has never before traveled more than fifty miles away from home. I only have vague ideas about this as yet, but just knowing the material should be there is a help.
Next, he has an encounter with an old woman, who treats him kindly. But, since Edmund is not terribly observant, and generally is not the shiniest battle axe on the wall, or maybe I should say the sharpest, he doesn't perceive her true nature and, since he's pretty pigheaded, she is only able to give him relatively small, unimportant gifts; useful as far as they go, but limited.
However, the very existence of this episode created the need for a later, parallel or at least similar episode. The second person who encounters the kindly old woman is more perceptive, and thus understands that she is a witch wife, albeit not a powerful one. This second person is also rather more amenable to suggestion, so the kindly crone can give the second person some useful help.
These episodes also involve details that tie this story forward to another, set centuries in the future of this world. Indeed, I'll now have to start looking for ways to incorporate similar details into other stories set in this world.
In other words, while the problem of Edmund's quest and specifically his travels hasn't been solved, it no longer seems insoluble and overwhelming. I'm working again, and that's a marvelous feeling!
I want to thank them all, again, very much!
We need Edmund to experience some Man versus Nature. This shouldn't be too hard, since he has never before traveled more than fifty miles away from home. I only have vague ideas about this as yet, but just knowing the material should be there is a help.
Next, he has an encounter with an old woman, who treats him kindly. But, since Edmund is not terribly observant, and generally is not the shiniest battle axe on the wall, or maybe I should say the sharpest, he doesn't perceive her true nature and, since he's pretty pigheaded, she is only able to give him relatively small, unimportant gifts; useful as far as they go, but limited.
However, the very existence of this episode created the need for a later, parallel or at least similar episode. The second person who encounters the kindly old woman is more perceptive, and thus understands that she is a witch wife, albeit not a powerful one. This second person is also rather more amenable to suggestion, so the kindly crone can give the second person some useful help.
These episodes also involve details that tie this story forward to another, set centuries in the future of this world. Indeed, I'll now have to start looking for ways to incorporate similar details into other stories set in this world.
In other words, while the problem of Edmund's quest and specifically his travels hasn't been solved, it no longer seems insoluble and overwhelming. I'm working again, and that's a marvelous feeling!
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
The Mule and the Writer
Sometimes the world takes its pruning sheers and cuts you right back down to the roots. According to Roger, the gardening expert on Ask This Old House, such drastic action may be necessary to help, or force, a plant to grow properly. I never much liked the idea. Poor plant, ouch! Well, this week the plant is me, and the pruning process feels like being kicked in the gut by a mule.
I've spent the better, or worse, part of ten years as well as many hundreds of dollars on books and classes and domain name registration, beating my brains raw learning HTML, and later XHTML, and CSS and practically memorizing the W3C's web accessibility guidelines. All this fuss and bother had only one purpose; namely, to create the best possible web site to serve as a showcase for my writing. Even once I finally gave up on the web site as too difficult to maintain, I applied my CSS skills to customizing the Blogger blog spots where I proudly posted my fiction and poetry.
Ignorance truly is bliss.
Someone who has perhaps not been writing as long as I have but who is more savvy told me yesterday evening a fact which I had somehow failed to divine for all these years. If a story or poem is freely accessible on the Web, a professional editor won't buy it.
That was the mule kick.
Stunned and reeling, I checked with a very successful writer I know via his blog. He confirmed and gave a reasonable explanation for the policy.
I see the sense of it now. But, that doesn't ease the pain in my gut. I've always been so careful. I've always made it a point to behave in a professional manner to the best of my ability. And yet I missed something so obvious. Not only that, but I wasted valuable time and money on web development skills I don't need. Chagrinned doesn't begin to cover my current mood. Murderous is more like it, or rather suicidal.
All is not lost. Blogger has provisions to make a blog private. I have implemented these provisions on my writing spots. This should keep them ungooglible and yet allow friends and fellow writing group members to view the work, which was really the only purpose of the blogs to begin with. But there's more to it than this debacle.
My lapse in judgment, or whatever you want to call it, regarding "publication" on the Web has shaken me to the core. If I could make such a fundamental mistake about writing, how do I know that any of my decisions or choices is sound? How can I trust my own judgment about anything? The fellow who unleashed the mule kick is very offhand about it. "Mistakes happen." But he hasn't had to watch ten years of his life come tumbling down around him, revealed as totally meaningless and worthless. Perhaps it's a lesson I needed, but it's certainly a shock I'll take a while to recover from.
I've spent the better, or worse, part of ten years as well as many hundreds of dollars on books and classes and domain name registration, beating my brains raw learning HTML, and later XHTML, and CSS and practically memorizing the W3C's web accessibility guidelines. All this fuss and bother had only one purpose; namely, to create the best possible web site to serve as a showcase for my writing. Even once I finally gave up on the web site as too difficult to maintain, I applied my CSS skills to customizing the Blogger blog spots where I proudly posted my fiction and poetry.
Ignorance truly is bliss.
Someone who has perhaps not been writing as long as I have but who is more savvy told me yesterday evening a fact which I had somehow failed to divine for all these years. If a story or poem is freely accessible on the Web, a professional editor won't buy it.
That was the mule kick.
Stunned and reeling, I checked with a very successful writer I know via his blog. He confirmed and gave a reasonable explanation for the policy.
I see the sense of it now. But, that doesn't ease the pain in my gut. I've always been so careful. I've always made it a point to behave in a professional manner to the best of my ability. And yet I missed something so obvious. Not only that, but I wasted valuable time and money on web development skills I don't need. Chagrinned doesn't begin to cover my current mood. Murderous is more like it, or rather suicidal.
All is not lost. Blogger has provisions to make a blog private. I have implemented these provisions on my writing spots. This should keep them ungooglible and yet allow friends and fellow writing group members to view the work, which was really the only purpose of the blogs to begin with. But there's more to it than this debacle.
My lapse in judgment, or whatever you want to call it, regarding "publication" on the Web has shaken me to the core. If I could make such a fundamental mistake about writing, how do I know that any of my decisions or choices is sound? How can I trust my own judgment about anything? The fellow who unleashed the mule kick is very offhand about it. "Mistakes happen." But he hasn't had to watch ten years of his life come tumbling down around him, revealed as totally meaningless and worthless. Perhaps it's a lesson I needed, but it's certainly a shock I'll take a while to recover from.
Friday, August 07, 2009
Another modest success
Word came in today's snail mail that "Deck The Halls" received honorable mention in this year's NFB Writers Division Fiction Contest. Though as with the HM sitation in the Poetry Contest for "the Escape" there is no money involved, still it's a bit of a morale boost.
Also since my last post, I have joined the Analog Writers Group.
Also since my last post, I have joined the Analog Writers Group.
Sunday, August 02, 2009
Long Time No Blog
I see it's been some months since I last wrote in this space. Oops! Sorry, guys!
It would be nice to report that in the interim I've been doing really wild things; but, alas, I cannot tell a lie - not unless I want my nose to grow, anyway. I've been putt putting along, but that's about all.
In July I did learn that my poem "The Escape" earned Honorable Mention in this year's NFB Writers' Division Poetry Contest. As such, it will be published in the Division's magazine, Slate and Style. That is the single bright spot in an otherwise dismal year to date. I've collected several rejection letters, and that single HM was all I got out of the Division contests.
However, I forge ahead. Currently, "Spirits from the Vasty Deep" is out to Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show.
I'm stuck, again, on Marooner's Haven, my SF Romance, but am trying not to worry about it. While that's stewing and brewing in ye old unconscious I've also been working a bit on "The Lady of the Stars" and a couple of the stories/chapters in A Very Dragon Christmas. Also need to get back and finish "World Enough and Time."
On the other hand, I've gotten back to a few online discussions and fora, including the Analog and Asimov's writers' fora, which is pleasant. I've joined Library Thing, where I catalogue my dirt world library and participate in a couple of ongoing discussion threads. Can't get into my Glass Hammer Forum account. I've lost my password and need to do a bit of research to retrieve it. Also can't remember my Twitter log in. Really, I try to use the same log in on everything; but, obviously, it doesn't always work out in practice.
I've also recently gotten back to Fun Trivia, a quiz and trivia site that has communities called "teams." I very much like belonging to all these communities. But the center of my online life remains Howard Empowered People. That's where I feel most at home.
Dirtside, I continue to read, of course. Currently interested in Jung. Got into The Twilight Saga earlier in the Summer. As usual with such things, I don't understand why people complain about it. I find it an enjoyable series. Actually, much as I like Harry Potter, I think Twilight is better written and more likely to stand the test of time. But that's just me. Now, I suppose, I'll have hordes of Harry fans coming after me with pitchforks. *sigh* Oh well…
Anyway, this entry is more than long enough. Signing off for now.
It would be nice to report that in the interim I've been doing really wild things; but, alas, I cannot tell a lie - not unless I want my nose to grow, anyway. I've been putt putting along, but that's about all.
In July I did learn that my poem "The Escape" earned Honorable Mention in this year's NFB Writers' Division Poetry Contest. As such, it will be published in the Division's magazine, Slate and Style. That is the single bright spot in an otherwise dismal year to date. I've collected several rejection letters, and that single HM was all I got out of the Division contests.
However, I forge ahead. Currently, "Spirits from the Vasty Deep" is out to Orson Scott Card's Intergalactic Medicine Show.
I'm stuck, again, on Marooner's Haven, my SF Romance, but am trying not to worry about it. While that's stewing and brewing in ye old unconscious I've also been working a bit on "The Lady of the Stars" and a couple of the stories/chapters in A Very Dragon Christmas. Also need to get back and finish "World Enough and Time."
On the other hand, I've gotten back to a few online discussions and fora, including the Analog and Asimov's writers' fora, which is pleasant. I've joined Library Thing, where I catalogue my dirt world library and participate in a couple of ongoing discussion threads. Can't get into my Glass Hammer Forum account. I've lost my password and need to do a bit of research to retrieve it. Also can't remember my Twitter log in. Really, I try to use the same log in on everything; but, obviously, it doesn't always work out in practice.
I've also recently gotten back to Fun Trivia, a quiz and trivia site that has communities called "teams." I very much like belonging to all these communities. But the center of my online life remains Howard Empowered People. That's where I feel most at home.
Dirtside, I continue to read, of course. Currently interested in Jung. Got into The Twilight Saga earlier in the Summer. As usual with such things, I don't understand why people complain about it. I find it an enjoyable series. Actually, much as I like Harry Potter, I think Twilight is better written and more likely to stand the test of time. But that's just me. Now, I suppose, I'll have hordes of Harry fans coming after me with pitchforks. *sigh* Oh well…
Anyway, this entry is more than long enough. Signing off for now.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Snowball
"Confusticate and drat it all!" I slammed back from the computer, taut with frustration, and sat for a moment, staring at the monitor screen. It seemed to stare back with its enlarged print and enhanced, brightly colored cursor. Then, I sank my head into my hands. "I can't," I moaned. "I can't, can't, can't write!"
"What's the pur-roblem?" my cat, Snowball, inquired languorously. She sounded so relaxed!
I dug my fingers through my hair and groaned. "The problem is that there's nothing I can write about." Snowball made a low, rumbly sort of inquiring sound. I sat up and swiveled to look at her where she lay on the windowsill, ears perked, large, round, green eyes trained on me attentively. I sighed. "You're supposed to write what you know, right?"
"Yes."
"Well, everything I know - my real or everyday life, my dream life, my fantasy life," I choked on a sob and returned my head to my hands. "Even and especially my pain and despair and emptiness life -" Snowball growled. I ignored her and my ungrammatical construction. "Everything I know is Kit." Snowball sneezed.
She had never liked Kit, and had made no bones that she was satisfied that he and I had broken up. But, I was devastated by the breakup. I hadn't eaten, hadn't showered, hadn't gotten dressed for days. The only thing that kept me going was needing to take care of Snowball. Then, I had woken up this morning, well, actually, it had been almost 12:30, and looked listlessly at the large display digital clock which showed not only the time, but also the date and room temperature. With a shock, I realized that the deadline for the NFB Writers' Division contests was only four days away. I had to enter something, and fast! After washing and filling Snowball's food and water dishes and cleaning her litter box, I sat down listlessly at the computer. But, everything I started seemed too personal, too intense, too Kit.
Now I tried to explain this to Snowball. She rumbled thoughtfully. "Don't humans write about their most intimate ex-purr-iences in autobiographies, and memoirs, and those novels with the Fur-rench name?"
"Roman à clef? Yes. And, most first novels are largely autobiographical as well."
She sat up and began washing her paws. "So," she inquired again with a delicate redirection of emphasis, "what's the pur-roblem?"
"I find that sort of stuff distasteful enough to read, let alone to write."
"Writing about one's life and everyday ex-purr-ience, you mean?"
"Yes."
She began washing her face. I loved it when Snowball washed her face, and the top of her head. She was absorbed in this important business for several minutes. When she finished, she blinked. "Is everything in your life distasteful?"
It was my turn to blink. "Well, no, I suppose not. But..."
"Is everything in your life too intensely purr-sonal to talk about?" she pursued, stretching her front paws.
"Well, no; but..." I stared at her. She stared back, sublimely unconcerned. She yawned.
"Is there anything, or purr-haps anybody in your life that is noteworthy?" she asked with a fine show of indifference.
I began to grin. And, as the grin grew broader, I felt the despondency and writer's block disperse, like a thick fog stirred by a breeze. I still missed Kit something awful but, for now at least, I had something to do. Of course! It was so simple. "I'll write about you," I said, leaning forward to rub Snowball's head. "I'll be sure to win First Prize in the Fiction division."
I laughed, the first time in days, in weeks, I'd laughed as she reared up, the image of a lion rampant. "What do you mean the Fiction division?" she demanded in a low growl.
I smoothed the ruffled fur on her back. "Well, after all," I said. "No one would accept a story about a talking cat as nonfiction."
Snowball growled. Ignoring her, I stood up. "Man, I'm hungry! I'm going to have a nice, big breakfast, or brunch, or whatever and then, thanks to you, Snowball, I can get to work."
Jumping down, she followed me into the kitchen. I poured her a saucer of milk as a special treat, and then bustled about distractedly. I only just avoided putting the Canadian bacon in the toaster and the frozen French toast in the microwave in my excitement.
"What should I call the story?" I mused while setting the table. "Something snappy. Cat On A Hot Tin Roof? Na, that's been used. Hmm. The Cat Who Came In From The Cold? Long Cat's Journey Into Night?"
Snowball jumped onto my chair and sniffed at my plate as I set it down. "Are you going to drown that in maple surr-up?" she asked disapprovingly, pointing at the Canadian bacon with her nose.
"Yep." Picking her up, I moved her to the other chair. Then, I sat down and began extravagantly buttering the French toast. "How about All'sS Cat That Ends Cat?" Snowball sneezed. I looked up in concern. "Are you getting a cold, Kitty?"
"No," she said testily. Climbing up, she sat on the far edge of the table and glared at me. I could tell she was glaring because her eyes had changed from green to yellow. I watched her warily. If they turned orange, I was really in trouble.
"I think," she said, "and since I'm the subject of this so-called 'story' my opinion ought to be taken into consideration - I think you should call it Snowball The Wonder Cat."
I choked on a bite of French toast. "W-wonder cat?"
She crossed her paws in front of her chest and glared still more intensely, orange eyes glowing. "Wonder Cat," she repeated grimly. "After all, how many talking cats do you know?"
"What's the pur-roblem?" my cat, Snowball, inquired languorously. She sounded so relaxed!
I dug my fingers through my hair and groaned. "The problem is that there's nothing I can write about." Snowball made a low, rumbly sort of inquiring sound. I sat up and swiveled to look at her where she lay on the windowsill, ears perked, large, round, green eyes trained on me attentively. I sighed. "You're supposed to write what you know, right?"
"Yes."
"Well, everything I know - my real or everyday life, my dream life, my fantasy life," I choked on a sob and returned my head to my hands. "Even and especially my pain and despair and emptiness life -" Snowball growled. I ignored her and my ungrammatical construction. "Everything I know is Kit." Snowball sneezed.
She had never liked Kit, and had made no bones that she was satisfied that he and I had broken up. But, I was devastated by the breakup. I hadn't eaten, hadn't showered, hadn't gotten dressed for days. The only thing that kept me going was needing to take care of Snowball. Then, I had woken up this morning, well, actually, it had been almost 12:30, and looked listlessly at the large display digital clock which showed not only the time, but also the date and room temperature. With a shock, I realized that the deadline for the NFB Writers' Division contests was only four days away. I had to enter something, and fast! After washing and filling Snowball's food and water dishes and cleaning her litter box, I sat down listlessly at the computer. But, everything I started seemed too personal, too intense, too Kit.
Now I tried to explain this to Snowball. She rumbled thoughtfully. "Don't humans write about their most intimate ex-purr-iences in autobiographies, and memoirs, and those novels with the Fur-rench name?"
"Roman à clef? Yes. And, most first novels are largely autobiographical as well."
She sat up and began washing her paws. "So," she inquired again with a delicate redirection of emphasis, "what's the pur-roblem?"
"I find that sort of stuff distasteful enough to read, let alone to write."
"Writing about one's life and everyday ex-purr-ience, you mean?"
"Yes."
She began washing her face. I loved it when Snowball washed her face, and the top of her head. She was absorbed in this important business for several minutes. When she finished, she blinked. "Is everything in your life distasteful?"
It was my turn to blink. "Well, no, I suppose not. But..."
"Is everything in your life too intensely purr-sonal to talk about?" she pursued, stretching her front paws.
"Well, no; but..." I stared at her. She stared back, sublimely unconcerned. She yawned.
"Is there anything, or purr-haps anybody in your life that is noteworthy?" she asked with a fine show of indifference.
I began to grin. And, as the grin grew broader, I felt the despondency and writer's block disperse, like a thick fog stirred by a breeze. I still missed Kit something awful but, for now at least, I had something to do. Of course! It was so simple. "I'll write about you," I said, leaning forward to rub Snowball's head. "I'll be sure to win First Prize in the Fiction division."
I laughed, the first time in days, in weeks, I'd laughed as she reared up, the image of a lion rampant. "What do you mean the Fiction division?" she demanded in a low growl.
I smoothed the ruffled fur on her back. "Well, after all," I said. "No one would accept a story about a talking cat as nonfiction."
Snowball growled. Ignoring her, I stood up. "Man, I'm hungry! I'm going to have a nice, big breakfast, or brunch, or whatever and then, thanks to you, Snowball, I can get to work."
Jumping down, she followed me into the kitchen. I poured her a saucer of milk as a special treat, and then bustled about distractedly. I only just avoided putting the Canadian bacon in the toaster and the frozen French toast in the microwave in my excitement.
"What should I call the story?" I mused while setting the table. "Something snappy. Cat On A Hot Tin Roof? Na, that's been used. Hmm. The Cat Who Came In From The Cold? Long Cat's Journey Into Night?"
Snowball jumped onto my chair and sniffed at my plate as I set it down. "Are you going to drown that in maple surr-up?" she asked disapprovingly, pointing at the Canadian bacon with her nose.
"Yep." Picking her up, I moved her to the other chair. Then, I sat down and began extravagantly buttering the French toast. "How about All'sS Cat That Ends Cat?" Snowball sneezed. I looked up in concern. "Are you getting a cold, Kitty?"
"No," she said testily. Climbing up, she sat on the far edge of the table and glared at me. I could tell she was glaring because her eyes had changed from green to yellow. I watched her warily. If they turned orange, I was really in trouble.
"I think," she said, "and since I'm the subject of this so-called 'story' my opinion ought to be taken into consideration - I think you should call it Snowball The Wonder Cat."
I choked on a bite of French toast. "W-wonder cat?"
She crossed her paws in front of her chest and glared still more intensely, orange eyes glowing. "Wonder Cat," she repeated grimly. "After all, how many talking cats do you know?"
Thursday, June 21, 2007
On Writing
The BBC's kidnapped Gaza correspondent, Alan Johnston, has been missing for one hundred and one days.
As part of their continuing coverage and efforts to keep Alan's plight before the eyes of the world, they have posted a piece he wrote about a year ago on the art of journalism. Reading it, I found myself repeatedly nodding my head and murmurring, "Yes, yes." For, though he was talking about radio reportage, Alan wrote a lovely, concise article on fiction writing as well. I highly recommend it to all here.
Click the title to go to Alan's article.
As part of their continuing coverage and efforts to keep Alan's plight before the eyes of the world, they have posted a piece he wrote about a year ago on the art of journalism. Reading it, I found myself repeatedly nodding my head and murmurring, "Yes, yes." For, though he was talking about radio reportage, Alan wrote a lovely, concise article on fiction writing as well. I highly recommend it to all here.
Click the title to go to Alan's article.
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