On Thanksgiving I sat down, after the craziness of the day had passed, and took advantage of a quiet moment to write our family’s holiday card – you know, the letter that will be tucked in with the cute little card of the kids doing fun stuff over the course of 2012 and mailed off to family and friends as a well-intentioned but woefully inadequate way of keeping in touch? I’m sure you’re familiar with the genre.
Writing
One Hippo, All Alone
Daniel I went to Austin for the wedding of a dear friend who walks an interesting line in life between Texas high society and a rowdy Burning Man crowd. At one point I looked across the dance floor to see a very dapper elderly couple waltzing, and behind them danced a man in an orange jumper wearing a full rubber unicorn head.
I will not call it done just because I’m tired of working on it
And so I will continue to get up at 5 in the morning to write before the kids stir. I will carry on with my attempts to chip away at the little things that bug only me. I will never give up my goal to craft every damn sentence in my story.
Oh, When Will This Ever End?
Yesterday was my day long writing “retreat.” It was good to get a big chunk of writing time in, but somehow I had built it up in my head too […]
Rock Lake Writers Day-Long Retreat
The name is inspired by geography. Two of our members live in Eagle Rock. The other three in Silver Lake. (Silver Eagle just sounded to militaristic.) I’m thinking of building us a website (with all my spare time).
The Things We Capitalize
ut these are not the typos that fascinate me. The ones I like are the ones that are inserted to give a certain importance to a word (either consciously or not). For instance, I edited a bio today that was written by a city manager. He wrote something along the lines of: My wife and I have two Daughters… There’s something just very sweet about that.His girls must be very important to him.
Writing Is Difficult For Writers
What’s more, as writer, I feel a certain obligation to write a really good letter. I mean, what if I do die, and this is the last thing she will ever hear from me? She will later remember me as a writer and, as she rereads that letter, thinking of her loving mother, a little part of her will be judging. Is that paranoid? I have this image in my head of her weeping at her profound loss, and then being momentarily distracted by my misuse of a comma.