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nanowrimo_lj2009-10-06 11:15 am
age.livejournal.com) wrote in nanowrimo_lj2009-10-06 11:15 am
Entry tags:
Quote me This (Warm Ups)
You guys rock my socks ^.^ I hope you're having fun with this and that the satisfaction of writing complete ficlets is banking up for those November days when everything seems to be conspiring against you.
As always, reply to this post with your answers, and pop by (here) for rules and explanations.
If your entry requires more than 1 reply, please post the whole thing in your own journal and then reply once here with a link.
State clearly any warnings/ratings in the subject line of your reply (or at the very top of the body of your reply) so that people can be forewarned. Consider it a bit of CYA tactics *wry*
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TheFirst Sentence First and Second Quotes
Choose: One
Writing Time: 6 minutes
TheNon Sequitur Third and Fourth Quotes
Choose: One (OR choose one, write for time, choose the other, write for time)
Writing Time: 3 minutes
TheLast Straw Fifth and Sixth Quotes
Choose: One
Writing Time: 6 minutes
[Disclaimer: The above quotes belong to their respective speakers. We're just having a bit of fun. Not profiting, no suing, please :)]
As always, reply to this post with your answers, and pop by (here) for rules and explanations.
If your entry requires more than 1 reply, please post the whole thing in your own journal and then reply once here with a link.
State clearly any warnings/ratings in the subject line of your reply (or at the very top of the body of your reply) so that people can be forewarned. Consider it a bit of CYA tactics *wry*
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The
Choose: One
Writing Time: 6 minutes
| Quote #1: Every author in some way portrays himself in his works, even if it be against his will. - Goethe |
| Quote #2: I want to write books that unlock the traffic jam in everybody's head. - John Updike |
The
Choose: One (OR choose one, write for time, choose the other, write for time)
Writing Time: 3 minutes
| Quote #3: The best style is the style you don't notice. - Somerset Maugham |
| Quote #4: No man should ever publish a book until he has first read it to a woman. - Van Wyck Brooks |
The
Choose: One
Writing Time: 6 minutes
| Quote #5: Writing is a product of silence. - Carrie Latet |
| Quote #6: It took me fifteen years to discover I had no talent for writing, but I couldn't give it up because by that time I was too famous. - Robert Benchley |
[Disclaimer: The above quotes belong to their respective speakers. We're just having a bit of fun. Not profiting, no suing, please :)]
no subject
This is one of those trousers-of-time moments, when you can see horribly clearly that you have a life-changing decision to make here, in my case one of two choices, and each leads in a different direction. So the rumours and predictions and cold, hard facts cram together in my head, like a traffic jam, punctuated by flashes of extreme excitement over a friend’s party, or a shopping opportunity, or a concert on an cold October night, which stand out for brief moments and then fade, quietly, to live out retirement as memories.
Maybe I’m making too big a deal about this. I mean, I have a job, right? I have a summer job all lined up at dad’s bookshop, and a life to get on with, and exams to study for. And what college I go to and what courses I take won’t matter as long as I can write.
Not novels, they require to much fantasy and imagination. I stay far, far away from fantasies, they lead to dreams and visions and memories. I want to write biographies that reveal the truth about people, or articles about psychology and philosophy. And travel, I need to travel, in my own particular style, to everywhere I’ve ever read about.
The best style is the style you don't notice. And this is true, to an extent. I don’t intend to make a thing of myself, or a public scandal, or commit crimes. I need to keep planted in reality, that’s all. I reject any music that I liked in childhood, I read non-fiction and a few selected real-life books, I refuse to analyse my dreams, or write about anything outside of my own experience. I’m an empiricist, in that respect: I can’t know something I haven’’t experienced, so I try not to experience anything that might make me think, and so experience memories.
And I’m getting better. I haven’t chatted up anymore dangerous-looking blokes, or drunk too much lately, or anything since I was fourteen. My life has been silent of danger. And writing is a product of silence. I write essays, mostly, and articles for the school paper, and journals. I don’t write fiction, when I do short stories for English class, I keep it in my own world, preferably my own town. Imagination’s dangerous, in my case, though I frustratingly can’t remember why.
I write letters to Mum, although they rarely get sent. Plenty of kid’s parents split up, and I can’t believe that mum and dad were ever meant for each other. Mum's a hard-headed woman of business, and a socialite. She;s big and bright and bustling. Dad’s a dreamer, a bookseller with an unspeakable reverence for his books and his shop and the whole reading/writing thing in general. Folklore interests him, and mythology, especially the old Greek and Roman myths of immortal Gods and Goddesses who walked with mortal man, deceived them or admitted their true existence depending on the God themselves.
I never liked those stories. It seems unfair, to me, that these immortals can walk with mortals as they please, then disappear off back home and leave the poor mortals behind to wonder where they went. Of course, if the mortals were lucky, they would forget. Dad insists that the worst-off ones were the ones who were killed as a result of knowing an immortal. Zeus’ lovers, or poor unfortunates like Orpheus and Eurydice.
I don’t think so. I think the true unfortunates are those doomed to survive and remember.
no subject
http://poeticmaiden.livejournal.com/17512.html#cutid1
Warning for language
It was not quite the right shade. She tapped the tip of the brush against her chin, unconscious of the color that dripped down to her neck as she swayed her hips and stared first at the canvas, then at the pallet. A little bit of blue, to tone it down.
Dyeing her hair had been easier. The color came in the bottle just the way she wanted it. Matching it in paint was another story. She didn't really have Grandma Rose's color sense. All she knew was that she liked bright.
"Graaaandma," she sang, clashing with the song in the air. "Grandma Roooosie. Help me!"
"Hold your horses, dear," the voice came from the kitchen. "I'll be out in a jiffy."
Stella looked sideways at the canvas, and dabbed a bit of blue into the mix. Too much. It started going towards purple.
"I hear your friend Luke is getting into art now," her grandmother commented, coming out of the kitchen.
"Yeah," Stella said absently, "but he won't show me any of his work, since that piece he entered in the contest."
"He should show you," Rose said sternly. "You're the best critic he can get, as long as you're careful not to automatically love anything he puts on canvas."
Stella rolled her eyes. "No danger of that. I never do it with his songs, so why should I start with his painting?"
"Just make sure you don't let your approval go to his head." Rose put a hand on her shoulder. "Then, before you know it, he'll be in it as his career and then who knows what'll happen?"
"He'll become a world famous artist, just like my Grandma, and everyone will love him," Stella said with a laugh, dancing away. Rose snorted and muttered something under her breath about "fame" and a "silly child."
She stared critically at the streak of pink on the canvas again.
"Alright, so what's the big emergency you called me out here for?" Rose said behind her.
Stella turned and smiled as her grandmother adopted the same pose she had held a moment before.
"Well, I can certainly see the resemblance."
"It's not the right shade," Stella whined. "I don't know colors for shit."
"Language, honey."
"Yeah, yeah." Grandma Rose was the only one who ever commented on her language. Well, now Connor did, and not just in class. It was a little annoying, considering her mother didn't give a, well, shit about what came out of her mouth. So what right did he have to care?
"You need to lighten it up a bit," Rose said. She looked over Stella's shoulder at the pallet. "And that's too much blue."
no subject
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