On Writing is written and read aloud by Stephen King. He fascinates me and I don’t want the audiobook to end. No re-read/re-listen will have the same effect. Not even close. What he throws at me has one chance to stick.
King recalls his storyteller roots from A to Z without putting me to sleep. You’ve got to be good to do that because my mind wanders with the best of them. Bad sometimes.
Thanks to King, I now see the adverbs in storytelling. They are everywhere. He challenges me to be judicious with adverbs, eliminating them at best. King admits even he can’t kill all of them.
The concept is firmly planted. I heartily accept this challenge. It will be hard to describe my way around those little these sweeties. Writing just got a little more complicated.
Oh, and King writes for the sake of writing. Aaahhh, just as I’d suspected. Money and fame be damned, you couldn’t stop King from writing if you tried. He writes because he must. Period. Exactly what I want from a writer! He is no lazy writer and puts in the time. Lesson given. Lesson received.
Thank you, Stephen King.
Press Photo Credit: Shane Leonard.
Daily Prompt: Complication
I want more than a LIKE button and its more exuberant neighbors LOVE, ANGRY, SAD.
I’m choking over here.
LIKE that house fire?
LIKE that report on poverty figures?
Hey, can I get a simple checkmark?
Check mark says, “Hey, there. I saw your post. I read you. We’re good here.”
LIKE would be a real choice then.
“Yeah.” “Way to go.” “Thumbs up!”
LIKE would mean something.
Acknowledgement wouldn’t necessitate alignment.
The slight difference would sit well with me.
I would LIKE it.
Wall and floor consumed in madness.
Window breaks daylight over steep heaps of God knows what.
Child has just enough room to breathe.
Breathe child, for you can do little else.
A knock on the door strikes terror.
Climb and see.
Potluck ladies balance casserole dishes.
They angle for a peek inside.
Door slightly ajar, child replies.
No, we are not moving.
No, you cannot come in.
Child knows hospitality does not live there.
There is barely enough room for child.
What could potluck ladies bring to the mix, hmmm?
It takes practice to wear the blanket of shame.
It is heavy.
Emails. Messy mental mudpies. Virtual dust bunnies.
Inbox fresh and clean. What a feeling!
Do they really matter much?
Most days, no. That’s why they grow so.
Better that the emails go.
Out out, damned spots!
via DP: Messy
Yakima, Washington sits just outside the Yakama (Native American) Reservation. I grew up in Yakima.
I began smoking cigarettes in Yakima. One of the great buys could be had just a couple of miles from my home on Ahtanum Road, conveniently on my way to work at Miner’s Drive In.
The Smoke Shack was a little bigger than today’s coffee huts, and every bit as convenient. Drive up. Order your smokes. Pick up a lighter. Drive away.
The price? Well, back then I think I paid about 35¢ to 50¢ a pack. A $5.00 carton. Eeegads! Can you imagine???
As a child I marveled on day excursions to the Yakima Valley. Wapato. Toppenish. Sunnyside. There were Pow-Wows where the tribe would dress, sing, share. Jewelry and beadwork drew my eye, but the presence of soft leather and woven baskets were my favorite. Conjuring the drums, soft dance, beautiful skin and facial features so different from my own brings me to childhood. I can still taste the fried bread slathered with butter and fruit jam.
I no longer buy cigarettes or eat fried bread slathered with butter and jam. The Yakamas? Well, they are firmly rooted in my heart.
Daily Prompt: Reservation
Photo Ahtanum Ridge from 5414 by Pat Strosahl