Thursday, 8 April 2010
Friday, 14 December 2007
Monday, 16 April 2007
Writing exercise
Lisa Yee, an American YA author, is running a writing competition where you are required to tell a story in 25 words or numbers or fewer. Give your story a beginning, middle and an end, she says. Also add pathos, drama and/or humor and get extra points.
I think it’s a good exercise help writers write as tightly as possible, especially children’s writers and poets. So I tried it out. Here’s my entry:
Bam! Mommy 4ls. face w@. W8. W8. 911?
Wanna try it?
Career advice I wish someone had given me when I began my career
I wish someone suggested when I first launched my writing career that I start in the newsroom. I’ve found journalism to be boot camp for any kind of writer, even if they plan to write short stories and novels in the long-term.
Since I began working as a journalist, I’ve gotten into the habit of delivering publishable material everyday, rain or shine. No one cares whether I’m inspired, tired or suffering from writer’s block. And even if my first draft is a stinking bundle of tripe, I have to rewrite, edit and polish until it’s publishable.
EVERYDAY!
So I’ve gained a lot of discipline about the writing process, and gain confidence as you learn to deliver under extreme pressure.
I think the training also gives a writer a half-way decent chance of building believable characters, because you have learnt how to sort out credible stories from PR fluff and outright lies.
You’ll know if there’s something dodgy about the character. If this character you created gave you a lead for a story, would you believe him/her? Would you follow it up? Would your publication agree to publish it, thus putting its rep on the line as the purveyor of truth?
A journalist also meets a lot of interesting people (future character studies), goes interesting places (future settings) while also building a readership.
By the time your books comes out, there are readers who’ve heard of you and take you seriously, and your writing career is just seen as branching into something else, not starting from scratch.
I think it’s a good exercise help writers write as tightly as possible, especially children’s writers and poets. So I tried it out. Here’s my entry:
Bam! Mommy 4ls. face w@. W8. W8. 911?
Wanna try it?
Career advice I wish someone had given me when I began my career
I wish someone suggested when I first launched my writing career that I start in the newsroom. I’ve found journalism to be boot camp for any kind of writer, even if they plan to write short stories and novels in the long-term.
Since I began working as a journalist, I’ve gotten into the habit of delivering publishable material everyday, rain or shine. No one cares whether I’m inspired, tired or suffering from writer’s block. And even if my first draft is a stinking bundle of tripe, I have to rewrite, edit and polish until it’s publishable.
EVERYDAY!
So I’ve gained a lot of discipline about the writing process, and gain confidence as you learn to deliver under extreme pressure.
I think the training also gives a writer a half-way decent chance of building believable characters, because you have learnt how to sort out credible stories from PR fluff and outright lies.
You’ll know if there’s something dodgy about the character. If this character you created gave you a lead for a story, would you believe him/her? Would you follow it up? Would your publication agree to publish it, thus putting its rep on the line as the purveyor of truth?
A journalist also meets a lot of interesting people (future character studies), goes interesting places (future settings) while also building a readership.
By the time your books comes out, there are readers who’ve heard of you and take you seriously, and your writing career is just seen as branching into something else, not starting from scratch.
Friday, 13 April 2007
Snapshots of my Soul
Snapshots Of My Soul
The shadow of God's hand
Rests upon mountains of blue,
As angels guard this land
On slopes pastoral and true -
This is a snapshot in my soul.
A regatta of clouds
Sail across the azure sky,
Inspired by the crowds
That wish they too could fly
To an image in my mind.
A sea breeze whispering
Sweet nothings in my ear;
Rising waves come crashing
On rugged rocks so near
It brings music to my heart.
A walk amongst the penguins;
Tiger Eyes slip out my palm;
Dawn begins after midnight swims
In oceans peaceful and calm -
All pictures for me to keep.
And now, I must get back
To a life of routine;
And if again I lose track
Of my purpose and dream
I'll remember the snaps.
Snapshots of; a seashell,
Of dancing, singing Cape Coons;
Of cliffs jutting out to quell
Rampant waves and baboons -
All of them - safe, tucked away.
When Life rears an ugly head
I will not falter, nor fall;
For in my mind I will spread
A growing album of all
The snapshots of my soul.
© 2002 Debbie Joubert
***note: this was written at the beginning of 2002, after a trip to (guess) Cape Town. Although I wasn't born in CT, I regard it as home. We drove down in Dec. 2001 after an extremely bad year; I had last been in Western Province in the mid eighties and this was my first trip back. Going back was pure therapy. This is one of my few "lighter" poems.
Feedback and critique will be welcome. Thank you.
The shadow of God's hand
Rests upon mountains of blue,
As angels guard this land
On slopes pastoral and true -
This is a snapshot in my soul.
A regatta of clouds
Sail across the azure sky,
Inspired by the crowds
That wish they too could fly
To an image in my mind.
A sea breeze whispering
Sweet nothings in my ear;
Rising waves come crashing
On rugged rocks so near
It brings music to my heart.
A walk amongst the penguins;
Tiger Eyes slip out my palm;
Dawn begins after midnight swims
In oceans peaceful and calm -
All pictures for me to keep.
And now, I must get back
To a life of routine;
And if again I lose track
Of my purpose and dream
I'll remember the snaps.
Snapshots of; a seashell,
Of dancing, singing Cape Coons;
Of cliffs jutting out to quell
Rampant waves and baboons -
All of them - safe, tucked away.
When Life rears an ugly head
I will not falter, nor fall;
For in my mind I will spread
A growing album of all
The snapshots of my soul.
© 2002 Debbie Joubert
***note: this was written at the beginning of 2002, after a trip to (guess) Cape Town. Although I wasn't born in CT, I regard it as home. We drove down in Dec. 2001 after an extremely bad year; I had last been in Western Province in the mid eighties and this was my first trip back. Going back was pure therapy. This is one of my few "lighter" poems.
Feedback and critique will be welcome. Thank you.
TWO KINDS
[There's a line that goes, "Two kinds of trouble in this world Living... dying". (Lindsey Buckingham)]
our destiny
we are born, we die
our choice
to laugh or cry
he conforms
to please a crowd
she rebels
to free her spirit
some rot
sink into the mire
others live
and embrace passion
they lose
a sense of self
we win
freedom of spirit
you hate
a caged soul
i love
and fulfil a promise
* * * * * *
Copyright © March 2002 FIONA KRISCH.
our destiny
we are born, we die
our choice
to laugh or cry
he conforms
to please a crowd
she rebels
to free her spirit
some rot
sink into the mire
others live
and embrace passion
they lose
a sense of self
we win
freedom of spirit
you hate
a caged soul
i love
and fulfil a promise
* * * * * *
Copyright © March 2002 FIONA KRISCH.
Thursday, 12 April 2007
THE GHOST BEHIND
And so he follows
But sometimes he leads in a rage
Other times
He's a story for another page
There are days
When he's right there with me
And nights
When I know he will leave me
He's two people
It seems, but actually one man
And whose fault?
Who knows? But I do what I can
And so I see
That his manner is crippled
He drowns
In a glass, the dark surface rippled
Copyright Fiona Krisch May 2002.
But sometimes he leads in a rage
Other times
He's a story for another page
There are days
When he's right there with me
And nights
When I know he will leave me
He's two people
It seems, but actually one man
And whose fault?
Who knows? But I do what I can
And so I see
That his manner is crippled
He drowns
In a glass, the dark surface rippled
Copyright Fiona Krisch May 2002.
Wednesday, 4 April 2007
Flying
Let's go flying, you say
As the words fly
From fingers to keyboard to screen
Then sub-editor says fix this, rewrite that
And down you go
Into the reality of what is
Your story.
You cut and paste
Tighten and polish
Until the words flow smoothly
And once again you fly
The story ready for publication
Proud of a job well-done
“Dear writer, I don’t agree with you
On point A, B and C.”
I can live with that, you say.
Dear writer, I think you suck
And your words should never
Have made it to print.
Can’t please everyone, you say
But deep down you wish
You could.
Dear writer, I loved your article
published on Magazine X
I’d like to reprint it on Magazine Y
Would you consider writing a column for us too?
Once again you have wings
Let’s go flying.
Footnote: The poem was inspired by dark but vague criticism from a reader of my work. I wrote a story that my editors told me was very good. We worked hard on it to polish it, and it made lead for the publication.
Then one reader commented by saying that he did not go beyond the first sentence. ( He did not say why).
It make me feel crappy, especially as I started out feeling particularly proud of the story. I started wondering if I could have gotten the facts wrong, if he disagreed with the viewpoint provided by my sources, or whatever. Anyway, that sinking feeling that came from the criticism inspired me to write the poem.
As the words fly
From fingers to keyboard to screen
Then sub-editor says fix this, rewrite that
And down you go
Into the reality of what is
Your story.
You cut and paste
Tighten and polish
Until the words flow smoothly
And once again you fly
The story ready for publication
Proud of a job well-done
“Dear writer, I don’t agree with you
On point A, B and C.”
I can live with that, you say.
Dear writer, I think you suck
And your words should never
Have made it to print.
Can’t please everyone, you say
But deep down you wish
You could.
Dear writer, I loved your article
published on Magazine X
I’d like to reprint it on Magazine Y
Would you consider writing a column for us too?
Once again you have wings
Let’s go flying.
Footnote: The poem was inspired by dark but vague criticism from a reader of my work. I wrote a story that my editors told me was very good. We worked hard on it to polish it, and it made lead for the publication.
Then one reader commented by saying that he did not go beyond the first sentence. ( He did not say why).
It make me feel crappy, especially as I started out feeling particularly proud of the story. I started wondering if I could have gotten the facts wrong, if he disagreed with the viewpoint provided by my sources, or whatever. Anyway, that sinking feeling that came from the criticism inspired me to write the poem.
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