An Uncompromising Editor

There were some lines I laughed my butt off. My poor plot has been in the bathroom. Lol

Elan Mudrow

Mr. Fry during a writers' workshop. Mr. Fry during a writers’ workshop.

I feel a slight brush

Of fur and tail

upon my calves

Then, a head bunt.

Mr. Fry is concerned

About my Word document

My Scrivener, my Office Suite

PDFs and printables

Sharing and synced

Blogged, published, backed up………

Apparently,

My prose is threatening to verse

My verse is proposing to prose

My characters are in a state of mutiny,

My alliteration is acting like an assonance

My plot took a poop

“My dialogue sounds suspiciously like

Someone I know”, the narrator said

My enjambments are threatening to reach the right side of the page and beyond

My cliffhanger fell to its death

My denouement denounced all involvement

I’m suffering from hyperbole!!!! It’s no exaggeration!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Mr. Fry, who knows

When to place something

In the litter box

Offers his help……

Searches at my feet

Looking for stray words

I may have disregarded, for…………

He…

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Generation Author Snowflake & The High Cost of Instant

Kristen Lamb's Blog

Image via Flickr Creative Commons, courtesy of David Rogers Image via Flickr Creative Commons, courtesy of David Rogers

Technology always changes our reality and there are inevitable growing pains that go part and parcel with any innovation. Every meaningful advance always has social consequences.

Always.

From the Gutenberg Press to the Model-T to electric lighting humans have had to adjust, shift and learn to balance great benefits with never before encountered consequences.

With the digital age? Here we go again.

As I’ve mentioned before, as early as 2004 when I was puttering around a site called Gather, I saw what social media was going to evolve into, that we were looking at likely the largest shift in communication since the Gutenberg Press. I knew even then that this was likely going to be the end of publishing as we had known it for well over a hundred years.

But I would be lying if I said I didn’t have…

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Homeless in the Snow

The snow glittered around us. All imperfections hidden under a fresh layer of snow. The driver used her brush to tap on the windshield wipers. The one on the passenger side flipped off.

In my writers group there is a ten year difference between all the members. So the driver, the oldest, got back in the car while the two youngest struggled to get the wiper back on. The poor light and lack of practice and the cold seeping into my fingers did not help.

A man passing by asked if we needed help.

I said sure and offered to hold his bag. He handed me a heavy bag with two handles above a bulging opening.

I used my phone to shine light on what he was doing. That’s when I noticed the skin of his fingers showing through the holes in his gloves. He was young maybe mid-twenties. Sandy brown hair poked out from under dark cap. For the first time I noticed his jacket was missing a button and did not seem warm.

I called time. That wiper was not going to go on in these circumstances. We offered him a ride and for a moment I thought he would take it, but his face closed and he said no.

We thanked him and he walked away.

The driver said we should have given him some money. I have to admit to being torn by that. He was young. Why was he homeless? Was it drugs? If we gave him money would it help him or not help him. But it was Minnesota in the winter. The next day the high was supposed to be -16.

So we got cash and I hopped out and followed his foot steps. I turned left and the foot prints just ended. I had all sort of crazy thoughts. About what his disappearing might mean. Like it was some sort of test and I had failed. Hell, I even had the idea of Angels pop in my head. (writer brain strikes at the craziest times)

They pulled forward in the car.

“Get in. He went right.”

And sure enough across the red light we could see a figure. He turned again before the light changed. We turned where we thought he had, but the trail ended again. There were a couple people out, but they were not this young man.

He had disappeared again.

Not quite ready to give up, the driver circled the block. The next pass we spotted him by the back door of a shop by a dumpster.

He had a ratty cigarette in his mouth. I approached him and handed him the money. “For trying to help.”

“For real?” He seemed genuinely shocked.

“Yeah” At that moment I wished I had more. Or that I could offer him a place to stay.

Then he gave me a hug.

Back in the car, the driver felt like it was meant to happen. I think she might have gotten teary even. My other friend stayed silent on the matter.

I don’t know how I feel about it. Should we have offered him more? Did that money help him? Or was it used to get high?

I hope that he was, at the very least, able to stay warm. I hoped he was able to find a home.

One of THOSE days

Friday I had one of those days.

One of those days where you woke to the clank of the garbage truck up the block. The sinking feeling when you realize the garbage was not out. If your cans were not at the bottom of the drive, the garbage truck would drive right by. I raced out in this brisk 20 degree morning clutching my jacket with my bed head hair, hello kitty fuzzy pants, and hubby’s too big boots. I got the first can down just as the garbageman pulls up.

He didn’t quite smile at my get-up.

The whole day was like that.

One of those days where the easy way was just not happening. You get ‘it’ done but it takes ten more steps than it ought. And it only gets done because you didn’t care what people thought.

What about you? Ever have one of those days? What did you do?