Tuesday, September 28, 2004
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Monday, September 20, 2004
I got lost today. And a nice person came by and brought me to my house. That was nice. I didn't think I was lost. I thought I was waiting for a ride that didn't come. I don't like this feeling. I will be glad to drive again. I didn't get too upset. I mean what can you do? Did you see Stephen King on the today show? He's brave, you know, to write all that scary stuff. I wrote a Halloween story tonight. Keep tuned -- I will finish SUDDEN DEATH in a day or two. Promise. I am now crossing my heart.
Sunday, September 19, 2004
one of my very favorite editors, Tanya Vece, brilliant and current, is at the Emmys tonight. From her I've gotten so much and because of Cleveland Gibson, I've got my work offered to her. I'll wave at her tonight if I see her. The Horse Chronicles has my story, Cleanup Jobs. and a story with ME in it by Cleveland Gibson called Little Dong
Enjoy.
Friday, September 17, 2004
writer at large BLOG Tired of sitting around on my rearend. Been walking some and a bit of other stuff, like cutting spent flower heads. Had a visitor today. A fan, I guess. I really do not know him; just came by. He asked me what exactly what my surgery WAS and I was so surprised that I mumbled it out. I think sometimes I am too private to be a writer. But hell here I am blogging. This is an older person and I was respectful but also kind of taken back at learning yet again how close strangers feel to me when they've read my work. I gave him one of my books after autographing it. I'm putting my Erle & Stumpy stories into an anthology. I do believe that writers and readers are two parts of a single team and that the TEAM is the work, whether it is story, novel, essay or article. New story up on my website, Marriage Insurance.
Monday, September 13, 2004
Next installment of Sudden Death, as I promised; I worked ON THAT STORY until 2:30am last night.
Meet Singles
Poll;What do you think of ebook installments sent to your phones or other handheld devices? Would you subscribe?
SUDDEN DEATH (to read from the beginnig you'll have to go back to previous posts.
Part 6
“Hey, you scum, you damn near got my baby killed,” Heap grabbed Chance by the sides of his leather jacket and shook him viciously. The younger, thinner man didn’t have the weight that Heap had. Chance tried to pull away. Heap lost his balance and they both slammed into the ground.
“Hot Damn, I love this. Just like the Wresting shows, “said Marion, grunting as he pulled Chance off of Heap.” You all ought to sign up for a tag-team show.”
“Shut the hell up, you don’t know what I’ve . . . “mumbled Heap as he stood up. “I’m going in to check on Zoë. Don’t stick around here, dumb ass. He poked Chance with his fat index finger.” He didn’t even glance at Marion as he went on up to the hospital.
“You’re on his list,” Marion asked Chance as they walked toward his car. “What’s up with that?”
Chance stopped. He looked at Marion. His blue eyes were red-rimmed and brimming with tears.
“So -- well, hell’s bells, tell me,” Marion could see now that there was a history here that he hadn’t known about when he took the case.
To be continued
Meet Singles
Poll;What do you think of ebook installments sent to your phones or other handheld devices? Would you subscribe?
SUDDEN DEATH (to read from the beginnig you'll have to go back to previous posts.
Part 6
“Hey, you scum, you damn near got my baby killed,” Heap grabbed Chance by the sides of his leather jacket and shook him viciously. The younger, thinner man didn’t have the weight that Heap had. Chance tried to pull away. Heap lost his balance and they both slammed into the ground.
“Hot Damn, I love this. Just like the Wresting shows, “said Marion, grunting as he pulled Chance off of Heap.” You all ought to sign up for a tag-team show.”
“Shut the hell up, you don’t know what I’ve . . . “mumbled Heap as he stood up. “I’m going in to check on Zoë. Don’t stick around here, dumb ass. He poked Chance with his fat index finger.” He didn’t even glance at Marion as he went on up to the hospital.
“You’re on his list,” Marion asked Chance as they walked toward his car. “What’s up with that?”
Chance stopped. He looked at Marion. His blue eyes were red-rimmed and brimming with tears.
“So -- well, hell’s bells, tell me,” Marion could see now that there was a history here that he hadn’t known about when he took the case.
To be continued
Saturday, September 11, 2004
The Sky, The Earth
by
RD Larson
Terror from terrorists, a ball of fire bursts out,
Dying, falling souls pitch into the Hereafter,
Helpless, others watch, fit with numb and dazed
Shrouds of sorrow,
The crushing burning death from above kills.
When one of us, of ours, dies by vent of hate,
All of us seem to die ln a concert of emotions,
A symphony of pain.
Yet still, as the stars on a night sky,
Fly over a field of blood and purity,
Stripes of glory, stars of hope,
And human hearts prevail,
by
RD Larson
Terror from terrorists, a ball of fire bursts out,
Dying, falling souls pitch into the Hereafter,
Helpless, others watch, fit with numb and dazed
Shrouds of sorrow,
The crushing burning death from above kills.
When one of us, of ours, dies by vent of hate,
All of us seem to die ln a concert of emotions,
A symphony of pain.
Yet still, as the stars on a night sky,
Fly over a field of blood and purity,
Stripes of glory, stars of hope,
And human hearts prevail,
Thursday, September 9, 2004
just found out I'll have to take it easy a bit longer. I am very annoyed. I feel better though. Not much into writing. Here's a little something:
by
RD Larson
I follow her. I am talking; she doesn't listen.
She tells me she is busy; I tell her I have been hurt.
She looks,
But I can see in her eyes, that
Such little blood is unimportant,
I do know that.
I ask her if I can help; she shakes her head.
"No, Baby, it is better if I do this myself."
I sit in a chair, turning face cards down;
she is absent, if
Present.
I watch her from beneath my eyelashes;
she is more
Beautiful
Than any movie star because she is so alive.
Turning here, bending and stretching, she is
Graceful and quick,
Not a wasted movement.
I watch her began to knead the bread.
It speaks of creation to me.
I am in awe as the dough becomes smoother,
firmer.
And, somehow, softer.
I turn over a Jack of Hearts
As he walks through the door.
He is taller than I; older and
More loved in everyway.
No wonder. He is perfection,
Born of her dream and in her image.
I watch in absolute silence
As, bread forgotten, she gathers him
Into her mother-warmth.
The bread loses its shape;
It falls over on its own self.
I see it is hardly bread-to-be
Now, that Mother has her son.
The Jack of Hearts has a drop
Of my blood curling on it.
I shrink into my inner soul;
The terror always there,
Remains forever.
Monday, September 6, 2004
Sharing the Selfish Self
By
RD Larson
People read for different reasons than they did in past years. They would sit around in the evening and read. Or they’d read before bed, not watching the last late night gasp of world news. Or they’d read during lazy Sunday afternoons. They read because it was the MOST entertaining thing to do. Today’s readers now go to the gym, rent DVDs or go online. More work and more fun makes readers feel pressed for time. Yet writers and readers are here together. Still.
Writers today write for different reasons also. It’s less of “I’m written a great story” but more like “I write because I want you to know these people and what they feel” You can‘t do it in a movie or a play. It‘s too personal. It‘s between the writer and the reader when a reader picks up and buys a book from a novelist It‘s a contract hat exists between the two of them, just them, not the other 5000 readers that may have already read it.
As the population enlarges and people are more assaulted by the instant and often demeaning venue of “a picture is worth a thousand words” of advertising and quick fulfillment the reader will want more intimacy with his entertainment. The pleasure of reading will rise again as an expression of thought and companionship. In no other media there are not such a team, a one on one pair, as the reader and the writer. Even with the popularity of Book Clubs and reading groups, it still comes down to the magic that the writer creates for the reader. And the single reader accepts. With a melding of minds and the essence of private communication without the commercials and without the projection from many minds into the reader/viewer, the true self can emerge and contribute to the story in its own unique way.
Sometimes we writers talk about craft and development. But there’s so much more. And our beloved readers know about it. They know there are secret conjuring and undisclosed potions that feed our imagination; readers know the tangles that assault our minds when our characters come alive on the page for first the writer and then the reader. How many times have you read words that said exactly how you felt? Or how you would have faced the situation? Who knows what a person will do when that enigmatic time of choice arrives? That moment that the writer speaks and the reader hears is the unexplained, the mysterious core of our contract.
What am I working on? That is a question that other writers ask and it is the same question that readers ask. It’s a fair question. The reader wants to know if I can do that magic again, make a character real, trust the reader with my life. For writing is my life. What ever Work in Progress is current, that is my life, my reason and my unreason, my cultural translation of my time in life in this time of the ages. It is an admission of the way people are so vulnerable to life. My job is to translate that to understanding to the reader. The readers job is to see with his own vision my story, my sharing of my vulnerable, and, yes, open and selfish self.
What else is left but our care for one another? A writer and a reader care about each other when they share the selfish words of the page. Then it’s no longer selfish, it’s sharing.
By
RD Larson
People read for different reasons than they did in past years. They would sit around in the evening and read. Or they’d read before bed, not watching the last late night gasp of world news. Or they’d read during lazy Sunday afternoons. They read because it was the MOST entertaining thing to do. Today’s readers now go to the gym, rent DVDs or go online. More work and more fun makes readers feel pressed for time. Yet writers and readers are here together. Still.
Writers today write for different reasons also. It’s less of “I’m written a great story” but more like “I write because I want you to know these people and what they feel” You can‘t do it in a movie or a play. It‘s too personal. It‘s between the writer and the reader when a reader picks up and buys a book from a novelist It‘s a contract hat exists between the two of them, just them, not the other 5000 readers that may have already read it.
As the population enlarges and people are more assaulted by the instant and often demeaning venue of “a picture is worth a thousand words” of advertising and quick fulfillment the reader will want more intimacy with his entertainment. The pleasure of reading will rise again as an expression of thought and companionship. In no other media there are not such a team, a one on one pair, as the reader and the writer. Even with the popularity of Book Clubs and reading groups, it still comes down to the magic that the writer creates for the reader. And the single reader accepts. With a melding of minds and the essence of private communication without the commercials and without the projection from many minds into the reader/viewer, the true self can emerge and contribute to the story in its own unique way.
Sometimes we writers talk about craft and development. But there’s so much more. And our beloved readers know about it. They know there are secret conjuring and undisclosed potions that feed our imagination; readers know the tangles that assault our minds when our characters come alive on the page for first the writer and then the reader. How many times have you read words that said exactly how you felt? Or how you would have faced the situation? Who knows what a person will do when that enigmatic time of choice arrives? That moment that the writer speaks and the reader hears is the unexplained, the mysterious core of our contract.
What am I working on? That is a question that other writers ask and it is the same question that readers ask. It’s a fair question. The reader wants to know if I can do that magic again, make a character real, trust the reader with my life. For writing is my life. What ever Work in Progress is current, that is my life, my reason and my unreason, my cultural translation of my time in life in this time of the ages. It is an admission of the way people are so vulnerable to life. My job is to translate that to understanding to the reader. The readers job is to see with his own vision my story, my sharing of my vulnerable, and, yes, open and selfish self.
What else is left but our care for one another? A writer and a reader care about each other when they share the selfish words of the page. Then it’s no longer selfish, it’s sharing.
