Monday’s Theme Music

Always enjoyed this song, “Yellow Ledbetter” by Pearl Jam (1992). I often played it in my car during my ’90s Bay Area commutes, cranking it up and singing along even though I had no idea what Eddie Vedder was singing. I’d just make up my own lyrics for the most part because I enjoyed his range’s slide from sounding wistful, drifting toward anger, and almost sighing with resignation. Later, the net provided me with the lyrics but I keep singing free form whenever I hear this song, just going with the flow, you know.

The guitar playing on it, though, is what moved me most about this song. Never played the air guitar to it during my commutes because I imagined what looks I’d get from my fellow drivers.

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Floofvenir

Floofvenir (floofinition) – 1. A momento or keepsake to remember a pet. 2. An article, such as a sock, pillow, stuffed animal, or shirt, that a pet keeps and sleeps with for comfort.

In use: “In a private drawer, he kept floofvenirs of the four dogs and three cats he’d owned — used collars with a locket with their name and a favorite picture. It was private, meant only for him.”

Floofears

Floofears (floofinition) – A unique hearing capability among pets that allow them to hear cans and refrigerator doors opening, rattling kibble, and package rustling, often from amazingly far distances and frequently through walls and doors.

In use: “Opening a can of food for one cat pestering him, a scratching at the door pulled his attention. Staring in through the window beside the front door, the cat meowed at him. Shaking his head, he went to the door to open it and let the cat in to be fed, even as he marveled at their floofears.”

Take That, World

A friend’s daughter recently published a short story. I ended up with it in hand to read. It wasn’t her first. She’s been published about a dozen times.

Oh, how the urge to edit pulsed through me as I read it. My inner writer was shaking his head. The story was wooden, with passive verbs, a weak concept, and slow pacing. There was much telling, then showing what’d been told, and then sometimes told again.

I was dismayed and baffled. This was my take, but this was a recently published short story. This must be what editors like.

Novels that were recently published that I’d read were recalled. With many designated as bestsellers, I often thought the writing was clumsy, particularly in the early chapters, but they knew how to tell a story, and that came through in the end. Of course, there were a few where the writing was sublime. Those tend to be the award winners.

Yes, I know, every reader brings their a unique set of expectations, and finds their own story from what the writer offered. My take will be different from what others find and enjoy. Yet, something like the things I found that I wanted to edit seem like the basics of strong writing.

I concluded, I’m out of step with what’s wanted and desired in the writing and publishing world — and the reading world — and probably destined to be so forever. Accepting that, I’ll resign myself, again, to writing for myself and trying to improve my writing.

Take that, world.

Time to write like crazy, at least one more time.

Sunday’s Theme Music

Going through routines, planning my day, and checking the news, Nine Inch Nail’s song, “Everyday Is Exactly the Same” (2006) began streaming. Those initial words, you know?

I believe I can see the future
Cause I repeat the same routine
I think I used to have a purpose
But then again
That might have been a dream
I think I used to have a voice
Now I never make a sound

h/t to AZLyrics.com

I think, OMG, no, that’s too depressing. Searching for an alternative, my stream offered “Clocks” by Coldplay. I thought, No, no, that’s no better, dude. The stream offered “Stuck in the Middle with You” by Stealer Wheels. I think the stream thought itself funny. 

Bah.

 

As A Muse Will

I’d come in, fired up the ‘putin’ machine (no, not the one that make everything that comes out look or sound like Putin), had my coffee, and settled in to write. Problem was that I didn’t know what to write.

In the course of revising April Showers 1921, I added another layer. It’s worked well. I was ready to end that layer. I didn’t know how. I’d been thinking about it but nothing came to me.

And then, hands on keyboard, the muse arrived and conducted, as a muse will. A scene flashed on my mind’s edge. Words arrived. I typed. The scene took off, becoming multiple scenes and dialogue, becoming a chapter. Walking away from it much satisfied with the results, I continued thinking about it as I conducted my post-writing walking review, and the next pieces came to me. Arriving yesterday and setting up, I took up with that, and had more terrific results. Then, today — yep, again, for a hat trick.

It was an intense and productive three days. I feel like I’m just coming back up for air.

I know it’s not a muse, but deep recesses in my mind shooting neurons at mental walls until something sticks and some sort of Jackson Pollack-like story ideas gel. It’s easier, simpler, and more elegant to just attribute it to the muse, though.

Besides, you never know. If it is a muse, sure as hell don’t want pull a Joey Tribbiani* and upset them.

Done writing like crazy for at least one more day. Cheers

* If you need the explanation…

Joey Tribbiani was a Friends character played by actor Matt LeBlanc. (Friends was a U.S. television sitcom on NBC last century.) Joey was an actor who achieved success on a daytime television soap opera. During an interview, Joey claimed that he wrote most of his own lines. The writer wasn’t happy and promptly killed the character.

The end.

 

Another Arthur Said

(This post was temporarily interrupted by WordPress technical issues. WordPress told me that the image was been uploaded and set as the Featured Image, but my eyes tell me otherwise. Then, as I wrote this comment, the image appeared.

(Please ignore this interruption. Thank you.)

Saturday’s Theme Music

Today’s song came by way of a cat. He went out through the pet door from the MBR, crossed the patio, came in through the living room side door, and then walked around behind me, greeting me as I came down the hall from the MBR.

Whipping my head back, I asked, “How did you get here so fast?”

He flicked his tail once and sat.

I nodded. “Everything you do is magic.” I knew, of course, that it wasn’t magic, but quantum walking. Cats are adept at walking through universes from one to another, turning up at odd times and places.

That simple phrase, though, invited the stream to begin “Every Little Thing She Does Is Magic” (The Police, 1981).

I need to watch what I say.

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