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 |    My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon. |
| September 7th Prompt: "Passion is an energy. Feel the power that comes from focusing on what excites you." Oprah Winfrey Write about something that fuels your heart at the moment. At the moment and in recent days family fueled my heart. It's been a whirlwind summer season of family get-togethers. My youngest postponed her wedding because of Covid. The wedding gown, the rings and the bridesmaid dresses have been shoved into closets waiting to awe us all for two years. That's a long time to anticipate a ceremony and that bride-wannabe has never been a patient person. To complicate, or rather stretch my eldest daughter's seamstress abilities, the bride designate decided to pursue fertility options. As she fretted she's not getting any younger. For this pregnancy she needed a bit of specialty assistance that required her participation back in the early summer. That offer had a time limit. One child already arrived on the scene because of that concern and she wanted another. Yes, she'd always dreamed of a house, a marriage and a child in that specific order, but, hey, life had other plans. Anywho, for the wedding that finally happened in late August she was pregnant and this meant extensive alterations to her gown. Eldest child worked her magic and her sister glowed in her new and improved regalia. Weddings especially the do-it-yourself variety are exhausting! Preparing and sending invitations is the least stressful activity. Sodding the couple's entire yard so they'd have lush, green grass to walk upon proved to be back-breaking labour. Rebuilding and extending their deck gobbled up several weekends. Creating a lakeside deck for the ceremony strained time and muscles. The day of the long sought union turned out to be a non-stop blur. Whew, I need to stop and breathe just recounting/reliving it. In the morning I cut out arrows from neon green bristol board to create directional arrows. The couple reside at the end of a long dirt road that extends off yet another long secondary road. I wanted to give attendees a fighting chance to find us. I wrote 'D & Y Wedding' on one arrow with a black Sharpie. Hubby, wishing to help, wrote on the rest. His version seemed a bit unclear because he'd used a '@' or a scribbled combination of an 'a' and a '&'. He attempted a fix and added 'and.' Our son laughed and noticed the arrows now read 'D and Y Wedding', or 'Dandy Wedding." We sure hoped it would be! We were blessed with a gorgeous, sunny day so at least the weather accommodated us. Of course, there were to be other snafus or glitches. A temporarty panic ensued when the wedding rings could not be found. The photographer had snapped pics and then placed them into an open bag in the bedroom. The child of the soon-to-be-married couple, my three-year old grandgiggle had her own ideas of what she should do. She seemed to love her 'princess' dress, but she wasn't keen, or inclined to'keep'it on. She seemed to resent a wee guest who dared to not only touch, but play with her toys. She did like that Mommy's attention leaned towards hair and make-up. For the bride's grand entrance the daughter clung to her and had to be bribed and held tight by her aunt, the maid-of-honour's hand. We all heard her displeasure. During the ceremony she insisted upon being held by her Mommy in her own 'princess' dress. Oh, and the lovely, lush grass proved to still be quite wet and squishy in the afternoon. Did I mention all the decorating? The day before the big event we drove forty-five minutes to beautify the chosen reception hall and then we returned to the house to decorate the lakeside deck. All of us repeated that trip the next day.Oh, and the morning of the wedding my eldest stopped her own primping for emergency tailoring of the best man's tuxedo which was a rental and still hung on him. Whew! I suppose childbirth isn't an easy 'thing', so why should that child's wedding ceremony be without a wee bit of effort? Two down and possibly one more to go? ( 694 words ) |
| September 5th Prompt: Is blogging a true writing/art form? Why do you blog? Red light flashing 'indignation.' I just might be sputtering nonsensical words. My hands are trembling and it's difficult to type. As if! As if! Yes, I repeated myself. Is blogging a true writing/art form? Who claims it isn't? Why is this a topic question? Of course and without a niggling doubt blogging is real, authentic writing. Although it seems inconceivable to me I suppose there are some, a minority some, who believe blogging to be unworthy. Here, I'll repeat myself. As if! As if! Like all forms of writing, blogging utilizes a sequence of words to convey a message, a point of view, an anecdote, a short story, a few lines of verse, and sometimes an argument. The words are not random. They are not thrown willy-nilly to collapse where they may. Blogging words are composed. They are corralled. They are herded. Why do I blog? Simple answer, because I can and I like it. I like challenging myself to address a random topic with what I hope others perceive as a creative flair. There is no right or wrong blog. Each one is personal. Each one is unique. Each one represents ideas, thoughts and perceptions. I believe blogging to be quick, impulsive, write-by-the-seat-of-your-pants writing here. Usually on this WDC site blog prompts are presented with a twenty-four hour deadline. Think of it as a dare, a challenge. What can you compose in a set time? What can you pull out of thin air? Is a story stuffed in the unvisited, oft ignored cellar of your brain? Does it crave a bit of light and recognition? Has a memory resurfaced to clamor for an official rendering? Commit me to paper. Share me. Sharing. I like that about blogging. My humble bit of writing is offered to other like-minded, creative sorts to accept or dismiss. Either one depends upon recognition. Comments are always welcome and encouraged. I enjoy reading blogs and I am continually amazed at the various viewpoints. We all play with words, but we manipulate them in our own voices.( 354 words ) |
| September 5th Prompt: Do writers have obligations towards their readers? If, so what can they be? If not, why not? Anything to tell about your readers? Am I responsible for my readers? That's to say do I fret about them? Should I worry about their comprehension skills? Are their responses and interpretations my doing? Am I attempting to teach my audience, or sway their opinions? I don't believe I've ever deliberately created something to push my agenda. I write and if I've evoked a smile or laughter when I'm presenting my idea of humour then I've succeeded. If that same presentation falls flat so be it. Words can only convey so much and I cannot beat the reader over the head with it. Not everyone appreciates funny. I believe I'm obligated to adhere to grammar guidelines. Sure, I may bend them. It's my perogative. Writing needs a foundation. I believe in the sanctity of correct spelling, but that differs from country to country. Words are important and in the English language their spellings may be similar, or sound alike, but a replaced letter often alters the entire meaning/intent/nuance of a piece. Bones and beds both 'creak' they do not 'creek.' Vehicles 'brake' but they may also 'break.' Many believe 'angels' reside in heaven, but do 'right angles' exist there as well? As a writer I attempt to create something that flows, makes sense, paints a picture, conveys a plot. I will admit I may not always succeed. Sometimes, my excuse is the word limit imposed on a contest entry. Occasionally I peter out, or exercise a self-imposed brevity. Of course, I may belabor my descriptions and flounder in too much spewing. All I can do is stumble along as I trip over my clumsy attempts to write. I should warn any brave enough to read my offerings. I am no expert. I am an amateur. Please make comments and yes, I am not immune, or indifferent to praise.( 328 words ) |
| The grinning birthday girl straightened her lopsided polka-dotted party hat and presented her cheek for a kiss. "I never turn down affection from a handsome man," she crooned. Gladys cackled as the young man blushed. She grabbed his hands hanging limply at his side and squeezed. "Oh, honey you should see the expression on your face! I don't bite." With one last pat, she freed the deer-in -the -headlight well wisher and waved him off. "I've still got it. I make men quake in their boots." Ensconced in her balloon-decorated easy chair Gladys greeted her'subjects' one by one. A giggle would escape every few minutes. Imagine people lined up to say hello to her. She never tired of hearing she looked good for her age. Flattery never lost its appeal. A girl could still appreciate that others took notice of her primping. Dress to impress had never failed her. "Girl you don't look a day over twenty-two. How do you do it?" "Gladys Dave is here. He's asking for you." One hand reached for her hair smoothing imaginary strays and the other rearranged the folds of her dress. A few of the balloons obscured her view of the crowded room and they were pushed aside. Somebody caressed her gnarled hand and Gladys looked up to see Dave smiling at her. Without prompting he bussed her on the cheek and whispered in her ear. "It's wonderful to see you here in your home. I can wait for as long as it takes before you show up at my place. You've got several more years in you, right?" Gladys beamed and nodded. That Dave always knew what to say. As he wandered away to speak with familiar faces, she blurted. "I've always liked Dave. It's a shame he's going to see me naked one day. I wouldn't wish that horror on anyone. I suppose I won't notice, or care. Oh, is it time for cake?" Many voices blended to sing 'Happy Birthday' to the eighty-eight year old birthday girl. Dave, the local undertaker, carried the glowing, smoking two-tiered cake to Gladys encouraging her to blow out the candles. ( 356 words ) |
| Do I admit to a 'hidden' character quirk? Would it be considered peculiar? Shall I confess all here in a WDC blog? Could that oddity be my penchant for answering a query with a question? Okay, enough of the stalling tactics. Okay, I admit I like to watch people. I don't consider myself a creepy stalker. No harm is intended. I've yet to disturb anyone, or cross the line into voyeurism. Nothing is criminal, but then again I haven't consulted a legal expert. I prefer the term keen observer for my proclivity. The beauty and simplicity of it is that it requires no special gear and can be executed anywhere. All I need is my eyesight and a comfortable spot to perch upon. I am never hidden, yet most of the time I blend into the background.Unobtrusive is my motto. Stare, watch,observe, but never ogle, or leer. Perhaps I should qualify my actions. Stare may be too strong a word and misconstrued. I glance. I notice. Maybe I study? I remember nothing creepy. The point is to see people in their natural habitats going about their business, not spook them into unpleasant retaliatory encounters. So many sites exist for my people-watching. In the hustle and bustle of an airport I sit with my head on a swivel only blinking when absolutely necessary. Airport denizens, crawlers, scrabblers fascinate me. All manner of nationalities and clothing parade past me. It seems almost exotic with the rainbow colours blurring and the different scents wafting through the air. I marvel at the heads regally supporting turbans and the figures swishing, gliding in flowing robes. I whince at the women teetering atop tap-tapping heels. I wonder about those rushing with a cell phone glued to their ears oblivious to their surroundings. I gape at a man sauntering in a torn, scruffy pair of jeans with his rear assets exposed to everyone. There's a thrum that never dims. Voices rise and fall. Snatches of conversation swirl and entangle. Footsteps pitter, patter, clomp, and stomp.Garbled intercom messages intrude with buzzing static. For real action in motion I often plunk my derriere on a beach. Not everyone passes their time broiling in the sun. It's entertaining to observe the grandmas' attempts to keep pace with their grandchildren.Without excusing their 'advanced' years, stubborn grammies gamely splash in the water, or thrash as needs must. They flail and teeter aboard paddle boards, or struggle valiantly to pull themselves into giant inflatables risking life and limb in the process. The many ways children choose to move their bodies amazes me. They skip. They hop. They shuffle. They stomp. They twirl. They tip-toe. Their boundless energy is effortless. On a sandy beach next to a sparkling lake kids radiate joy. They soak up the sun, roll in the dirt, and absorb water while screeching, whooping and shouting.It's a people-watcher's paradise. Quirk? Shmirk. I suppose I'm easily amused.( 485 words ) |
| I must admit I've never thought about, or approached writing as Elizabeth Gilbert does. I mean to say I 've never examined it, or attempted to explore why I write, or excused it, or explained the writing process. I just write. I don't believe I agonize over every word I choose. I commit something to paper. Choices swirl in my brain and most of them could be viable. Sure, words and phrasing may be altered at any time, but I do not sweat about it. If I worried and fretted what would actually be created? Ms. Gilbert speaks of fear and the creative process. The number one fear seems to be rejection. My attitude is take it, or leave it. If my writing doesn't appeal to someone, I will survive. I will not lose sleep, or waste away from a lack of attention, or acceptance. I found Ms. Gilbert's presentation thought-provoking. She suggests that non-creative persons consider artisans to be mentally unhinged. Those same people sit in judgement and believe artists should be suffering for their art. I agree with the speaker, this is an "odious, dangerous assumption." We as writers need to live and enjoy that living. Words should set us free not imprison us. This author mentions muses as assistants, drill sergeants ordering us about, teasing us with tantalizing story lines, scolding our indolence, praising our meager efforts. What does prod/encourage me to write? Is there a mirror me existing within my brain? Is that other me the creative one who wishes to be heard and hijacks my thinking, my reactions, my physical output? I do know something, someone visits me when I am attempting to turn off my brain for a night's sleep. In that nether world between unconciousness and awakefulness, I struggle to clear my mind. I am not distracted by other people and their conversations. I am not entertained by a television program, or a movie. Music is not forcing me to listen. I am alone and winding down. Perhaps that is when I am most receptive to suggestion, creative sparks. It's as if the ideas themselves think finally we have your undivided attention, so listen to this. You cannot ignore us now. You are a captive audience. Snippets of dialogue may dance through my mind. A story arc may introduce itself. Characters may stop and say hello. Of course, they know I will be forced to rise, turn on a blinding light, search for paper and pen, and proceed to document all that has delayed my slumber. Is that a muse? Is this simply my overworked brain delivering ideas which were put on the back burner during the day, but must now be delivered/acknowledged? Before you retire for the night these important matters must be brought to your attention. I respect Ms. Gilbert's advice. "Don't be afraid. Don't be daunted." Like the Nike ads, just do it. Writing is a process, an outlet. Try not to lose any sleep.(495 words) |
| Happy 22nd Birthday WDC September 1st Blog reply : Why is WDC still a good writing community? It's prospered for twenty-two years and is still standing. All, including me, are welcome. WDC has maintained an address that is accessible to all. The lights are always burning, the welcome mat rests by the front door, there are no locks to discourage entrance, and its always humming with activity. There are no time restrictions, day or night, stroll on in. I'm encouraged to wander in, take a seat and participate. Don't be shy. Introduce yourself. Try something. Wander amongst the many rooms. Relax and read. Feel free to comment and ask questions. Join in the discussions. Create and attempt to write. Share. Everyone and their creative process is acceptable. Community means inclusion, cooperation, acceptance, to me. We are all neighbours that support each other. When we write we seek validation. We also seek assistance/help. There will always be someone with the needed tools and expertise to lend a hand. Word by word, brick by brick, review by review we are building a writing community. Anyone can saunter by and take a peek. Sometimes, we falter at the foundation. Sometimes, we struggle with the shape, the size, the scope of our writing. There exist so many ways to decorate and add colour, flourishes. Our creations are stored and kept safe. If we alter the plans, the originals remain to be reworked, inspected, fortified. I like that WDC is a self-serve site.If I wish to explore solo so be it. If I decide to communicate, comment, indulge I may. I can choose how, when or if I'll contribute. Like home, WDC is always available and waiting for me to return should I stray. There is no nagging, no fuss, no recriminations. With this online birthday party I can opt to stand in a quiet corner observing, or I can get out and mingle.Or I may be late to the celebration without causing a scene.(329 words) |
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