Old School Monopoly Has Nothing On Writing Your First Book! | The Literacy Site Blog


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Week off, Week on


Week off of my day job and a week on my first novel.

Yes, that’s right I’ve taken a week off work to do some serious work on my novel. My target for this week is to get at least 50 pages down and then keep going. I’m treating this week like Rabbit in 8 mile getting ready to flip the script.

I’ll post updates and other writing as I go. To be honest I needed to this since January but I think after these last three blogging events I’m ready to write.

 

8mile-7

Writing 201: Fingers – The shock of the pen


“Sure, eyes are expressive. But there’s so much more we can do with our fingers — today’s word prompt — from opening a gift and plucking a guitar to signing words and waving goodbye. If you want to go beyond actual digits, you could write about any finger-shaped object you find interesting, or about something that comes into frequent contact with your fingers: a ring, your keyboard, a glove.

Today’s suggested form might sound like an oxymoron: the prose poem. Unlike some of the other forms we experimented with — say, the limerick — a prose poem, by definition, has no fixed rules. Whether a reader sees the prose or the poetry in it hinges on a variety of factors beyond your control.

We’ve tackled alliteration last week — the strategic repetition of consonants in close proximity to each other. Today, let’s give assonance a try. It’s the same thing, only with vowels.

Assonance is subtler than alliteration, but can have a profound cumulative effect on a poem, especially when the repeated sound resonates somehow with the topic you’re writing about.”

 (Written with Eminem’s rapping style in mind)

Today’s poem has been guest blogged on Harsh Reality!

What Happens When (Virtually) No One Buys Your Book — Medium


Sobering reading for the aspiring / self-published author but truth be told this is something I knew about – the possibility, nay certainty of commercial failure. Indeed for most of my life its been a belief that failure as a writer is certain that has kept me from trying. You think to yourself:

“it ain’t me, it ain’t me, I ain’t no fortunate son”

Writing with my eyes open…

What Happens When (Virtually) No One Buys Your Book — Medium.

 

Roaming Around: Sunday Blog Visits


Writing 201: Fog, Elegy, Metaphor – Elegy for Shaun Maher


“Fog. Today’s word prompt can be taken in so many different directions: condensation on your car’s window. An eerie landscape (or streetscape) at dawn. Your glasses as you enter a warm room from the cold outside. The mental state of confusion, forgetfulness, or dementia. How will you introduce fog into your poem today?

Today’s form, the elegy, can trace its history all the way to ancient Greece. It started out as a poem that could be about almost any topic, as long as it was written in elegiac couplets (pairs of verse, with the first one slightly longer than the second). Over the centuries, though, it became something a bit more specific: a (more often than not) first-person poem on themes of longing, loss, and mourning.

You knew it was coming. The prince of poetic devices, the thrill up every poet’s spine. Yes: hello, metaphor. Metaphors are everywhere in poetry and in everyday speech (“I’m drowning in work,” “This problem requires brain muscle,” and on and on). They’re so ubiquitous that most people find it hard to explain what they are. So let’s try.”

The milky fog that hangs over Homerton veils all things from each other
the cat from the rat, dog from tree, the child from the mother

Bravely walk into the shroud, enveloping and you might bring to mind
That you are walking through a hole in space, soul and time

Walking down between the alley that leads from the high street to Tesco
You might walk in and find yourself 10 years ago in San Francisco

I beg you please call upon a youth called Shaun Maher
who lives with his dad in Lakeshore

If its a Saturday in April he’ll be a well fed cat dozing in the afternoon air
Out on the lawn, in a pair of cargo pants on a cheap ass lawn chair

Wake up from his slumber with a hard smack upside his dome
And tell that moron kid to keep his dumb ass home

Look that Jackass know it all deep into his bottomless brown eyes
And tell him he that his fathers friend, Smith, lies

Tell him the life promised of adventure, fabulous secrets, “so many to tell”
Is a crock of sh*t, a tissue of lies, baloney, highway to hell

Tell him that misery will fall on his current path, like November storms in the Bay
And unless he ceases from it soon there will come a day

When he’ll look in the mirror at a face that is barely his own
a name of a dead man, in a city that isn’t home

That he will walk as a lone male exiled from the pride
Hollow as an emptied bud, forced by fate to hide

On that day the grim Reaper will come looking, a long trail of lies followed
He’ll tap him on the shoulder, look him in the eye, and say

“I. know. your. name. isn’t. Hugo.”

Writing 201: Journey – I killed the wrong men in Tikrit


Today’s word prompt is journey. Write a poem about anything that word evokes for you, from the excitement of a trip you’re about to embark on, the mental progress you witnessed someone make, or the struggles, pleasures, and extreme emotions that travel can bring about. Today’s form: Limericks (Personally keeping to characters from my novel)

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Writing 201: Poetry – Flow, like water. Drown the unfortunate.


Flow, like water. Drown the unfortunate.

Writing 201: Water “Today, let’s write a poem about water. And/or a haiku. And/or use a simile.”

(Parental Advisory: Violent Imagery)

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Blogging 201: Smiley’s People


Currently listening #onrepeat to:

And so Blogging 201 has come to an end. It was an excellent follow on from Blogging 101 and I feel ready to move forward with my writing and blogging. Continue reading

Daily Prompt: Excerpt #4 “An Offer I Couldn’t Refuse”


In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “Race the Clock.”

The muzzle never waivered, didn’t even move an inch. Despite the cold ball of fear in my stomach Hugo was impressed. The glock was cocked, round chambered, ready to explode in my sore bloody face and it had been pointing at my head for 20 minutes. That’s along time to keep a heavy lump of metal at arms length.

“Nǐ shì shuí?”
“For the last time I don’t speak Chinese” Hugo lied for the eleventh time through swollen lips and a haze of pain. His wrists were chafing on the ropes that bound his arms to the pipe overhead.

Opaque - April 27th, 2011 (117/365) Continue reading