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Eating Bees – a CW post


**Taken from L.P.’s Home Page

If you’ve never read Chucky’s stuff, he’s got a real way with words. He’s got a way with words the way Charmin has a way with toilet paper, or Lucky Charms has a way with rainbows, or MacGyver has a way with turning a shitty Chevy into a moderately useable vehicle. I’ve been reading Chucky’s stuff for the past few years and I must admit that he’s a fantastic source of writerly inspiration (see below).

This right here, is the usual stuff you can expect to find from this mastermind of writerly inspiration. He reminds us here that all writing advice is bullshit. There’s really no one way to make this thing work. You either, as Steven Pressfield argues in his book The War of Art, you either get it done or you don’t. It’s pretty much that simple. Yes, you can, like a wonderful podcast I listen to called Writing Excuses, take every microscopic area out of the field of writing and try to approach it that way. Some people function that way, and as long as they’re able to pin the tail on their word donkey, then who gives two pence about the other stuff?

Below I have attached Chucky’s Smile for the day. Go to his Terrible Minds site HERE to read it in the original.


If you want to be a real writer, like, a really real writer, a writer who does it right, a writer who is officially official and who will earn the respect of the rest of the tribe –

You have to write longhand. Forget your phone. Put your phone away. Your phone is just beaming nonsense into your head — telecommunications chemtrails. Real writers write longhand, on notes stuffed into secret underwear pockets. If you don’t have secret underwear pockets, then you are not a Real Writer. That’s just fact. That’s just science. You write your first draft on notes stuffed into underwear pockets, then you write your second draft carved into a fundamental surface: driveway asphalt, a granite countertop, the stump of an ancient and magical tree. (Hemingway once famously carved THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA into the back of an impudent busboy.) When that’s done, eat some bees. Because writers, Real Writers, definitely eat bees. Writers also all have English degrees, or they all die. It’s like water to fish. We need it to swim.

Also, kill a goat. TRUE writers kill goats. But you gotta kill the goat in a real specific way. You have to get a goat, then yell into the goat’s ear the full text of your first rejection letter. You scream it into the goat’s ear at top volume, then as the goat is reeling from the disappointment borne of such rejection, you seize the moment and snap its neck. (Though Edith Wharton famously dispatched her goats with a blunderbuss full of dynamite.)

Of course, none of this is true.

Because all writing advice is bullshit (though bullshit fertilizes). I’m writing this thing because once in a while we are treated to missives from well-meaning expert writers who have come to believe that The Way They Write is the Only Way To Write, because their process has been tainted by the strong smell of Survivorship Bias. “I survived this way, and so you must, too.”

There exists no one way to write any one thing, and as long as your writing has a starting point and an ending point, I think whatever shenanigans go on in the middle serve you fine as a process as long as it gets you a finished book heavy with at least some small sense of satisfaction. If you’re not finishing your books, you need to re-examine your process. If you’re not at all satisfied with your work, then again: re-examine that process.

And that’s it.

Everything else is just picking out drapes.

If you need a handy flowchart reminder, here’s my ARE YOU A REAL WRITER chart, written by me and designed by Rebekah Turner. Feel free to share!

Don’t care how you have to keep yourself honest. Don’t care how you have to do it. You just find a way to keep writing.

lp

P.S. If you’re in need of the right tunes to get your fingers plopping along the keyboard, feel free to slide over to this week’s BEAT.

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Regardless


by

L.P. Stribling

Start over, you need to start over.

Not entirely, but with your thoughts,

With where you think you need to be.

Start over.

’T’s cold outside. Empty.

Don’t see many people walking around.

You’re not them. Focus on you.

You’re ready to meet your own people,

Remember, we’re starting over.

I’m a writer. Regardless.

Regardless of what words are,

Written on my lanyard, of what it says

on my driver’s license, my résumé,

or what comes of the mouths of my loved ones

Pertaining to the question of “what it is I do.”

I’m a writer.

And I recognize that,

Because I’m starting over.

Quick drive down. Cut the engine.

Now I’m with them – the only ones who know

Who I really am. I know them too.

We smile, we laugh as we snack.

Because we all get. Regardless.

Regardless of what words are used out there.

We’ve started over.

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So…the Dragon


J and I are reading a series. You may have heard of it. I’ve dropped this info in the site. We’re reading Robert Jordan’s The Wheel of Time. It’s fantastic. I remember reading it around 15 years ago and only got up through book 5. Put it down because..well, life I guess, youthful judgments which may or may not have been valid. Who knows.

Times change, as do attitudes, perceptions, and overall views on the minutiae of it all. If you haven’t been up on the details, we’ve begun the series anew. I think J has gotten up to around Book 9, which by any standard, is impressive. My pops even got into it – book 7 (how he got to B7 and I only got to 5…no matter).

At the time of this writing, we have gone through the first three books and will be starting in on B4 in the next day or so.

Just wanted to give everyone out there an update. If you’d like to follow us and check out the site, please head over to our space: Across the Wheel.

All is well. If you’re an artist. Keep arting.

lp

Uncategorized, writing.

Decisions


by

L.P. Stribling

       Her face was no longer something she could feel; the wind, the ice had made sure of that. Carla still pushed through the biting slices of nature’s army toward the wooden structure on the hilltop, one high step at a time. The snow reached well past her knees, and beyond that with the ground dipped. On the inside, her legs began to ache.

Almost there, Carla. Push through.

She tried putting her mind elsewhere again. That seemed to work at the bottom of the hill, at least for the first half mile, until the frost winds began to howl. One of the thoughts she found was more of a memory – one from when she was six. It was the first time she recalled hearing the howl of the wind. Her sister, Dari, had run back to the bedroom after the power had gone out to jump under the covers with her.

“What’s that?” she remembered her sister saying. The pause lasted for seconds, until the low curling of the wind’s howl came through the windows. Dari disappeared under the blanket and gripped on to her sister, preferring clearly to be inside her twin’s body.

 

“Chill out, girl. It’s just the wind,” she had told her.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Dari said. “Just the wind.”

 

The words ran through her mind with each slow step up the hillside. “Yeah,” she echoed her sister’s voice. “Just the wind.”

The snow depth shortened and the steps became easier. The last few she pushed into a stride of three as she tried to make hasty cover behind the walls of the wooden building.

“Dari!” she screamed at the door as she pounded on the cheap wood. “Let me in!”

Sounds came from beyond the wood. Tapping and shifting. The door fell open and Dari’s hand reached out and pulled her sister in. “I thought you said one o’clock?” Dari said. Her short frame was covered in a parka and ski pants over heavy green socks. “ I’ve been waiting for two hours!” She pulled Carla inside and shook the snow from her back. “Sit,” she said. “I have tea.”

Carla walked to the table in the living room where two steaming mugs of tea sat waiting. A small dish of cookies was at the table’s center, and a fire burned in the gated fireplace. Carla sat.

“Now,” Dari said, sitting and raising a tea mug. “Why don’t we talk about how badly they want you, and how much we stand to gain with the right decisions.”

Carla held the mug between her freezing palms and inhaled the scent deeply. She clinked her mug against Dari’s and took a small sip. Jasmine. It went down warm. She cleared her throat and reached inside her pant pocket, removing a thin vile of neon orange fluid. A solitary air bubble dipped back and forth as she tilted it. “Here’s to making our first decision right.”