Art travels well with its different venues: writing and music, painting and sculpting, photography and design. Creative brains find innumerable ways to express themselves.
I like to sing and dance and draw, in the last couple of weeks I’ve dug out my guitar and plink away, seeking the place of my last departure. I photograph nature and study others’ photographs. I read every time I get a chance. I love to tell stories and use props to act out the drama.
But my first passion is to write a good story …
Are these other activities a distraction, or do they feed my creativity?
My first three stories were written in relative silence. My characters led me down their paths of adventure and I happily followed, enjoying their exploits with them.
I find a variety of music inspiring and I can follow a line of inspiration for two or three minutes, but suddenly, I find myself on an entirely different, often opposing, sound track and I lose the muse. Where’d she go?
So, who practices a craft with music? Do you pick music that matches the piece you are working on (lest you be working with love and violence slips in from the shadows?) Do you replay the same sound track over and over, to maintain theme and atmosphere? Or, with practice, have you learned to ignore the change and run with the muse?
Share if you dare. I am curious.
“Ride for the brand.”
This saying rings of a strength and loyalty that have fallen by the wayside, along with the popularity of Louis L’Amour and western writers.
What does this have to do with me and my writing? I have recently learned that writers need brands! How cool is that? Being a country girl, who has participated in branding, and designed a few of her own, this is right down my alley! (Especially since it is minus the smell and the bawling.)
How fun. And I love a good play on words. Since I write about strong women with hearts of gold, it is an honor to write for the brand.
Stay tuned for my design …. ( To all you creative souls out there, I’m open to suggestions!)
The learning curve for writing continues. I hope the the menu I’ve been working on (all afternoon) makes it easier to access your areas of interest! Let me know (if you decide to check it out), eh?
Is there some endeavor that you are undertaking, and you wonder: “Will I ever get this?” I’d love to hear about it.
My critique group tells me I am not to use cliches in my writing. sigh.
I come from a long line of quoters and familial wisdom. There is a comfort in the commonality of canned sayings, just as there is in canned foods and home cooked meals.
These old adages have been spoon fed to me for sixty years. I have a taste for them!
Memories are attached to many of them. They bring a shared experience to the story that saves the writer from having to explain (and the reader from having to read unnecessary explanations). When I read a familiar quote in someone else’s writing, I bring my own experience to whatever it is the writer speaks of and I feel connected.
If the quote is not familiar, and I like it, it becomes mine.
There is much wisdom packed into one concise sentence. Tropes are great summarizers!
Do you have one you like to use? If so, please share.
He followed them to where the woods and the meadow met, the stench of rotting leaves assaulted his nose at every step. They tromped along like a herd of cattle, oblivious of his silent pursuit. The full moon occasionally hid them in the shadows – making his hate darker – while they found it all the more romantic.
With fitted leather gloves; for grip, accuracy, and no fingerprints, he began to pelt them with fist-sized stones he’d hidden in the deep pocket of his smock. He threw the rocks hard and fast, like baseballs.
He was doing the triage of punishment out of historical order, but it was expedient. They didn’t react at first. Their confusion was to his advantage. Turning to him – the direction the rocks were coming from – gave him more time and better aim to knock them out, or at least down.
They fell within seconds. The girl lie quietly but the young man struggled to crawl away. The figure of vengeance ran forward to implement the second element of their punishment, the beatings. He started on the young man first, using his feet instead of his hands. Don’t want to mess up the gloves.
When both were silent, he took out his katana and finished the job.
Placing their heads under each other’s right arm, he gifted each breast with a blessed silver cross.
He lifted his blade to heaven, For you, Valentine. Year five.
He returned the way he’d come, not looking back. This year’s sacrifice was done.
(I canvassed for a writing assignment. This one was definitely a challenge and outside my genre, but weirdly fun. I never would have thought of writing about murder for Valentine’s day. The “triage” came from Priest Valentine’s own martyrdom back in 270 A.D. The head under the right arm …? I’d love more ideas from you creative minds out there!)
Happy Belated (not beheaded) Valentine’s Day!
What does that even mean?
It means: if I cannot make my readers smell, taste, rejoice and weep with my characters, I have lost my audience.
No small task.