Who’s habits were insatiable
To starlettes divine
The old chat up line
Hey Bitch, are you ready to pull?
Pump It Up
Who had an unusual trait
She could inflate her chest
Through a pump in her vest
She gave a big squeeze on a date
There was a young man who liked cake
And was proud of all he did bake
His meringues were sound
His tarts renowned
But his cream horn was just a fake.
A young lady loved walnut whips
But they only lasted two licks
As she opened her jaw
All the men were in awe
And said, “does she do other tricks?”
Following on from the last post……
I went on to expose myself in a public place. Not that I whipped off my old lady clothes and ran down the street naked, no, it was worse than that.
This novel of mine has been rumbling on for years and I have made vague comments about it, to my closest friends. It’s like one of those endless scarves you knit as a child, or was that just me?
Friends know you are doing it, and occasionally ask how it’s going, but it’s the not the most riveting of topics.
I decided to use strangers as my guinea pigs, before inflicting my work on friends. Wise decision, as it turned out, as I was mauled.
The stitches of my scarf unravelled as they pulled it apart line by line. My precious bits of prose were decimated, my characters pilloried.
They made me see it with fresh eyes and they were all so right. Six critiques so far and they have all found different holes and errors.
I have completely revised the first chapter, the experience has been invaluable. My knitting needles have been adjusted.
It’s all there on Scribophile. If you are not familiar with the site, I fervently recommend it. You gain points by critiquing other works and when you have sufficient, you post your darlings and wait for the fall out. It’s brilliant. If you already subscribe, or decide to join, say hello to me on there.
Let’s all have a big group hug.
Ok so here are the rules:
See ya on Monday!!
There comes a time for us fledgling authors to take a leap into the unknown and show our writing to a willing victim.
For someone who’s aim is to take the publishing world by storm, (in your dreams, girl), I have been strangely reluctant to do so.
I can only attribute this to basic insecurity. But is that not the trait of us all, despite the bluster we muster?
We are all beasts of contradiction. My ego is as big as a house, disguised under a layer of self deprecation, but at the same time, perhaps I am nothing special and will fail to sparkle.
What if my writing is no good, or worse, is actively bad? My ego tells me it compares favourably with works in my genre. Reality says, ‘Think again, hot shot.’
I have shown no-one my fiction so far, even though I am on chapter 19. It’s time to take that leap though, as I need to know my weaknesses, shatter those delusions and move forward to conquer.
When I first received this diagnosis, I also received a gift. (No, I will not offend anyone who is suffering directly or indirectly from cancer—or any other misfortune—to suggest that cancer itself is the gift. Cancer is just shitty luck, which any of us can get no matter what good or bad choices we’ve made in our lives. And I would so gladly give it back if I could!) The gift I received, virtually at the same moment as the diagnosis, was acceptance. (I’m calling it a gift because it was just suddenly there for me.) This gift has proved incredibly valuable. It has meant I have been freed from a range of difficult emotions and reactions one might expect with a terminal diagnosis. Most wonderfully, it has meant no anger, denial, desperation, or despair. I have also been most blessedly free of depression, fear, anxiety, and bitterness. This is…
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One thing I’ve learnt today on WordPress.com, don’t post on a morning. I’m new here and have got to admit that followers are not flocking, but absolute zero reads this morning. It’s either all owls out there or the early birds don’t care for my worms.