It is fun getting into a story. Then when I look up and wonder where my characters and I are... Perhaps we are lost. How do you keep the same sense of fun getting out as you had going in? * Should've thought of this, but thanks to rowena for working this out. Here is …
Continue reading The Difference between Being Lost and Having Fun
In all the fuss to get the writing right--you know, character, pacing, plot, dialogue, style, voice, POV, and, oh, everything else--I think somewhere in there it ought to just every once in a while be fun.
I tried to find a few of you on the NaNoWriMo site. If you're NaNoing and want to buddy up, let me know--I'm mapelba over there too.
A friend of mine often insults and belittles artists who "sell out." Once he suspects them of self-promotion and of wanting to be a little too successful, he turns on them. And as my old boss used to say--once you get paid for doing what you love, the quality of your work goes down. Sigh. …
"We like her a lot. She's pretty, funny, and smart. Really funny. But we're not sure we're going to let her in," L. said. "Why not?" the three of us asked. L. put down her fork. "Well, she wears black all the time." "I wear black," said JT. "Yeah, but everything she owns is black. …
Mom painted and took pictures. Though she got paid for filing and typing. Aunt E. wrote poems, made sculpture, painted. She was married to a man with a wooden leg. When she was young she was a dancer and a piano player. At 8 I showed her a poem I wrote about the sun. She …
Took acting class tonight. Did what my instructor calls a freezing reading. No chance to look at it beforehand. You only see the line when it is your turn to say it. You have to feel what the other person says before you look at your line. I loved that! And was surprised at …
He kept a whiskey bottle under the driver's seat of his station wagon. His flaming haired daughter, K., sat beside him, and my cousin, L., and I sat in the back. He had stubble and slouched, bony shoulders. We were ten years old. He was supposed to be taking us to see The Jungle Book. …
The baby bird lay in the road perfectly centered in the lane. It struggled. It opened and closed its mouth. I decided to save it. I was eight. I knew what my dad would say if I handled the bird with my bare hands. I went to the carport and found stained gardening gloves, the …
Pricing. This was the most difficult thing about hanging my work--deciding on prices and believing that someone would give up hard earned money for something I made. How on earth do other artist figure this out? The cost of materials I understand, but the value of my time and effort and imagination? Crazy.
Marta Pelrine-Bacon 