The Place For My Writers Notes

Original posting: Wed, 4 Jun 1997 22:55:23 EDT

I think I'd call this a ramble? or maybe it's a bramble, a thicket of meaninglessness?

Since it is possible that some of you don't read the weekly FAQ, (I know that it may be hard to believe, but I'm sure there are a few who don't peruse every puerile pucker of that oft-repeated post) allow me to pull this out and post it for your pleasure.

I'm not sure quite what to make of this, but I do like it, I think.

Comments?

tink

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The Springs of Writing

Sometimes, out tramping around on a mountainside, with the crack of a twig underfoot and all the other fine sensual awakening that seems to be part of celebrating the out-of-doors, you may come across a spring. A tiny ripple of water, perhaps not even that so much as a soaking, but a place where the earth lets go of the water again, and it begins.

I love to stop and think about where that little spring is going. The drops of water, seeping out, touching me, and then slowly passing on to...

Sometimes, of course, you'll find larger, clear springs, pushing up forcefully, and sweeping away obstructions.

But no matter where the springs start, after a while the tiny drips and great gushers join, form streams, laughing, chuckling along, feeding the bushes and trees, alive with insects and fish.

And rain falls, adding muddy roils and softer plink-plink-plink touches, criss-crossing, draining tastes of new growth and ancient mold into the mix, wandering here and there...

Sometimes snow melts, or ice CRACKS and shakes, spins, softens, and adds its weight to the rushing waters...

Here a pond collects the tastes of many streams, the runoff of the hills, the silt of fields growing, and provides a place for spirits to cool and calm, listening to the burp of frogs diving into the depths, the soft rustle of grass growing, the quiet of a summer evening...

Down centuries of time, across chasms of cultural division, from momentary leaves of today's crops, the waters roll. Fine streams, heavy flood waters, grinding, bursting, laving and washing the best and the worst...

When the shower touches you, you can put your head down and trudge through the mud, angry at the weather...

Or...

You can lift your face to the wonder, search for the promise of the rainbow, and laugh into the rain, into the thunder, into the lightning

as the waters mix again, meeting, parting, on their way to the ocean of life through the rivers and streams, the dams and meanders, the wandering and late-night tears...

all in the waters of writing.

Whether you want to just wash your hands, or maybe dip your head in and refresh yourself, or even dive in and be baptised into the depths of that life, feel free. And let your own springs gurgle forth, adding that fine clear flavor of yourself to the mix.

The waters will return, in time.

The gentle rains, the fierce riptides of the ocean, the hidden aquafers that wet the footing of all lands...the ebb and flow of waters, the ebb and flow of writing...

and the moon holding sway over all.

A muse of rain, perhaps...
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original posting: Sat, 4 Jun 1994 18:35:03 JST

FAQ: Writhing in the Mists: A Diffident Hello (v.1)

It's been a while, and I'm feeling lazy, so here's a re-run!

Writhing in the Mists: A Diffident Hello
April 1, 1993 (Vers. 1)
mike barker (tinkerer's apprentice)
614 words

Delving in the deeps of the electronic jangle, you've found this. And like others before you, you may wonder just what you've found.

Looking closely, you'll learn this is a mirror. It may be called WRITERS@[bitnet address] or writers@[internet address], but in the mists, the mirror dangles at the end of electronic vines that wrap around the world, thrusting tendrils searching for those the mirror can brighten.

What kind of mirror? Sometimes brassy, sometimes glassy and quicksilver gleaming, but always changing and ever the same, a flowing stream casting reflections across the jangle.

Beware of what you may find here, for the writers' mirror can reflect a terrible swift sword of sight, slicing the wings from angels to make them walk the earth, burning you with a blackened wisp of sad regrets, or bringing life to the diamond heart. Swinging again, you may see moonbeams dancing on elven toes, glimpse the navel of the buddha, feel the poet's wild fire. On another swing, who knows what will look out from that mirror, bringing laughter and fear, heartbreak or drear?

But try the mesmerizing crystal for a while, watch it swing and twist, sway and turn, sooth and burn, and you may learn to crave its oddly comforting swirls and curls dancing in the night.

Add your own trembling dashes to the invigorated bobbing of this mystical mirror and you may find it a doorway, opening again and again into worlds of wandering wonder, blundering banter, tactless technique, even friendship now and then.

Watch as it swings, lightly it sings, sometimes prosaic, sometimes too terrible for human hearts breaking, now there's your face, here comes a race, and there.. a truth you've never dared to show? words your heart had ready to flow? tears and smiles, too many miles yet to go, before you reap the work you seek, yet walking with others is twice as fast as digging alone into the past.

Be aware of the mirror, let it guide you and mind you, but mostly hello, from one tale twister to another.

Hello, writer.

Keep an eye out for yourself in the mirror - you may enjoy what you learn about yourself!

Original posting: Sat, 5 Feb 1994 18:35:01 JST

FAQ: The Writer's Secret

The Mohair Rashly lecture on writing? Yes, you have come to the right place. Please go write.

I'm sorry, that was just a little joke. Now, if you will take a seat, the Mohair will explain the secret of writing.

The Writer's Secret

[the house lights dim slowly, then flash to full bright, then flick off. strange curly wiggles of light and pinwheels of color dazzle your eyes. a strange unearthly sound begins somewhere in the glowing darkness. the seat seems to be pushing up and gripping you in a warm familiar way.]

<actually, one of the stagehands is whistling behind the curtain with no sense of melody or tune, but we'll take whatever atmospheric effects we can get>

[the lights rise on stage, revealing a strange little man draped in white cloth staring at his bare feet poking out of the cloth in front of him. after a moment, he looks up and smiles.]

I wonder where I left my socks tonight? I thought I had them on, but it was so dark behind the stage. I must have lost them when I wasn't walking.

<someone in the audience coughs>

Oh! Hello. I almost forgot, you are all here to find the secret of writing, aren't you? If you are looking for the meaning of life lecture, that's down the hall in the padded room.

<a few people mutter and get up, rushing to the other lecture.>

So you are all in the right place now. Good, good.

Let me tell you about yourself. You have searched long and hard, pondering and paying for conferences and workshops and books. Perhaps you have even bought some of my books. If not, please see me after the lecture and I'll tell you where to get them.

But tonight you have come to the place where you will learn the real secret of writing.

You see, once I was like you. I tried exercises, I thought about famous schools that would let me take a test to decide if I could pay for lessons, I read, I complained bitterly that I had a good job and happy life which made it impossible for me to suffer enough to write, I even worried about which paper to write on and all that.

Then, one day, I learned the secret. And now I will tell it to you.

Are you ready?

Of course you are! So let us start.

First I want you to reach around with both hands as if you were going to scratch the back of your head. Yes, do it now.

Now lift the hair on the back of your head. Go ahead and scratch a little if you want to.

Feels good, doesn't it?

Okay, while you have the hair up, I want you to stretch your mind back, to reach back with your nerves and will. Feel the back of your head - from the inside. Let yourself focus on the back of your head.

Now. Open the eye of the writer, hidden in the back of your head!

Did you feel it quiver? Just a little?

You see, the secret of the writer is this third eye, waiting for you to learn to open it. It is not easy. You have all that hair, and the muscles in the back of your head aren't used to opening that sleeping eye, but you can do it. I know you can.

Just stretch, then relax, and try again. Feel the muscles, feel the hidden bulge in the back of your mind, and try to lift those eyelashes you can't see.

If you get the eye of the writer open, even the tiniest little crack, don't be surprised or scared when it shows you something quite different than you have ever seen before. After all, you've never tried to look through the back of your head before, have you?

Once you get even a little glimpse through that eye, you will write. And then take another glance, or even a glare, through that eye and keep writing. What you see through that third eye may startle and shock you, but as long as you keep looking through it, the sights will rush into the back of your mind, bounce around inside, and then come streaming out. Don't stop that flow - keep writing as long as you have the third eye open.

Sometimes you may want to rest the poor aching eyelid in the back of your head, or it may even drop down by itself, blinking as the scene changes, or dazzled by the lights. That's okay - take some time to let your regular eyes see the writing you've done, and squint a bit to get the writing in good shape.

Polish up some of that writing and put it in the mail, because what you have seen with your third eye is never boring, and editors everywhere are waiting to hear about the mystic sightings. Really. In fact, if you do this regularly, they will send you paper marked with our secret mark - look at the pyramid and you will see it.

That's really all there is to it. That is the secret of the writer - opening the third eye hiding in the back of your head and taking a look around the places it shows you. That isn't so hard, is it?

So, right now, before you forget, try again - let your mind reach back, and feel that eyelid rise slowly, just a crack, and the eye in the back of your head foggily focuses on...

What did you see?

Incidentally, what color is your third eye? I can't quite tell from here...

Keep that eye open whenever you can, and you'll learn to see flea circuses dancing on the high wires of spider webs, miles and miles across vast desserts (burp!), and other strange and wonderful places.

Take a moment or two to let your friends on WRITERS know what you see with your third eye - and let people in on the secret of the writer.

original posting: Sat, 11 Sep 1993 18:00:06 JST

FAQ: The Joy of Fishing

The Joy of Fishing

On the Coast of Dreams, near the Bay of Profundity whose unplumbed depths have sucked many a brave soul out of mortal sight, moonbeams play across the beach where yawning crews and solitary drifters prepare for an early start. Lines slip through age-toughened and tender young hands, stiff with sleep or fumbling with eagerness. Gulls protest the early disturbance. Their cries sting ears pitched to hear the morning silence.

As night reluctantly pales and pastels slip faint shades across the black, the fleet slides into the waters. Waves chop and push, but each craft pulls slowly or quickly toward today's fishing spots. Sleek powerboats force their way along, foaming wakes shaking rowboats and cockleshells that creep softly across the water.

From time to time, and here and there, one casts a line, weighted sinker leading, baited hook flailing the air, spidery filament tying fisher to tackle. Splash! The offering sinks beneath the waves, and the fisher waits. Perhaps, impatient, they tug a time or two, then reel back the filament so fine, to check the line, inspect the hook, and make sure the bait is still fastened firm. Others, wise to the wiles of their prey, stolidly wait, patiently watching for a twitch or a tug, letting their soul slip out to the horizon and rock in the waves while they have some time.

Plugs, spoons, bright spinning tin, wavering veils of colored plastic - all manner of bait and of lure, both shining and rusty, stinking and clean, those fisherman try as they sail once again. Their lines sometimes tangle, some even break, but always they try again and again, for the thrill of the bite, the teasing work of the play, and the joy of landing.

Though the catch be quite big or ever so small, the fisherfolk smile and stand proud as they work at their trade. Some landlubbers may laugh, but the fisherfolk don't, for they've cast their lines again and again, determined to land their own.

Fresh flounder, fat tuna, swordfish arcing into the sky, shark's sullen muscular battle, even sardines that some might scorn as bait - ah, they all are fine sport.

Nothing beats fishing.

Was that a tug on my line? Gently, gently... YES!

Gotcha! A fine, fighting reader! How could any writer ask for more?

Try out the fishing for yourself, why don't you? Join the fleet, spend a while on stormy waters, and cast your own lines.

Your life may never be the same, once you've tried it.
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Original Posting: Fri, 08 Dec 2000 01:35:17 -0500

All right, let's get those fingers limber, brain cells percolating, and whatever other parts of your physical/social/mental/emotional/mystical magical self it may take to do some writing ready...

The title is "The Edifice of Dreams."

[Yes, you may use it as the first phrase in a poem, a revealing refrain, an underlying theme, or even as the spark plug that gets you started and you never -- well hardly ever -- think about it again.  The point is to write, and write again, and in that writing, to touch a star to life.]

So, let's see.

The phrase is "The Edifice of Dreams."

And the story is...

Yours!

original posting: Tue, 19 Dec 2000 02:22:24 -0500

The Day of the Galumphries

Do you remember the day they first appeared?  Lumps of glistening bright pink long fur, with a face almost hidden, and those tiny paws to hold and jump?

Where were you when they appeared?  What were you doing?  And when you saw the first one, smelled that delicious scent, stroked that soft fur...what did you think?

What do you think now when you look at those soft blue eyes?

Go ahead, write about it!

original posting: Wed, 20 Sep 2000 21:18:47 -0400

Quick, and a little bit quirky...

Consider the phrase:

I bought a jar of pickled smiles

Notice that the end of the line is unfinished.  It might turn into a new line, it might just get used as a title, it might have something about about where you found that jar, who sold it to you, what kind of price did you pay, or something like that.

(Incidentally, who does sell such things?  An odd little grocery story on the edge of never?  A god(dess) quite pristine?  Perhaps a tiny little wart of nastiness that has been stealing those smiles from your children and canning them with a dash of vinegar?  Or the smiling businesswoman who always has an overabundance of them to give away?  Who?)

Anyway, take that phrase.  Let it resonate in the mind, perhaps tickle your tongue a bit with it (are those sweet gherkins or dill as ever?).

Then, write a bit!

[what rhymes with smiles?  tiles, miles, biles, Giles...]

Go ahead, you know you want to open that jar!

original posting: Fri, 25 Aug 2000 00:55:04 -0400

(I'm not sure where this started, but we don't need the introspection, let's get right to the reflection...:-)

Okay!  Let's assume that your character (pick a character, pick a scenario, you know what I mean) has acquired (bought, fished out of the trash, had delivered, or some other interesting method of arrival) a mirror.

So what, you say?

All right, pick a number from one to six.  Got it?

Their mirror:

1.  Let's them see far-off places (zounds!  A crystal ball in a frame?)
2.  Let's them see possible futures (true or not?  you decide)
3.  Let's them get the answer to one question a day (who's the freakiest one of all?)
4.  Let's them step into strange and wonderful places (but how do they get back?)
5.  Let's them see the past (how far back?  you decide...)
6.  Let's them see the real person (oho!  and how does it picture that reality, as opposed to the mere superficiality)

In any case, you get the drift.  This is not just a mirror, but a rather fantastic mirror!

Okay?

So give us a scene where they find out what the mirror does.  Then perhaps a bit of conflict, and they think about using the mirror to help resolve things.  And maybe it does, maybe it doesn't, maybe they aren't quite aware of the price they are paying for using this magic?  Go on, add another scene or three, build up to the grand climax (which is?  Do they smash the mirror? Cover it up, and swear never to use it unless...  Maybe they merely get back home, and relax?  Or?)

Go ahead, tell us about the mirror on the wall...

and what reflections it provides.

original posting: Sat, 10 Feb 2001 02:12:55 -0500

Just a quick note in the muddle...

Have you ever seen something called "Talk Soup"?  Flipping through the channels this morning, I caught a brief clip where they were commenting on a "blind date" a young lady had.  Apparently she was "given" a visit by an exotic male dancer, who stripped to his shorts and lap-danced?

The commentator exclaimed "That's not romantic!"

And I pondered, as I sometimes am wont to do, just what would be considered romantic.  In particular, for a young lady.

So describe that romantic evening (getaway?  lunch party?  you pick it).  Lay out the sights, sounds, tastes, aromas, sensations and events that add up to the elusive romance.

I'll even recommend that both parties enjoy the time together...

(Chianti and pasta?  Gaaarlic!  Now that's a romansa! :-)

original posting: Fri, 06 Oct 2000 23:45:59 -0400

Okay, a little harried, but consider this one...

First, pick something that you don't like, or are actively afraid of.  Ants? Spiders?  That ugly oily slick that tried to absorb you that summer?  Tigers?  The grinding gears of the sausage machine, that inexorable gnashing, clashing, crunching?

Second, list some of the pieces of that which really bother you.  Maybe it's the itty bitty legs on the ants?  Or the smell?  The way the gears seem to vanish into each other?

Third, walk through your fear, slowly and carefully.  Do you sweat?  Does your mouth turn dry?  Shaky knees?  Quivering fingers?  Hair stand up on your arm as the goosepimples tighten?

Fourth, translate!  Suppose that instead of the little ants, the blanket on your bed acquired some of those characteristics?  The beady little eyes on your vest?  Or maybe the bath water decides to act as if it were that oily slick?  What if the car engine decided to grind, and crunch, and gnash?

Write up that scene, where your character confronts your fear, embodied as another.  When the graveyard begins to grin like the tiger...

Write!