A quotation from Travers, P. L.

You do not chop off a section of your imaginative substance and make a book specifically for children, for — if you are honest — you have no idea where childhood ends and maturity begins. It is all endless and all one.

P. L. Travers (1899-1996) Australian-British writer [Pamela Lyndon Travers; b. Helen Lyndon Goff]
Essay (1978-07-02), “I Never Wrote for Children,” New York Times

#quote #quotes #quotation #audience #books #childhood #children #literature #maturity #writing
Sourcing / notes: https://wist.info/travers-p-l/73367/

                                   LE CHÂTEAU DES FÉES (CADEAU DE NOËL) (français, english, castellano)

Anselme courbe l'échine, pas étonnant, à 103 ans il est perdu sur ce chemin tortueux qu'éclaire de loin en loin des lueurs fugaces.
Le voilà très vite navigant dans le brouillard, une gaze de brume s'estompe dévoilant les contours d'un château aux parois rehaussées
de scintillements.
Le pont levis se signale par 2 lampes aux couleurs changeantes.
Anselme franchit la herse, s'avance dans la cour.

Une voix gracieuse remplit l'espace :
Bienvenue au sieur Anselme, nous te connaissons et sommes fort aise de ta venue dans notre refuge, caché pour la plupart de tes congénères.
A la fin de la phrase 2 fées ailées virevoltantes se posent face à lui.
Une beauté brune aux ailes de papillon se présente:
Aglaë, fée de ce logis et voici Phytatë, membre de notre sororité.
Phytatë a des cheveux couleur d'émeraude et des ailes de libellule.
Celle ci croisant son regard le rassure:
N'aie aucune crainte, nous connaissons ton âme de poète, tu es notre invité d'honneur.
Prévenues de ton arrivée, un banquet nous attend au salon.
Toutes 2 le guident, l'installe dans un fauteuil replet.
Des robes bruissent, des talons marquent la cadence.
Anselme se retrouve entouré d'une jolie tablée d'une vingtaine de fées papotant à loisir sur la fête du jour.
Les mets sont succulents, le vin lui chamboule les sens.
Après une tisane chaleureuse, il se lève, bon pied bon œil, croise un miroir, s'arrête estomaqué.
Il a retrouvé son allure des 30 ans, le cheveu dru, les traits lisses, les muscles vigoureux et l'âme recueillie.
Aglaë lui sourit, tu as l'air bienheureux.
Le seul merci dont nous aurions besoin, c'est d'écouter tous ces contes qui ont traversé ton esprit.
Alors il se lance, les mots jaillissent en un torrent de facéties, d'espiègleries, de rondeurs suaves autant que surannées.
Anselme est très surpris, elles ont l'air subjuguées par ses récits qui se prolongent tard dans la soirée sans qu'elles manifestent la moindre fatigue.

Il s'interrompt pour bailler. Phytatë se lève.
Merci beaucoup pour cette soirée de bonheurs partagés, je vais te montrer ta chambre pour un sommeil réparateur peuplé de songes doux voire fiévreux.
La chambre est vaste, atmosphère ouatée, lit à baldaquins confortable.
Il s'endort, un rêve s'empare de lui.
Il est debout face à une armoire sculptée.
En l'ouvrant, des clefs de toutes sortes frémissent à son regard.
Une voix lui dit :
Choisis celle qui te plaît, elle décide de ton destin et du notre par la même occasion.
Une petite clef dorée et bien fine le captive.
A peine l'a-t-il saisie que la porte se referme.
D'un pas il se trouve face à un placard entre 2 tapisseries. La clef fonctionne.
Un parchemin enluminé trône sur un écritoire.
Il est écrit : code d'armement de la bombe atomique suivi de signes tarabiscotés.
Le rêve poursuit son chemin le guérissant des peurs accumulées dans les bévues de sa vie.

Au matin le parchemin est toujours dans sa main. Aglaë le salue :
Nous sommes ravies de ton choix, tu sais déjà où cela te mène.
Quand tout sera accompli, reviens vers nous passer des jours heureux.
Phytatë le ramène jusqu'au 1er arrêt de bus.
Anselme rentre chez lui, contacte wikileaks et leur donne le code d'armement atomique.
Le lendemain, les infos annoncent que wikileaks a reçu et publié les codes de tous les armements atomiques de la planète.
L'ONU se réunit séance tenante et adopte la motion suivante à l'unanimité :
Toutes les armes atomiques sont proscrites.
L'AIEA va faire le tour de toutes les capitales concernées pour les désarmer.
Anselme rit aux éclats et reprend derechef le chemin du château des fées.
@thierry3b2
#conte #ecriture #atelier #fees #chateau #historiette #cadeau #poesie #positif #mywork

            THE CASTLE OF FAIRIES ( gift for chrismas time)

Anselme bends the spine, no wonder, at 103 years old he is lost on this tortuous path that illuminates from far away by fleeting lights.
Here he is very quickly navigating in the fog, a mist of gaze fades revealing the contours of a castle with raised walls
of flickering.
The drawbridge is signalled by 2 lamps with changing colors.
Anselme crosses the railing, advances into the courtyard.

A graceful voice fills the space:
Welcome to Monsieur Anselme, we know you and are very pleased that you have come to our refuge, hidden for most of your fellow men.
At the end of the sentence 2 flying fairies are standing in front of him.
A brown beauty with butterfly wings presents:
Aglaë, fairy of this house and this is Phytatë, member of our sorority.
Phytatë has emerald-colored hair and dragonfly wings.
The woman who crosses her eyes reassures him:
Have no fear, we know your soul of poet, you are our guest of honor.
We are warned of your arrival, and a banquet awaits us in the lounge.
All 2 guide him, installs him in a full armchair.
Robes rustle, heels mark the cadence.
Anselme is surrounded by a beautiful table of twenty fairies chatting at leisure on the day’s party.
The dishes are delicious, the wine is stirring his senses.
After a warm tea, he gets up, good foot good eye, crosses a mirror, stops stunned.
He has regained his 30-year-old look, the drab hair, the smooth lines, the vigorous muscles and the collected soul.
Aglaë smiles at him, you look happy.
The only thanks we need is to listen to all these stories that have crossed your mind.
Then he starts, the words spring into a torrent of jokes, mischief, roundness as soft as old-fashioned.
Anselme is very surprised, they seem to be overwhelmed by his stories that last until late in the evening without showing any fatigue.

He stops to yawn. Phytatë gets up.
Thank you very much for this evening of shared happiness, I will show you your room for a restful sleep populated by sweet dreams or feverish.
The room is spacious, quilted atmosphere, comfortable canopy bed.
He falls asleep, a dream takes hold of him.
He is standing in front of a carved cabinet.
Opening it, keys of all kinds tremble at his gaze.
A voice says to him:
Choose the one you like, it decides your fate and ours at the same time.
A small golden and fine key captivates him.
He barely grasped it, the door closes.
One step it is in front of a closet between 2 tapestries. The key works.
A illuminated parchment sits on a writing pad.
It is written: code of the atomic bomb followed by tarabissime signs.
The dream continues its path healing him from the fears accumulated in the mistakes of his life.

In the morning the parchment is still in his hand. Aglaë greets him:
We are delighted with your choice, you already know where it leads.
When all is accomplished, come back to us for happy days.
Phytatë takes him to the first bus stop.
Anselme goes home, contacts wikileaks and gives them the code of atomic weapons.
The next day, news reports that wikileaks has received and published the codes for all the atomic weapons on the planet.
The UN meets immediately and unanimously adopts the following motion:
All nuclear weapons are proscribed.
The IAEA will tour all the capitals concerned to disarm them.
Anselme laughs and takes the path to the fairies' castle again.
@thierry3b2
#story #writing #workshop #fairies #castle #gift #poetry #positive #mywork

                                      El castillo de las hadas (regalo para navidad)

Anselmo curva el lomo, no muy sorprendente, a los 103 años se pierde en este camino tortuoso que ilumina de lejos las luciérnagas fugaces.

Allí, rápidamente navegando en la niebla, una gasa de niebla se desvanece revelando los contornos radiantes de un castillo con paredes realzadas por parpadeos.
El puente levadizo se caracteriza por 2 lámparas de colores cambiantes.
Anselmo cruza la reja, se acerca al patio.

Una voz graciosa llena el espacio:
Bienvenido al señor Anselmo, te conocemos y estamos muy contentas de tu llegada a nuestro refugio, escondido para la mayoría de tus congéneres. Al final de la frase 2 hadas aladas giran frente a él.

Una belleza morena con alas de mariposa se presenta:
Aglaë, hada de esta casa y esta es Phytatë, miembro de nuestra fraternidad.
Phytatë tiene cabello de color esmeralda y alas de libélula.
La mirada de ella le tranquiliza:
No tengas miedo, conocemos tu alma de poeta, eres nuestro invitado de honor.
Nos espera un banquete en el salón.
Las dos lo guían, lo instalan en una silla repleta.
Los vestidos rugen, los tacones marcan el ritmo.
Anselme se encuentra rodeado por una bonita mesa de unas veinte hadas que charlan a su antojo sobre la fiesta del día.
Los platos son deliciosos, el vino le revuelve los sentidos.
Después de un té de hierbas caliente, se levanta, buen pie ojo, se cruza con un espejo, se detiene aturdido.
Ha recuperado su aspecto de los 30 años, el pelo dru, los rasgos lisos, los músculos vigorosos y el alma recogida. Aglaë le está sonriendo.
Te ves muy feliz.
El único agradecimiento que necesitamos es escuchar de tu boca todos los cuentos que han pasado por tu mente .
Entonces se lanza, las palabras brotan en un torrente de bromas, travesuras, redondeces suaves tanto como anticuadas.
Anselme está muy sorprendido, parecen subyugadas por sus relatos que se prolongan hasta bien entrada la noche sin que manifiesten la menor fatiga. Se detuvo para bostezar.
Phytatë se está levantando.
Muchas gracias por esta noche de felicidad compartida, te mostraré tu habitación para un sueño reparador poblado de sueños dulces incluso febriles.
La habitación es amplia, ambiente mullido, cama con dosel cómodo.

Se duerme, un sueño se apodera de él.
Está de pie frente a un armario tallado.
Al abrirla, las llaves de todo tipo tiemblan a su mirada.
Una voz le dice:
Elige la que te guste, ella decide tu destino y el nuestro al mismo tiempo.
Una pequeña llave dorada y fina lo cautiva.

Apenas lo agarró, la puerta se cerró.
De un paso se encuentra frente a un armario entre dos tapices.
La llave está funcionando.
Hay un pergamino iluminado sobre un escritorio.
Está escrito: código de armamento de la bomba atómica seguido de signos tarabiados.
El sueño continúa su camino curándolo de los miedos acumulados en los errores de su vida.
Por la mañana el pergamino sigue en su mano.
Aglaë le da la bienvenida:
Estamos encantados con tu elección, ya sabes a dónde te lleva.
Cuando todo esté hecho, vuelve a pasar días felices.
Phytatë lo lleva al primer autobús.

Anselme vuelve a casa, contacta a Wikileaks y les da el código de armamento atómico.
Al día siguiente, las noticias anuncian que Wikileaks ha recibido y publicado los códigos de todas las armas atómicas del planeta.
Las Naciones Unidas se reúnen a continuación y aprueban por unanimidad la siguiente moción:
Todas las armas atómicas están prohibidas.
El OIEA visitará todas las capitales pertinentes para desarmarlas.
Anselmo se ríe a carcajadas y retoma el camino del castillo de las hadas.
@thierry3b2
#cuento #escritura #taller #hada #castillo #regalo #poesia #mitrabajo #positivo

Ep – 40

The consumption of blue, mining a ashen sky silver, Winter’s noble coverage, never forward for the monochrome patter. If technicality placed soil before country, then streaming could river out her defining whiteness, a witness for patronage, the else accrued, silver belongs the knight. Samuel lifted those skies with airs of patriotism, thundered the scorched land, a documentation of habitat. Napals cat introducing Chaucer the fonder reservations, his linage, the augmented annunciation, captivity provided the seventh adaptation too the studios first edition.

Conformity was renewal, hacked the speed of documentation, loved Nepals handwritten monetary skills, predilection the rain befell Chaucer his alignment with country. Culture was exchanged for litigation, they firstly prepared a river to street the streaming, a name made capital by Winters encouraging stores, threads the bare sky renewed, pocketed the studio, seven a success.

Juvenile words, worded in the making of fundamental magazines, aplenty saw the niceties of Chaucer and Nepal. Sprawling thoroughfares the gestation from incremental rain adaptation, drops of silvery arteries, translucent time, silver streams, applicable for Winter’s a silvery wristband made before sisterly love. ©️

#sketches #art #drawings #writing myblog

Ep – 40

The consumption of blue, mining a ashen sky silver, Winter’s noble coverage, never forward for the monochrome patter. If technicality placed soil before country, then streaming could river ou…

https://social.growyourown.services/@FediGarden/113618459189716959 FediGarden@social.growyourown.services - Indie Authors Social is a Mastodon server for independent self-published authors who want to support each other, as well as anyone who appreciates their work:

:Fediverse: https://indieauthors.social

You can find out more at https://indieauthors.social/about or contact the admin @steaphan

#FeaturedServer #Authors #Writing #Books #IndieAuthors #IndieBooks #SelfPublishing #Mastodon #Fediverse #FreeFediverse

"Here there was no arranging or 'inventing'; everything was spontaneous and took its own place, right or wrong."

From The Writer's Almanac 12/7/2013

It's the birthday of the woman who said: "It is a solemn and terrible thing to write a novel." That's the novelist Willa Cather, born in the village of Back Creek near Winchester, Virginia (1873). When Cather was nine years old, she and her family left their home in Virginia to homestead in Nebraska, and the Nebraska prairie is the setting of her great novels O Pioneers! (1913) and My Àntonia (1918).

But Cather's productive years as a writer were spent not in Nebraska but in New York City. She moved there in 1906 when she was offered a job as managing editor at McClure's magazine. She lived with Edith Lewis in a studio apartment at 60 Washington Square South, in a red-brick row house, on a block called "Genius Row" because over the years its tenants included Stephen Crane, Frank Norris, O. Henry, Eugene O'Neill, Theodore Dreiser, and John Dos Passos. Despite living in the midst of it, Cather seems to have stayed at the periphery of the Bohemian community of Greenwich Village.

Willa Cather worked at McClure's for five years, but it was stressful work, and she was not writing much of her own fiction. In December of 1908, she got a letter from her mentor, the writer Sarah Orne Jewett. Jewett wrote: "My dear Willa, — I have been thinking about you and hoping that things are going well. I cannot help saying what I think about your writing and its being hindered by such incessant, important, responsible work as you have in your hands now. I do think that it is impossible for you to work so hard and yet have your gifts mature as they should — when one's first working power has spent itself nothing ever brings it back just the same, and I do wish in my heart that the force of this very year could have gone into three or four stories. [...] I want you to be surer of your backgrounds, — you have your Nebraska life, — a child's Virginia, and now an intimate knowledge of what we are pleased to call the 'Bohemia' of newspaper and magazine-office life. These are uncommon equipment, but you don't see them yet quite enough from the outside [...] You need to dream your dreams and go on to new and more shining ideals, to be aware of 'the gleam' and to follow it; your vivid, exciting companionship in the office must not be your audience, you must find your own quiet center of life, and write from that to the world that holds offices, and all society, all Bohemia; the city, the country — in short, you must write to the human heart, the great consciousness that all humanity goes to make up."

It took Cather awhile to take Jewett's advice. A couple of years later, she quit her job at McClure's, but even then she did not dig into her own background for her work. Instead, she published her first novel, Alexander's Bridge (1912), which she later admitted was a forced effort. After she published her first novel about Nebraska, O Pioneers! (1913), she knew she had found her place as a writer. She compared writing O Pioneers! to writing Alexander's Bridge: "Here there was no arranging or 'inventing'; everything was spontaneous and took its own place, right or wrong."

Cather followed up O Pioneers! with My Àntonia (1918), another novel set in the prairies of her childhood. An interviewer asked Cather if My Àntonia was so good because it was rooted in the Nebraska soil. She said: "No, no, decidedly no. There is no formula; there is no reason. It was a story of people I knew. I expressed a mood, the core of which was like a folksong, a thing Grieg could have written. That it was powerfully tied to the soil had nothing to do with it. Àntonia was tied to the soil. But I might have written the tale of a Czech baker in Chicago, and it would have been the same. It was nice to have her in the country; it was more simple to handle, but Chicago could have told the same story. It would have been smearier, joltier, noisier, less sugar and more sand, but still a story that had as its purpose the desire to express the quality of these people. No, the country has nothing to do with it; the city has nothing to do with it; nothing contributes consciously. The thing worth while is always unplanned. Any art that is a result of preconcerted plans is a dead baby."

Cather's other novels include The Song of the Lark (1915), One of Ours (1922), and Death Comes for the Archbishop (1927).

https://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php%3Fdate=2013%252F12%252F07.html

#writers #writing #literature

There’s No Longer Any Doubt That #Hollywood Writing Is Powering #AI

Source: https://www.theatlantic.com/technology/archive/2024/11/opensubtitles-ai-data-set/680650/

#technology #entertainment #story #movie #business #economy #future #news #writing #jobs #work

There’s No Longer Any Doubt That Hollywood Writing Is Powering AI

Dialogue from these movies and TV shows has been used by companies such as Apple and Anthropic to train AI systems.

Ep – 39

To bend the bent, was to align store with romance, visual to those preceding compassion, scenery for the fallen poet, because and were the outcry of subtle indifference, learner the fatal, reactionary for one Hamlet, Ken’s sutures those common for acknowledgement. The trail were the wares making shape, hallmarked an exchanging thought, variable retort for life-experience, shaping a knowledge is learnt, consistent to the empirical house, stops and the walled latches. Interchanges a Hamlet in repertoire to the eighth edition, silver clouds, macro linages of default numbers, security by the exchanging senate, love placed those words inseparable if the viewer, grave on the tutelage, one cloud has fragments of silvery lovers.

The fall was extreme desire, not to become desirable, as we create desire by being desired by those welfare to one another, the addressing Hamlet, by studio Eight. Fashioned with example; difference is compatibly against warfare, homage is extended love, one could occupy with finite language. The institute of time, the carriage familiar within those about us, the gift of reason, politic genuine for interchange, assumption the learner presents, the vocal impediment of anew.

Samuel was to steward the previous words with matrimony, not the steely definition, but the cast betrothed to our hamlet, the senate had expired their barbaric warfare for leadership, one by democracy, plutonic servitude to social discrepancies. Interfaces a warfare could deconstruct, equality through time supporting, his word, words re-enacting Kens Hamlet, besiege to listen, equate wisdom, bloodletting to stifle any effect, without causation. ©️

#sketches #digital #makeover #writing myblog

Ep – 39

To bend the bent, was to align store with romance, visual to those preceding compassion, scenery for the fallen poet, because and were the outcry of subtle indifference, learner the fatal, reaction…

The Writer's Almanac from Saturday, November 30, 2013

It's the birthday of the man who said, "A successful book is not made of what is in it, but of what is left out of it": Mark Twain, born Samuel Clemens in Florida, Missouri (1835). In 1867, he published his first book, a book of short stories called The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County. It didn't sell many copies, but two years later, he published The Innocents Abroad (1869), a humorous book of travel writing. It was an immediate best-seller, and remained the best-selling of all Twain's books during his lifetime. In it, he wrote: "We wish to learn all the curious, outlandish ways of all the different countries, so that we can 'show off' and astonish people when we get home. We wish to excite the envy of our own untraveled friends with our strange foreign fashions which we can't shake off. All our passengers are paying strict attention to this thing, with the end in view which I have mentioned. The gentle reader will never, never know what a consummate ass he can become, until he goes abroad."

During the next 25 years, Twain published most of his best-known books: Tom Sawyer (1876), Life on the Mississippi (1883), and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn (1884). Then he teamed up with his nephew to publish the memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant, which were hugely successful. But after these successes, things began to fall apart. Twain invested money into all sorts of companies, including throwing a huge amount of money behind an invention by one of his friends: an automatic typesetting machine called the Paige Compositor. Twain was dazzled by the invention; he described the machine as a "magnificent creature" and a "sublime magician of iron and steel." He wrote to his brother: "All the other wonderful inventions of the human brain sink pretty nearly into commonplace contrasted with this awful mechanical miracle. Telephones, telegraphs, locomotive, cotton gins, sewing machines [...] — all mere toys, simplicities, The Paige Compositor marches alone and far in the lead of human inventions." The typesetter was a dismal failure, and Twain went bankrupt.

Twain published another book, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court (1889), but it got bad reviews and didn't sell very well. His financial situation got worse and worse, and he moved to Europe, where his family could live well for less money. He sold rights for a new novel to Century Magazine for $6,500, and quickly wrote Pudd'nhead Wilson (1894). It sold better than A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court, but not well enough, so he earned money on a worldwide lecture tour.

In 1896, his favorite daughter, Susy, died at the age of 24 from spinal meningitis. Twain, his wife, Livy, and their daughter Clara were living in England when they got word that Susy was ill, and she died before they could make it home. After Susy's death, Twain sank into depression. A few years later, in 1904, his beloved wife, Livy, died. A year after her death, on this day in 1905, Twain turned 70 and had a huge party at Delmonico's restaurant in New York City. There were 170 guests, including Willa Cather, Frances Hodgson Burnett, and Andrew Carnegie. The guests assembled in a parlor, and at 8 p.m. a 40-piece orchestra played a march to alert them that it was time for dinner. Each guest's menu had drawings of Twain in different stages of his life, including in his most recent career as a lecturer — that drawing showed him proclaiming, "Be good and you will be lonesome." Each guest received a 12-inch bust of Twain as a souvenir.

After dinner, several telegrams were read aloud, including one from President Theodore Roosevelt, lamenting the fact that he could not attend; and another full of birthday wishes from a group of British writers, including Rudyard Kipling, J.M. Barrie, Thomas Hardy, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Twain's good friend, the writer and publisher William Dean Howells, gave a toast that ended in a sonnet he had written for the occasion.

After Howells' toast, Twain got up and gave a speech. He compared his 70h birthday to his first, and decided that the 70th was far superior; he said: "I remember the first one very well, and I always think of it with indignation; everything was so crude, unaesthetic, primeval. [...] Why, even the cradle wasn't whitewashed — nothing ready at all. I hadn't any hair, I hadn't any teeth, I hadn't any clothes." He said, "I have achieved my 70 years in the usual way: by sticking strictly to a scheme of life which would kill anybody else." Then he proceeded to explain the lifestyle that had gotten him there, which included eating mince-pie after midnight; smoking at all times when he was awake (including in bed); avoiding exercise at all costs; and living what he called "a severely moral life." He ended his speech: "I am 70; 70, and would nestle in the chimney corner, and smoke my pipe, and read my book, and take my rest, wishing you well in all affection, and that when you in your turn shall arrive at pier No. 70 you may step aboard your waiting ship with a reconciled spirit, and lay your course toward the sinking sun with a contented heart."

https://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php%3Fdate=2013%252F11%252F30.html

#writing #literature #thewritersalmanac

A quotation from Sagan, Carl

Writing is perhaps the greatest of human inventions, binding together people, citizens of distant epochs, who never knew one another. Books break the shackles of time, proof that humans can work magic.

Carl Sagan (1934-1996) American scientist and writer
Cosmos, ch. 11 “The Persistence of Memory” (1980)

#quote #quotes #quotation #books #communication #continuity #humanity #writing
Sourcing / notes: https://wist.info/sagan-carl/73106/

The Balm of Life
Short Story by Miles Harvey

https://lithub.com/balm-of-life/

#stories #literature #writing

“Balm of Life”

The ancient twins stood shoulder to shoulder at her doorstep, indistinguishable from each other right down to the matching salmon sport coats, as if in all their years they had never abandoned the …

https://indieauthors.social/@garrett/113512141116871490 garrett@indieauthors.social - There is “Leave a Poem, Take a Poem” mailbox in my small town of Bremerton Washington but there are NEVER any poems in there! It seriously bums me out! Let’s change that.

Submit your poems to this form: https://tinyurl.com/mailboxpoetry and I will print them out and stuff this thing to the gills!

#poetrycommunity #poetry #poem #poetryisnotdead #writing #writingcommunity #writingmonth #amwriting

Liminal Garrett (@garrett@indieauthors.social)

Attached: 1 image There is “Leave a Poem, Take a Poem” mailbox in my small town of Bremerton Washington but there are NEVER any poems in there! It seriously bums me out! Let’s change that. Submit your poems to this form:...

#writing #painting #acrylics on canvas 40x50cm

Ep – 37

It was the expediency for what of, the homage a supplement question could imply. They rearrange calibrated silver, the last to adorn the mindful matrix, ology to the study, entropy and implies, the notation in effect, causation the bilingual cat, their seventeenth life expectancy. Drove to the pharmacy, practicality were the bloodletting spools of a gathering toxicity, strawberry swelling the puncher tired, the rounding wheel, housed in dreadlock paper bags, silver or the pincers provided for takeaway.

How could she know i could not know her spiel, chaired the very next exit, writing words they did not receive, two to many forecasts, winter was a summery, the caption was the longevity to relent to remarks about placement. Capture my task, seed the world in captivity, strange how the adorning words don’t place you secondary to thought. And driving rain is not the word for excessive credibility, Samuel reloaded his instructions, it came for him via visual roads, silver chatter of state and redress. Episodic trails should not curtail in explaining heritage for the original cover story.

Atrophy were all he new, silver fashioned with witness, with seed, the encouraged nightfall, tangerine and a cry she never screen, until monochrome bled with silver, seventeen calculations, geometry forged the table you never spoke of. Wrote the addendum in print, as Samuels cartridge wrote a round of prescriptions, save for the edition of warfare, fashioned out of honey and seed, closet for verse, repatriation loaned with furthermore, storage a wellbeing of tomorrow. Winter whispers to her owl in sorrow, leaving morning frosts for adorning the longing speed of silver, cloth tabled linen, seasoning in the starry night, addendum to the emptying breach. ©️

myblog

Ep – 37

It was the expediency for what of, the homage a supplement question could imply. They rearrange calibrated silver, the last to adorn the mindful matrix, ology to the study, entropy and implies, the…

**

From the Writer’s Almanac 11/17/2013**

It’s the birthday of American novelist and historian Shelby Foote, born in Greenville, Mississippi (1916). He was a successful novelist when, in 1952, he accepted the suggestion of his publisher to write a short history of the Civil War to complement his novel Shiloh (1952). Foote is best known for his trilogy, The Civil War: A Narrative.

He grew up on the Mississippi-Yazoo Delta, once a great swamp filled with alligators and water moccasin snakes. As a teenager, Foote sold poems to magazines for 50 cents apiece. He was editor of the high school paper and liked to give the principal a hard time. When Foote applied to attend college at Chapel Hill, the principal wrote a letter saying not to let Foote into their school under any circumstances. Foote got in his car and drove to North Carolina to register anyway and they let him in. He was a literary prodigy there along with his classmate Walker Percy, who was his best friend for 60 years.

When Foote was 19 years old, he and Walker Percy were planning to drive from Foote’s hometown, Greenville, Mississippi, through William Faulkner’s hometown of Oxford, Mississippi. Foote suggested they stop in Oxford and try to meet him. Percy waited in the car while Foote went up the cedar tree-lined walkway to Faulkner’s house. He was greeted in the yard by three hounds, two fox terriers, and a Dalmatian. Soon, a small man, barefoot and wearing just a pair of shorts, appeared and asked Foote what he wanted. “Could you tell me where to find a copy of Marble Faun, Mr. Faulkner?” Foote asked. Faulkner was gruff and told him to contact his agent. Faulkner later befriended Foote, who walked Faulkner around the Civil War battlefields of Shiloh.

Foote once told Faulkner on one of their outings: “You know, I have every right to be a better writer than you. Your literary idols were Joseph Conrad and Sherwood Anderson. Mine are Marcel Proust and you. My writers are better than yours.”

Foote spent the last 25 years of his life working on an epic novel about Mississippi called Two Gates to the City. It remained unfinished when he died in 2006.

https://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php%3Fdate=2013%252F11%252F17.html

#writing #literature

Summer Ending by David Middleton | The Writer's Almanac with Garrison Keillor

'Summer Ending' by David Middleton, and the literary and historical notes for Sunday, November 17, 2013.

From the Writer's Almanac 11/15/2013

It's the birthday of American artist Georgia O'Keeffe, born in Sun Prairie, Wisconsin (1887). She studied art in college and then supported herself teaching art at various colleges, but she found that teaching left her no time for her own work, and the turpentine smell of the art classrooms made her sick. She went for months and years on end without painting anything, only to start over again and try something new.

On a trip to Taos, New Mexico, O'Keeffe fell in love with the desert. She felt that the thin, dry air helped her to see better, and she devoted the rest of her career to painting desert mountains, flowers, stones, and skulls.

Georgia O'Keeffe said: "Nothing is less real than realism. Details are confusing. It is only by selection, by elimination, by emphasis, that we get at the real meaning of things."

https://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php%3Fdate=2013%252F11%252F15.html

#writing #literature

Painting

#painting on #canvas 60cm x 60cm #acrylics #abstract #portrait
#writing ©️ #myblog

Ep – 36

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The score was ceded with a plump gamey autobiography, she managed time to, reciprocate the endless refute for a spokesperson on politics. Social membership, woke-political-auto-correct deemed the views of another, a substant location, of the magazines subscription localized to informing the viewer, they too, were to, inform the steward of phosphorous carbonated water you drink is capital to capitalize the return of delicious. Opposition agreed for a metric of water, tabled the costly interaction of localized immunity, pink or orange, orange or pink.

Chaucer reread the subversive scripture, italic dispersions, outlay to the amended studio, nuptial inclusions of land, owned the stately page of remembrance. The freewill of embodiment, documented in cover of language, multitude in a landfall of marriage, harmony for spiritual capitalising welfare, craftmanship for a reliant spokesperson on reformation. Inclusion of integrating participation for only state, the feast upon duality, marksmanship of social interaction, combining wealth with tradition, odious states of warfare, to the tradition of bread, cherished names, and the subnet score, bordered by the adored.

Ep-36

Ep – 36

Streaming ideology, they ship the first steward, familiar with chromosome somatic inlays, bread or for codes of conduct. They space emblematic ties, the routine professional, the hourglass of resum…

A quotation from Sagan, Carl

A book is made from a tree. It is an assemblage of flat, flexible parts (still called “leaves”) imprinted with dark pigmented squiggles. One glance at it and you hear the voice of another person, perhaps someone dead for thousands of years. Across the millennia, the author is speaking, clearly and silently, inside your head, directly to you.

Carl Sagan (1934-1996) American scientist and writer
Cosmos (1980)

#quote #quotes #quotation #author #book #writing #communication
Sourcing / notes: https://wist.info/sagan-carl/72917/

MyBlog #painting #canvas #acrylics 60x60cm. #abstract

Ep – 35

Similar vocal resolutions, Ken discharged the settings to have a primary information, introspected for defining a reconnecting node, troublesome thoughts occupied the disbelieve, accreditation surrounded in sublime fortification. The grove showed in ecology, the trickle down stream, were redirected to forecast a expanding eco tautology, infrastructure magnate to the wildlife, workers of reconstructing their habitual habitat reclusive of affable metrics, introduced silicon for maintaining connectivity. Those incumbent for senate, applied to a lesser appease, silver or mainstream theatre, watchable in general reconstructing warfare, patronage for the disarming thoroughfare, increased seclusion for the torrent.

Wearable nodes of silvery manufacture, increasing patronage of captivity, Ken reported on the salvage, one could consume without ecological disruption, future benefits the same locative aspirants, informative composition of stead and home to recovery, nodes of replenish, cabal to welfare lesser destructive carbonated infrastructure.

Supporting the deconstruct of streaming landscapes, infantile abolishment of general replicating the windfall of exposing land, for exposing affable reclusion. Masking a emblematic mistrust for occupational expenditures, one crown of silver, two decisive crowns of land, one exposed for the crowning future, the other, exposing land, the value of replicating, the value of connectivity to stream a thought of wellbeing, silver nodes, replicating in asymmetry. #writing ©️

Ep – 35

Similar vocal resolutions, Ken discharged the settings to have a primary information, introspected for defining a reconnecting node, troublesome thoughts occupied the disbelieve, accreditation surr…

While I did get a solid start on my first day of NaNoWriMo, my schedule the next two days sort of zapped me (for good reasons) so I made literally no progress. Today is another busy day but I"m going to try to make up for lost time. #writing #NaNoWriMo

First day of NaNoWriMo summary: chose one of my queued up novel concepts; pursuing it with the "excavating a fossil" Stephen King type methodology; logging it all in Novlr.org not the actual site (for reasons). Stats: 1869 of 1667 target words for day written. #NaNoWriMo #writing

Novlr: the creative writing workspace designed with your writing goals in mind

With Novlr, you can achieve your writing goals. Built by writers and owned by its writing community, Novlr helps you progress along every stage of your writing journey.

A quotation from Tuchman, Barbara

Books are the carriers of civilization. Without books, history is silent, literature, dumb, science crippled, thought and speculation at a standstill. Without books, the development of civilization would have been impossible. The are engines of change (as the poet said), windows on the world, and lighthouses erected in the sea of time. They are companions, teachers, magicians, bankers of the treasures of the mind. Books are humanity in print.

Barbara W. Tuchman (1912-1989) American historian and author
“The Book,” Lecture, Library of Congress (1979-10-17)

#quote #quotes #quotation #books #history #civilization #library #literacy #literature #meme #reading #science #writing
Sourcing / notes: https://wist.info/tuchman-barbara/28912/