I woke up having a burning desire to do National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). I forgot what the "story" in my dream that prompted it was but I have a whole slew of story ideas I've been meaning to start. It also gives me a chance to finally try out Novlr.org for "real" too. #NaNoWriMo #writing
Ep – 34
The displaced epigraph read Twenty-two, Albert reconstructed symmetrical time, what you have, having redressed, is foreseeable in a reconstructed nexus, a plausible reaction in, social patronage, a template for disarmament. Procurement the celebration of a social nexus, times dilute interaction with remembrance, the cylindrical time in opposable conflict to re-enactment, those votes exchange the variable interactions. Should the same repeat in age, the experiment will counteract equivalent time, the time when history is shown to annual events, the spirt burnished to the centrifuge of regression, enveloped with a nexus of the fragile matrix.
Beta blocks we rebuild science for a computable language, pioneer to the amass transposed to build and product, imagination. Supply music with art, format interactive nuances, slate for the destructive churn, warfare is combating to exponential knowledge, destruction by knowing the carnage one by score, could reply. Albert lifted the sky without gravity, seeing what you don’t, doing the math of reconstruction. Holistic energies forward the constructive unknown, studio seven were to plagarisum, the very exist, our imagery conceals to replica philosophy, the article read in real time provocation, a second to midnight poetry. Yet they artificial the energy collected through a untharwarted centrifuge, the energy needed for computing all we are encapsulated to, science, by survival, a ritual by medicines, the very life a welfare of re-enactment supposes to: the shaping of restorating a neutron of computation.
Choose universal energy to support interacting time, supplication for rounding our ashen skies a blue sky visible, supportive of reconstructing age with time. Gravity needing the owls, decompression of matrix in saliant time, compression of temperate lands, construction of traditional meals and a recreational mindful place for our world. Those variable social interacting exchanges, the upkeep for spirt, pleasures and pleasure from provisional experiences from one to many of our supplementary accreditation, support an energy supporting to the creativity of substance. Copyright
#writing #myblog #canvas #acrylics #art #portrait 40x50cm #painting
In our time, political speech and writing are largely the defence of the indefensible. Things like the continuance of British rule in India, the Russian purges and deportations, the dropping of the atom bombs on Japan, can indeed be defended, but only by arguments which are too brutal for most people to face, and which do not square with the professed aims of political parties. Thus political language has to consist largely of euphemism, question-begging and sheer cloudy vagueness.
George Orwell (1903-1950) English writer [pseud. of Eric Arthur Blair]
Essay (1946-04), “Politics and the English Language,” Horizon Magazine
#quote #quotes #quotation #euphemism #politics #writing #justification #speech #vagueness
Sourcing / notes: https://wist.info/orwell-george/72718/
From The Writer's Almanac from Friday, October 25, 2013
Today is the birthday of novelist Anne Tyler, born in Minneapolis, Minnesota, in 1941. She's written 19 novels, most of them set in Baltimore, where she's lived since 1967. Her family moved around a lot when she was small, and they finally settled in a Quaker commune in the mountains of North Carolina. Certain myths have sprung up about her childhood, probably because she doesn't give many interviews and people have drawn their own conclusions. Some say she didn't wear shoes or go to school until she was 11. She did, in fact, attend a one-room school for all the children who lived on the mountain. There weren't a lot of books, though, so she read Little Women 22 times. Living in the relative isolation of the commune was good training for a fledgling novelist; she says it gave her a bit of distance from the rest of the world, training her to be a slightly detached observer of it.
She published her first novel, If Morning Ever Comes (1964), when she was 23. In her early days as a writer, John Updike reviewed her, saying she was "not merely good, but wickedly good." But she wishes she could go back and eliminate her first four books; she didn't really believe in revising in those days, preferring to keep her writing spontaneous. She's changed her opinion since then, and now says, "Spontaneity is not always a good thing." Her best novel — at least in her opinion — is her ninth: Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant (1982). She published it when she was 40, and it was a finalist for the PEN/Faulkner Award and the Pulitzer Prize. Her 10th novel, The Accidental Tourist (1985), was also a finalist for the Pulitzer, and she finally took home the coveted award for her next novel, Breathing Lessons (1988).
Tyler keeps a card file in which she's written snatches of ideas or scenes on hundreds of index cards. When the time comes to start a new novel, she turns to her file and flips through the cards, pulling out the ones that resonate with her. Then she enters a monthlong planning phase. When she's ready to begin, she writes in longhand on unlined white paper. Then she types each section as she completes it, and rewrites it again in longhand. Finally, she reads the whole novel aloud to a tape recorder, to see if the dialogue rings true.
In the case of her most recent novel, she told the Guardian: "I was still in the very beginning, the month of looking at that sheet of white paper and saying what can I possibly do? And I heard a voice say in my brain very clearly: 'The strangest thing about my wife's return from the dead was how other people reacted.' A few minutes later the voice said: 'I have a couple of handicaps. I may not have mentioned that.'" That voice was the voice of Aaron, her protagonist, and the book that arose from it was her 19th, The Beginner's Goodbye (2012).
Unlike many novelists, she says she usually doesn't draw from her own life when coming up with ideas: "Writing is all about getting to do more. It would be very boring for me to have to live my life over again, I just want to live somebody else's," she told The New York Times. "I hate to travel, but writing a novel is like taking a long trip. This way I can stay peacefully at home."
Anne Tyler is currently at work on her 20th and (she says) final novel, which is to be titled A Spool of Blue Thread.
https://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/index.php%3Fdate=2013%252F10%252F25.html
Ep – 33
Placing time with abode, the evening clouds participated with Chatter mouse, threads binding a wistful brother, bounty by the sacred mind, they accost the dreamtime starry night. Inland drew the fasting hues of canvas, our star, tonight seeming to the distance, a reappear of the negligent patter of thought. My words you withdrew, those moments when they fleece lanolin for store, canvas for pigment or feasting ochre; for innovation the starry night rest her pupil, inviting numbers for a timeless store.
Attuning mechanics with blossom, time with automation, reluctance to dependent food a category by the multitude of petal, thorn, or the shimmer of star. Those words did not matter, a noun or subject to a redolent meal, shimmery stars placed to the seventh production of welfare, floral wares, plates retaining imprints to the distant nurture, copies of the fragrant bloom.
Decisive for the genealogy, templates curios gemstone, the rasping plate of fodder, unadulterated for the crow, spoon affixed their address bountiful, sate clouds of yellow and red verse. Patter prints to the flower, they delayed for a supplementary wish, carnivorous ashes, the earth foiled by longing the canvas a morning dew, upkeep to warfare the pupil somatic, treats the sunrise with merriment. Chatter mouse lifted those words, for the foreign language we see, handing servitude for a brittle place, between mending time, a quality made redundant by exclusion. ©️ #writing
Ep – 32
Dialogue metered Nepal a reactionary sense, made wells of print, somnolent to Winters coverage, Chaucer’s words renewed to then frozen ash, floes depleted with the indelible letters, words of life’s renewable love for store and coverage. Temperate parchment refilled her wistful scrolls, replacing word with cable, longing to the fading light, Nepal drew word to cartridge; Chaucer rounded his ties with signet fashion, looting for then, nomads attire.
Samuel shared to the free-spirited indulgent, a practice of pedagogical tutorage, subjective to the burn of language, the displaced spirit or redundancy by studios closure. The copywriters founded a semantic logic to Chaucer’s words, alike to have Winters bilateral quarter imposed on earning. Received to by the acclaim, forecast to inherent millennial years. Paris sent word to have indirectly words, reworded in pageant tradition, information was recluse to the disinformation, whereas information vestige to misinformation, concluded the semantics of emulating a foreign winter.
Quantum time rounded the warfare through spirit, the soul preceding tutor for exceeding physical laws, internal to welfare anima, spirit for defying grace, land interposed by the harmony, provided by natural surrounds. The cost of socialism, was detecting a classless resumption to systematic learning, decree for philosophy, art, or punctual to resume studio Seven, capital caricatures provided for stimulus, a flowers newer bud.
Studio six internalised the marginal success, with council of representation, the expediency of reform; humanities focus toward a centralized social integration, strident for equality, capital fortitude or community interactions. ©️ #writing
It's the birthday of short-story writer Katherine Mansfield, born Katherine Mansfield Beauchamp in Wellington, New Zealand (1888). An extremely rebellious young woman, she had affairs with men and women, lived with indigenous people, and published scandalous stories under a variety of pseudonyms. In a letter to a publisher she wrote, "[I have] a rapacious appetite for everything and principles as light as my purse." Mansfield's family gave her an allowance so she could leave New Zealand and move to London, and she lived so freely in the bohemian scene that her mother came to visit and threatened to throw her into a convent.
Then, in the summer of 1915, her younger brother came to visit. She hadn't seen him in years, they had long talks about growing up in New Zealand, and Mansfield found herself remembering things she hadn't thought about in years. It inspired her to write a series short stories about her childhood, including "The Garden Party," which made her famous. She died of tuberculosis a few years later in 1923, at the age of 34.
from The Writer's Almanac Archives: https://thewritersalmanac.substack.com/p/the-writers-almanac-from-monday-october-bd7
Simone Lia: Six ways to write a book – cartoon https://www.theguardian.com/culture/picture/2024/oct/13/simone-lia-six-ways-to-write-a-book-cartoon
The perk of writing: How expressive writing reduces depressive symptoms : Efendy Xu, Tara Yen Siang Tan, Hao Wang, Chen Sung Wong, KamYan Chong, Kususanto Ditto Prihadi — https://archive.org/details/31.-l-21103-40485-1-ed-adg/
#writing #depression
The legendary Louise Erdrich is the author of dozens of novels, children’s books, and poetry collections, earning a Pulitzer Prize, National Book Award, and two National Book Critics Circle Awards along the way. A member of the Turtle Mountain Band of Chippewa (Ojibwe), she also owns Birchbark Books, a small independent bookstore in Minneapolis. Here, in celebration of her new novel The Mighty Red, she shares memories of cheeky woodpeckers, a bold kingfisher, love for Ziggy Stardust, and spider relocation tips.
https://orionmagazine.org/article/louise-erdrich-orion-questionnaire
#writing #painting #art #acrylic on 40x50cm #copyright #abstract
Ep – 31
The Gem turned to stone, they rewarded the classified, another whom shared the upturned milk and honey. Monday displaced, categorising a cultural discord, harmonising reward to key notes, split atoms, the magazine placed the music in accord to the incandescent brother, their compunction shone a facet of retraction. Grace were spartan nomads, demoralising two for the social creed of inflection, spoilt with interacting benevolent connectivity, as success famed the carriage, those words interacted a void, meaningful to the beneficial Monday. Excluding patronage, the cover attracted some interest, flowers harvested to the excluding land, pillars had no contention without a resolution.
He swept those boards, rewarding appearance with ambient cartridge, the sojourn captive to concert Mondays’ words, attendance remittent for disclosure, the edition had occupied semblance, a warfare concluded with patriotism, if an apple compered, she would have spoilt pairing pears. The needled cushion was patterned to the reciprocal first studio of Samuels edition, belated patterns of a singular retention, lifted by the freewheeled exclusion, screenshot with screen writers compacity. They booklet original findings, threads for the lasting month. Twelve used-by dates, parcels parted the outgoing preliminary thoughts, upkeep bespoke the category, one in four preference, the one in three Monday’s, the stone’s lustre, had returned good fortune, staved by a sound cloud of industriously pregnant sheet music. Dormant the reciprocal computer, learnt exchanging goodwill, with goodwill, should domain in reproduction of posterity with proprietary goods exchanged.
The cloud returned those copies, forthwith. Latter to have insolvency, to a receivership of unfettered goods and copyrighted patterns, the milk churned butter to stone, sold in prefab additions, listed studio six as atomized masons of colliery gemstone. Free speech foreclosing on redirecting the articulate cabin, a baluster for informing the information correctly. Samuels export were then receiving the expired trade, with misinformation.
#painting #acrylic #writing #Ballerina on #canvas 60cmx60cm #myblog #copyright
Ep – 30
Studio-seven, reclined to omit altitude, times arc wrote peaceful notes, for they were the restoration, within consul, letters of manuscripts, adopted to the abbreviate with a longitude in word, to sage one another a presage one the other could align, not forethought to comrades darkest heart. Compellingly Samuel route, the road they paved, accredit to save conduction, recluse to challenge the patronage befell, inchoate they listened with restoring verse, compelling winter a reactionary tutelage, snow befell the stewards lips.
The recourse were knowing they both renewed another term, cavernous and pineapple replacement, experience opposed knowing the season, his shoulders a temple of majesty, drifting the omitted sun, they rewrote Conrad his expedition, soil the story chanced fewer weeds. Matriarchy diminished the welcome attention, spoke of reclaiming the night, belonging to the loam, founded by longing his chapel. Gifting the exchanging heart, had the restoration complete, altitude resides to participate the sanguine, she had Sanskrit a penguin to boarder my unknown.
The matter totalized Samuel a newer addition; capital accredit to reproduce the documenting audience, flowers stole the ascending winter a roomy sister, decay replaced the unearthed temple, a sovereign title to save the ingenuity, replenishing thistle with dystopia. Phlegmatic studio – seven, the first copy resold in numbers, a cover story, the magazine occupied to his warfare, disarming rationality, the dissolving owl, and placed conduct before our disclosure, naturalizing to a standout rehearsal, provocation loaning words before exemption.
http://adamblewett.blog/2024/09/18/ep-29/
#mypainting 50x60cm Canvas #acrylics #abstract springtime flower. #myblog #writing
#writing #photography
STREET PHOTOGRAPHY
Woman Writing
Stockholm, Sweden
I feel her pain, and cry with her. It's an amazing photograph.
Well, I use College Ruled Generic 70 sheet spiral notebooks from Office Depot :)
In a world of whispers, rise and speak,
A voice unique, no echoes weak.
Forge your path where none have tread,
Let your thoughts be boldly spread.
In shadows where the echoes hide,
Step into light, with strength and pride.
Be the voice that breaks the mold,
A story new, a truth untold.
Echoes fade in time's embrace,
But voices leave a lasting trace.
So dare to dream, to shout, to show,
Be a voice, let your spirit glow.
Banksy Poems
#banksypoems #poetry #poetryletters #poetrylovers #writersofinstagram #writer #writersofinstagram #Writing #author #poemoftheday #LIFE #lifelessons #lifeisgood #peace #loveislove
