What’s The Colour of Paprika?

I was having difficulty writing last week, hence the non-blogging, non-posting non-thinking non-action from me. Saturday, I decided to head to Chapters to see what’s up with books lately and wandered in with my expensive coffee and daughter in tow. Whilst perusing the aisles, I thought in order to kick start some ideas I would invest in a daily writing book. I wandered to the back where all of the discounted we-still-have-these-and-price-them-ridiculously-low-so-you-think-you-are-getting-a-deal books are located. I found one stuffed on a shelf under the heading ‘Writing and Other Shit’. I swear that’s what it said. Anyway, I bought the book for ten dollars and really should have taken a deeper look at it. It hails that it has 365 writing prompts to “INSPIRE YOU EVERYDAY!!” It looked good to me, so Sunday I cracked it open. The first prompts were to write about colours of herbs and spices and describe something that same colour.  I shit you not.  

What am I, in Grade 1?

By the way, BOOK OF INSPIRATION, I have no idea what the fuck herbs and spice look like other than salt and pepper. They’re spices, right? All I know is that most grow out of the ground and are green. Basically, you want me to describe everything that’s green. Awesome.


The only thing this book has accomplished so far was to make me even more of a sarcastic wise ass. Which is not really a bad thing and pretty par for the course, but I was expecting something a little deeper. More meaningful. More adult and less Grade 1 and what colour is Paprika? Answer: Reddish orangeish like Pippy Longstocking’s hair on acid. Kinda. I’M SO DESCRIPTIVE.

Today’s writing prompts were three events from different eras in history and it asked to describe a mundane event that may have happened on the same day. The first date was William Shakespeare’s death on April 23, 1616. Now, I’m no historical expert, so what the hell do I know what folks did on a daily basis in fucking 1616?!

This sucks.

Want to know my answer for that one?

Here it is:  

Too bad for William Shakespeare. 1616?! How am I supposed to know what folks did in 1616?! Killed kittens? Planned murderous plots against the King and Queen? Had their pantaloons tailored? Wrote shit poetry and answered everything with ‘where art thou?’ WTF…

If nothing else, I get to be a sardonic jerk without actually failing a course or having an actual writer person tell me I suck at this.

Which I do.

Tomorrow’s prompt?

Jesus Wept

Why? Because He read my last answer? Great. Can’t wait.  

Jesus isn’t the only one weeping.

Ugh 
 

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Lovely Car Noises and Bad Book Reads

The episode-that-shall-not-be-named has been hitting the rounds these days.  I’ve got a few people who know what happened and are only too pleased to tease the fuck out of me whenever possible.  It’s fun until someone loses an eye, people.

I recently read a book that I don’t usually read.  Just for kicks.  Have you read this stuff that is hitting the best seller list?  It was a new release by one of those authors that writes a bunch of books in a week and everyone reads them incessantly and the Best seller people decide to bestow the grand title of Best Seller and there’s mad dash to read a bad book…or three.   Gawd, it was like the cliché-monster was roaming around and decided to vomit all over her pages.  WTF was THAT?  The ending was bad…just bad.  If you happen to read it…just don’t.  Don’t waste your precious and valuable time.  Read something else.  Read Fifty Shades if you have to.  Really.  I’m fucking serious.  It wasn’t that it was THAT bad, it was just….kinda sappy and…uncomfortable.  Yeah.  Uncomfortable, that’s how it made me feel.  I didn’t care if the protagonist got her revenge and I didn’t care if the guy she slept with twenty years ago at a random college party and had a secret love child with (and neglected to tell him that little tidbit) and to whom she sent letters to every year for eighteen years ( so as to get some attention and perhaps cash to help raise the child) only to find out she HAD THE WRONG FUCKING ADDRESS!!…I didn’t care if he lived or died.  It just didn’t make me want to read more.  It kinda made me want to suggest an alternate ending.  Or suggest the protagonist find another hobby. Or stick cocktail forks angrily in my eyes.   Hmmm…So now that I’ve told you the ending, wanna read the book?   I should have posted a spoiler alert….

The WRONG Michaels....she is NOT the author I was referring to..

The WRONG Michaels….she is NOT the author I was referring to..

I’ve been wondering where I’ve been getting all these wonderful readers from lately who drop by and sign up or even read a bit.  And comment.  That’s so nice.  Especially since I am feeling a bit lonely out here underconnected and isolated.  How did they find me?  I wonder…

My lovely car is making a lovely rattling noise that nobody seems to know how it got there. Or where it’s coming from.   Further investigation is warranted, but I’m procrastinating.  AND, the bottom part of the bumper now has a permanent split in it where D1 slid into a snow bank.  Thanks for that, by the way.  Really.  It was better than her slamming into the rear of another car and she felt bad about it until I told her it was cracked before anyway…she just helped it along a little by splitting it completely in half.  I bet the tires will give out again soon just to round out my car-asspain-bit.  Awesome.  At least I’ve never run out of gas at an intersection nor have it completely stall out on a highway.  At least I have THAT TO BE THANKFUL FOR!  Yay me!

So, to round out today’s little bit: I’m getting the shit teased out of me for the episode-that-shall-not-be-named, I read a book that was a bit on the shitty side, my lovely car is making a strange lovely noise and I love my readers…thanks for checking in!!

The Taller The Chair, The Harder I Fall

I had a post all ready to go in my head at 7am and now it’s gone.  I hate it when that happens.  I should have immediately gotten out of bed and written the damned thing down.

Who am I kidding? There’s no way I would have gotten out of bed at that hour on a Saturday morning just to write something down.  Pfffttt….

I think the post had something to do with the Stephen King  book I’m rereading…or the stories I’m trying to write…or …hmm…I can’t remember.

I’m thinking it was King’s advice on writing that has me almost on the edge of throwing myself from the tallest chair in my vicinity and ending it all right now.  His expression of ‘there are bad writers everywhere’ has me hoping his finger is not pointing in my direction.  Not that it should…or it would.  I just think ‘Gawd, I don’t want to be that girl.  The girl who writes so badly everyone holds their collective noses in disgust and turns in rapid repulsion.’    Geesh…that would be just, just..fucking sucky.  Ugh.

I like that he suggests writers should read as much as possible.  I like that he attempts to be encouraging without trying to be too condescending or arrogant.  He actually comes off as your buddy who’s just trying to help you out a bit and he may have a few words of advice for we lowly lot…Not that he’s any good himself or anything.  Pfftt…he’s only Stephen King for God’s sake!!

Since my infamous and showy New Year’s resolution to ‘write more’ takes the cake in articulate and profound proclamations,  I guess the King advice may come in handy.    Then again, my new chairs are just the right height….

War Stories

My solitary confinement is beginning to drive me batty.  It’s lonely and smelly in here and I want out.  So, I have relegated myself to writing shorts and sending them haphazardly in the wind to see if anything comes back.  Entertaining as that is for me, there’s only so much story I can write and rewrite without losing what shreds of sanity I have left.  It’s depleting quickly, I’m afraid.  So much for mental health.

I’ve begun doing research on women in WWII and the important roles they played while manning nursing stations during bombings and trying to decode German intelligence while housed in a solitary room with a damned machine and their brains working non-stop.  I want to write a period piece, which is difficult to do.  I want to get a sense of what it was like to live in that time, so reading reams of stories about WRENS and nurses and the ladies of Bletchley (located in England, the house manned women on around-the-clock decoding details, interpreting encrypted messages intercepted from the Germans)  is what is keeping me occupied as of late.

I read a story about a woman pilot who happened to be giving her student a final lesson in the air over Honolulu in December of 1941…not a bad gig, really,  when she spotted a few Japanese bomber planes float by…then she witnessed the onset of what was quickly becoming the bombing of Pearl Harbor.  Unfortunately, those Japanese bombers noticed her and she and her student became a target.  She landed the plane successfully, albeit quickly, with only a few bullet holes in her plane. She then witnessed the carnage that ensued.  Her name was Cornelia Fort, an American flight instructor at John Rogers Airport.  There are so many more stories of brave women who lived through the heartbreak and ravages of war that it’s hard to wade through them all.  All of these stories are true testaments to the strength and fortitude of the female sex and our willingness to get involved.  Our dispositions to be the ever-nurturers and warriors despite what is going on around us propelling us into action.  That’s how we roll, ‘yo.

So I sit here reading these stories and studying the pictures and try to imagine myself in that time.  Hard to do with all of the technology we have around us and the ease of how we are privileged to spend our days.  These women contributed so greatly to the war effort, yet received little recognition for their contributions that it’s shocking.  Oh, sure there were medals handed out, but sparingly and with little fanfare.  Their actions somewhat dismissed as ‘duty’ instead of courageous acts of martyrdom for the retention of freedom for their beloved countries.  They may not have fought directly on the battle lines, but they tended to the sick and dying casualties of war with compassion and as much empathy as their young lives permitted.  They stayed home patiently waiting for their heroes to return, only to be forced into raising young families alone.  They worked long hours in factories, they joined movements to support their troops by sending care packages, they organized dances to raise money for the war effort.  They kept nations intact and families going at one of the most tragic and horrifying times in history.

I’ll keep reading the stories and attempt to get my head around their humility and strength during a time of extreme tension and chaos.  My solitary confinement isn’t looking so bad right now….