Archives for posts with tag: writer
200

Your author at work.

It was 10:30am Saturday morning. It was about half an hour since my wife had rolled out of bed. She was finally finding her words.

“How did it go?” she asked.

I thought real hard for a long, long time but I was baffled. I had no clue. “What in the name of Zeus’ butthole are you talking about?!”

(Side note: This is a fairly representative example of a typical conversation in the Taker household. -Ed.)

“Your blog post.”

Oh. Shit.

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writing-404I have too many writing apps.

On an episode of Seinfeld, a comedian wakes up in the middle of the night and laughs. He’s thought of a joke. He scribbles it down on the handy notepad he happens to keep on his nightstand. The gag, of course, is that the next day, he can’t read the note and can’t remember the joke.

This is the example I’ve based my life upon.

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Usually, my post for NWR is up and scheduled 2 weeks in advance. But this is national poetry month. 

Lest you think I write poetry so that I can go to parties, sound like I should be living in a castle and bore people with my artsy-ness, that’s not why I write it.  In fact, the closest I’ve ever come to a castle is White Castle, and I don’t like that place any better than the Vatican or Camelot.

YEATS       vs.

YEATS vs.

MY STYLE OF POETRY

MY STYLE OF POETRY

Edna St. Vincent Millay, I’m not.  My candle may burn at both ends, too, but I guarantee that MY Pet Odor Eliminator candle will burn through the night. 

dynamite

HERE…HAVE A FEW CANDLES

Poetry.

If it isn’t fun

I don’t want to do it.

I write it for the same reason I go for a tea or a pee during the sex scenes in Outlander.  When you’ve been married 5 times, there’s nothing in your body that hasn’t been touched explored.  I’m as bored watching people do it on screen as I am watching people ride roller coasters. If I’m not doing it, I don’t want to watch someone else having all the fun. 

But (as usual) alas, I digress.

Now, where was I?  Oh, right.  Poetry.  I’m not much for long, drawn out depressive tomes where the writer is begging for death.  By the time I’m half way through the damned things I’m screaming “Please, kill me now, take away the pain of reading this boring piece of crap!”  Read the rest of this entry »