Tuesday, September 27, 2016
The Ten Types of Movie (and Personal Statement) Plots — College Essay Guy – Get Inspired:
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Monday, September 26, 2016
Friday, September 23, 2016
By Nic Connole
Sitting at my desk in the corner of my room,
Opening the window to let in a brisk winter night wind,
Picking up the books, bottles, and binders I had thrown across the room,
Calming my whimpering dog, frightened by my overwhelming screams,
Looking down upon my phone,
Waiting for a notification to pop up on my screen,
Hoping it’s from my mother,
Driving myself crazy the longer I wait,
Leaning back in my desk chair,
Staring up at my plain, white ceiling,
Yelling at God for why he does such terrible things to great people,
Wondering why he would allow my dad to get cancer yet another time,
Thinking the year of chemotherapy would’ve been enough to cease its advancement,
Crying until there is nothing but an empty tissue box,
Sobbing until I begin gasping for air,
Hearing the overwhelming silence that fills my empty house,
Nothing but silence,
Peering over my shoulder to see a picture of my dad and I,
Remembering the unforgettable moments we shared together,
Hating myself for taking each one for granted,
Bottling up pure rage and anger on the inside,
Throwing my phone at the wall causing it to ricochet onto my bed,
Noticing a faint sound coming from my phone,
Realizing that someone has texted me,
Running over to the sounds of annoying Apple ring tones,
Grabbing my phone off the unmade Queen-size bed,
Reading the paragraph sent by my mother through the shattered glass screen,
Transferring the information regarding my father’s surgery to my head,
Feeling my palms perspire across the back of my phone,
Processing the details I had just been given,
Walking slowly back to my desk,
Plugging in my phone to charge for the night,
Removing my tear-filled long sleeve shirt from my trembling body,
Switching the light in my room from on to off,
Crawling into the warm sheets of my bed,
Watching my dog jump up to sleep in comfort with me,
Laying back on my soft, tempurpedic pillow,
Letting out one last sigh,
Closing my eyes,
Knowing that my dad, Dan Connole, is now a cancer free man.
Wednesday, September 21, 2016
Indirect characterizationRound character
Third person omniscient
Third person limited
Conflict - direct, indirect, internal, external
Tuesday, September 20, 2016
Monday, September 12, 2016
Tuesday, September 6, 2016
The Names - NYTimes.com:
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'via Blog this'
By Billy Collins
Published: September 6, 2002
Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.A fine rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,Then Baxter and Calabro,Davis and Eberling, names falling into placeAs droplets fell through the dark.Names printed on the ceiling of the night.Names slipping around a watery bend.Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.In the morning, I walked out barefootAmong thousands of flowersHeavy with dew like the eyes of tears,And each had a name --Fiori inscribed on a yellow petalThen Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.Names written in the airAnd stitched into the cloth of the day.A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.Monogram on a torn shirt,I see you spelled out on storefront windowsAnd on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.I say the syllables as I turn a corner --Kelly and Lee,Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.When I peer into the woods,I see a thick tangle where letters are hiddenAs in a puzzle concocted for children.Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.Names written in the pale sky.Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.Names silent in stoneOr cried out behind a door.Names blown over the earth and out to sea.In the evening -- weakening light, the last swallows.A boy on a lake lifts his oars.A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,And the names are outlined on the rose clouds --Vanacore and Wallace,(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.Names etched on the head of a pin.One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.A blue name needled into the skin.Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.Alphabet of names in green rows in a field.Names in the small tracks of birds.Names lifted from a hatOr balanced on the tip of the tongue.Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.Billy Collins is poet laureate of the United States. This poem will be read before Congress today at its joint session in New York City.
Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A fine rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
Then Baxter and Calabro,
Davis and Eberling, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.
In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each had a name --
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal
Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.
Names written in the air
And stitched into the cloth of the day.
A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
Monogram on a torn shirt,
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.
I say the syllables as I turn a corner --
Kelly and Lee,
Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.
When I peer into the woods,
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
As in a puzzle concocted for children.
Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,
Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,
Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.
Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.
Names silent in stone
Or cried out behind a door.
Names blown over the earth and out to sea.
In the evening -- weakening light, the last swallows.
A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,
And the names are outlined on the rose clouds --
Vanacore and Wallace,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in green rows in a field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.
Billy Collins is poet laureate of the United States. This poem will be read before Congress today at its joint session in New York City.
|RR Performing Arts (@rockridgedrama)|
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Thursday, September 1, 2016
Madman, Architect, Carpenter, Judge: Roles and the Writing Process:
by Betty S. Flowers
Professor of English and
Director of the Lyndon B. Johnson Presidential Library
"What's the hardest part of writing?" I ask on the first day of class.
"Getting started," someone offers, groaning.
"No, it's not getting started," a voice in the back of the room corrects. "It's keeping on once you do get started. I can always write a sentence or two-but then I get stuck."
"Why?" I ask.
"I don't know. I am writing along, and all of a sudden I realize how awful it is, and I tear it up. Then I start over again, and after two sentences, the same thing happens."
"Let me suggest something which might help," I say. Turning to the board, I write four words: "madman," "architect," "carpenter," "judge."
'via Blog this'
Stories in your pocket: how to write flash fiction | Books | The Guardian:
1. Start in the middle.
You don't have time in this very short form to set scenes and build character.
2. Don't use too many characters.
You won't have time to describe your characters when you're writing ultra-short. Even a name may not be useful in a micro-story unless it conveys a lot of additional story information or saves you words elsewhere.
3. Make sure the ending isn't at the end.
In micro-fiction there's a danger that much of the engagement with the story takes place when the reader has stopped reading. To avoid this, place the denouement in the middle of the story, allowing us time, as the rest of the text spins out, to consider the situation along with the narrator, and ruminate on the decisions his characters have taken. If you're not careful, micro-stories can lean towards punchline-based or "pull back to reveal" endings which have a one-note, gag-a-minute feel – the drum roll and cymbal crash. Avoid this by giving us almost all the information we need in the first few lines, using the next few paragraphs to take us on a journey below the surface.
4. Sweat your title.
Make it work for a living.
5. Make your last line ring like a bell.
The last line is not the ending – we had that in the middle, remember – but it should leave the reader with something which will continue to sound after the story has finished. It should not complete the story but rather take us into a new place; a place where we can continue to think about the ideas in the story and wonder what it all meant. A story that gives itself up in the last line is no story at all, and after reading a piece of good micro-fiction we should be struggling to understand it, and, in this way, will grow to love it as a beautiful enigma. And this is also another of the dangers of micro-fiction; micro-stories can be too rich and offer too much emotion in a powerful one-off injection, overwhelming the reader, flooding the mind. A few micro-shorts now and again will amaze and delight – one after another and you feel like you've been run over by a lorry full of fridges.
6. Write long, then go short.
Create a lump of stone from which you chip out your story sculpture. Stories can live much more cheaply than you realise, with little deterioration in lifestyle. But do beware: writing micro-fiction is for some like holidaying in a caravan – the grill may well fold out to become an extra bed, but you wouldn't sleep in a fold-out grill for the rest of your life.
Off you go!'via Blog this'
New Pages ( @newpages ) 2/16/18, 12:00 AM Just a reminder, #writers , #litmag @intothevoidmag wants what whispers to you in the dark; what...