Mission Accomplished

I did answer my own call. In a barbershop.


I suppose I cannot fault him. He had always had the most pressure put upon him by my father, and had much expected of him for the present and in the future. I thought at times he might feel some tenderness for me, especially as I grew in years and intelligence and was allowed greater part in the managing of our father's affairs. It could simply have been relief that encouraged his infrequent thanks and fleeting kindness, but I chose to remember it as familial warmth, a hearth long ashy with disuse, but conjuring still the memory of flame.

Arnold, my middle brother, was like an adder in the grass, or the dusty leavings of the stable. Even when possessed of callused foot or heavy booted, he would find the means to strike. He was quiet, and preferred to be seen as dull lest too much be asked of him in work at home or in the village. He knew how best to cut to my heart, at least, and would often allow me long enough respite from his bitter tongue before striking with long stored force. I had been caught unawares many times before I found out his game, and knew far better now; so many year's absence would no doubt prove him eager to cut.

Carradoc was nearest to me in age, and the most ambitious of all of my brothers given his share would undoubtedly be least. I knew from what little word I'd had early in my exile that he had protested the easy conquest of the Normans, and threatened against my father's will to join those who continued to fight in the North. I would not be surprised to return home to find him serving in the local garrison under the yoke of one our new Norman lords. Anything to sharpen a blade, his desires lying far from the cause. Besides, should he prove himself by other means, he would not rely too much on my father's generosity.


I've tried not to edit overmuch, though I'm not sold on the names. I basically picked up from the last place I could remember having left off at home. Maybe my winding, prosey style will lend itself to historical narrative. Maybe not.

In new new new new new news, I've been considering my tendencies to indulge in projects I cannot take seriously, and immediately countering such feelings with a refusal to justify what I am doing with any workshop sanctioned reason for writing. I daily resist the urge to say that I am building characters and particular skill in characterization... but there, now I have said it, so I suppose those efforts are empty ones.

I'm just swimming in this playful feeling reminiscent of the years I spent calling my best friend on the telephone every time I had three new pages worth reading out loud.

Reclaiming Literary Streaking

The act of writing in public has for too long been the providence of desperately sensitive teenage poets - guilty - and begrudging students writing timed essays - I cannot defend myself when I assign such things. But, it doesn't have to be.

The less I rely on a more traditional means of conveying my thoughts to paper, namely, ink that spills from a greedy pen as opposed to that which is transferred from printer to page, the more I find the process becomes insular, furtive in ways I don't always enjoy, a secretive activity as opposed to one that is shared, for all I might beg an audience for the finished product.

Which is not to say I don't regard writing as a sometimes necessarily private act. But, should choosing to write in a public place always be confined to behaviors of showmanship or those desperately seeking attention? How do we write differently when we know others are watching, or aren't? Can I enter the same places in my work surrounded by the hum and chatter of a world I usually, headphones clamped hard over my ears, attempt to keep out?

My charge, then, is this: Go somewhere, and write something. Bonus points if you're young enough, or possessed still of the boldness of youth, to write on public. Bathroom stalls in coffee houses shall no more be the dominion of lousy song lyrics and proclamations of endless love.

What's in Your Bag?

I'll blame my years of reading The Babysitter's Club and Nancy Drew on my impulse to compile things before I do things, which is why I'm starting with a Dangerous Writer's Detective/Magic/Survival/Hygenic/Politically In-or-Otherwise Correct kit. Or whatever else I can jam in between those saucy little slashes.

Or maybe I should just call mine the Avoidance Kit and get it over with.



First, I got a fistful of these.



A pocket sized journal, which I buy like they're perishable goods.



A permanent marker for writing about love. Because it's permanent, right?



Scotch tape. Though I need to acquire a smaller one to minimize the purse lint.



I grew accustomed to toting a flash drive around when we didn't have a printer at home.



It's not a pencil case, it's a kit.

Not pictured, my digital camera. "Show don't tell!"

Show me yours.

If NASA Can Do It, So Can I

My inner corporate American demands a mission statement. But, libraries and public schools and NASA have mission statements, too, so they can't be all that bad.

I want to write and I enjoy frivolity. I'm slowly growing accustomed to a life post-academia, and to the ideas that come with this life. Productivity is not limited to finishing revising a piece of short fiction for the fourteenth time, or deluding myself into thinking I have the stamina for a novel before my mid-forties.

I want to write and I enjoy writing. Rolling words across my tongue and the pads of my fingers, playing, sculpting. I'd like to break myself of the habitual thought that a sentence written without express purpose is a sentence wasted, or that I somehow must return to every well crafted sentence again and again until I've made something more of it. I don't expect this project to be necessarily fruitful in the ways I've come to think of success and fruitfulness as a writer. But as the subtitle suggests, enjoyment is also a fruit.

This isn't a workshop, it's a sandbox. Let's get gritty.