Tag Archives: writing

MKF: An Anniversary Tribute, Part One

Little Miss Kitty, first day home

Sorting through the digital boxes in the virtual attic of an old & cluttered computer may not have the same smells and dust-covered memorabilia to trigger memories the way a real attic has, but it can unleash unexpected floods of emotion all the same.

The following is a transcript of the journal entry I wrote on the very first day we brought Miss Kitty home (click on the link for the full version).

I can’t say why it’s so much easier to write (and ultimately, share) something like this than it is to give the same tribute to the human family members and friends that we’ve lost. Maybe it’s because it’s uncomplicated – no strings or baggage attached, no thorny complications. Maybe it’s because we don’t have to share her with other people, who have their own ideas of who she was, and what she meant to them. She was our girl, plain and simple – and we’ll miss her forever.

MKF – Day One (Original Journal Entry, Full Version)

– T.H.

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Filed under Musings & Miscellany, Prose, Writing, Books

The Writer as Inventor

Excellent and inspiring article, with some tips on how to stay focused:


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Filed under Writing, Books

Random NaNo Snippets, Part 3

“Are they still shouting at each other?”

Caitlin glanced back, and shrugged. “Well, she hasn’t thrown him overboard yet. What in god’s name is Troy doing?”

“Whatever it is, something this big, I don’t imagine there’s much damage he can do.”

“Even if it involves matches?”

“Ow!” Feid put his hand to his cheek, and the world came back into focus. He was sitting on the wooden deck, legs splayed, Caitlin half-kneeling in front of him.

“Sorry.” She eased back, and sat down next to him, cross-legged. “It always works in the movies, and you looked like you were about to go critical.”

“The Prof was telling the truth,” Caitlin said. “Seems he’s only mad north by north-west. When the wind is southerly, he knows a rebel from a bounty hunter.”

“Think a horse crossed with a whale, and a temperamental one at that,” the Professor piped up, at his elbow.

Feid looked down, and saw that the small man was grinning from ear to ear, eyes squinted almost shut, nose into the still air.

“Fine day, fine day. Too bad it wants to kill us.”

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Filed under Prose, Writing, Books

The prodigal writer returns… (ish)

I’m only sort of back, will be back properly in November.  This is likely the last year I’ll be doing the November challenge for a long while (never say never, but…), so I’m going to make the most of it.  We’ve got a great connection with the local library this year, which is something I’ve been trying to wrangle for the last 3 years.  Now that we have that, I feel I can gracefully step aside once Nov. 30th rolls around.  The plan is for this winter to be all about getting my foot in the ring – sending my stuff out into the world, editing the heck out of Fractal Theory (which is *really* close to being finished; and WILL be by the end of this month, come hell or high water), and tying up a lot of loose ends (darned annoying, all this grown-up house-owner stuff that keeps insisting it needs dealing with).

Off to feed the cats, and continue digesting a lovely Thanksgiving dinner (mmm, pumpkin pie).

‘Til November 1st (or possibly sooner)
– T.H.

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Filed under Musings & Miscellany, Writing, Books

Out of Words

I am out of words, and yet
they riot inside me
a cacaphony of complaints,
laments, exultations, exhalations,
rants, moans, cries, whispers
(…uncomfortable silences…)

There is always a scene
taking place somewhere
(the grips and gaffers
never get a break)
all the green rooms overlap,
overlying the stage, skulking
in warehouses, alleyways, street corners,
languishing on cold pebbled beaches,
vacant sun-blasted plains,
deep green forests wet with rain
sun burning fog drowning light blasting shadows

Words fill me to overflowing
a non-stop babble of voices,
music, arguments, diatribes,
calls to arms, well-worn jokes,
soap box monologues

Yet cat-like they ignore
my pleas, not one will come
to my beck and call
they will not heed, sit, stay, fetch, roll,
behave – oh, they will bark,
and bite, and run, how they run
as far out of reach as truth and astronauts

They shun this infernal machine
too many of their siblings birthed here
too many caged, corralled, squashed,
beaten into paragraphs, sentences,
point form bulleted lists
formatted, chopped, diced, broiled
tidied, cleaned, defaced, butchered

Refusing digital bondage
they yet mock the bald antiquity,
the quaint solidity of paper
faced with the laughable simplicity
of a black roller-ball pen
my prose stumbles and staggers,
wanders off course, forgets itself,
its name, the way home,
muttering in confused circles
hands flying like tethered birds
flapping vainly for a kind of freedom

We are only here by virtue
of this flesh and blood interface, this
thinking machine, this sum
of immeasurable parts
yet the interface is faulty, limited, dull-
witted, and far, far too slow
for these frenetic whims and fancies

This resistant weariness, this sullied
sullen petty vanity of vapours
sits not well with me
I would soar among the stars,
if only I could teach myself
how to forget when falling
how to forget to hit the ground.

– T.H.
05.16.11 (Amadeus journal)


Filed under Poetry, Writing, Books