The CuisinArt

Fuck my life.

I mean, you know, fuck my afterlife.

Caught in this dead end fucking job. I’m not being cute here. I don’t know how to make this anymore literal. I’m dead. This is the end. And I’ve got a fucking job.

Old Smithtown Manor, a crappy 17th century relic brilliantly built atop an old Indian burial ground. But do you actually see any fucking Indians haunting this motherfucker. No, you see me, rural farmhand from Nebraska trapped in this musky, mold infested claptrap that smells, or would smell if I remembered smell, like an old jockstrap, stuffed at the bottom of a pile of other, older jockstraps. Fuck, I don’t even get the run of the house. I bet the upstairs has some pretty cool antiques, and at the very least I could find a window or two. But nooo, I’m stuck on this 4’ by 4’ fucking patch of cracked linoleum in the Northeast corner of the fucking boarded up pantry. Spending my days clanking old pots, rattling old glassware, and talking to you, stupid fucking mouse.

And then there’s Bob. Fucking Bob. All nice and comfy over in the main foyer. Prime fucking real estate he’s holding there. Nobody ever spends the night in the pantry. No its always “I dare you to spend the night in the old Smithtown foyer,” or some shit. On top of that he’s got chandeliers, and candles, and old paintings, and a whole other bag of goodies that bump in the night. Have you ever heard the screams coming out of that room? I’m a ghost and even I’d call it uncanny. And what do I fucking get: corrugated linoleum, peeling stucco, mold stains, and yes, you, stupid fucking mouse. No, no that was not an invitation to come closer. Don’t you fucking approach me or I will crush you beneath my astral foot and, well you won’t quite get squashed, but you’ll probably feel a weird chill or something like that, and you’ll find that pretty difficult to interpret and it will probably delay you for a couple of seconds.

Fuck

Then the other night the fucking the Ghost Hunters filmed here. Don’t have to tell you they did the majority of their filming. “We’re getting massive spectral energy readings in the main Foyer.” “Check out these paranormal frequencies, they’re unreal.” The walls may be sturdy, but they’re not soundproof, assholes. I’m dead, but I’m not fucking deaf. And what did they do with the pantry? Turned it into a God dam R&R room for the crew. Oh, and guess where they stashed the porta-potty? That’s right, atop a trusty, old 4’ by 4’ patch of cracked linoleum in the Northeast corner.

Where’s that stupid fucking blond kid with the dumb-ass bowl cut and the overly protective single mom when you need him. Hell, I’d even settle for Bruce Willis at this point. Get em ‘on board. Together we’ll release my Manifesto: Dead and NOT Loving It. Show the world a thing or two about banal minutiae.

And then you and me we’ll…what’s that? Oh you’ve got to get going? So soon? You sure you don’t want to…I mean we could rattle some of the glassware together and…Okay. Yeh, I understand. Family comes first. Goodnight mouse. Same time tomorrow, okay?

from Adam

–

There were three of us in a tree.  Much of our time out in the savannah was spent in this tree.  Most often, the savannah was plain and empty or dotted with harmless herbivores.  Occasionally there was the pride of lions, however.  One male and three or four females.  We would keep our distance and remain in the tree when they prowled.  One time as I recall, I was down foraging the savannah when I noticed the pride, absent its patriarch, back and to the left.  Warily I watched them as I moved to the tree.  I knew that if I took my eyes off them for more than a moment, they would begin to stalk and I would be pounced.  My fear impelled me a run and I noticed one of the females beginning to lurk low and towards me.

I made the tree.  My companions and I surveyed the approaching pride with great apprehension.  Of course they could scale trees, better than we in fact.  Our only hope was that we were foreigners here on the savannah and our strange appearance would deter them from feeling we were easy prey, as with the sharks.

Their final approach and arrival.  Three or four female lionesses sit eyeing us in our dendriform refuge.  All parties are aware of the futility of our position; they could reach us with a feline’s leap, no need for scaling.  We produce a cacophony of primal hoots and hollers in the hopes of frightening them.  To no avail.  In derision, they echo and amplify our calls.  Sensing an impending massacre, I try to reason with them.  “If you kill us, they will kill you.  They will kill all of you.”

The matriarch alone shows any concern for my remark. They all understand what I have said.  There is always a demand for retribution among those that feel it is in them to mete out justice.  Disregard the messiness of morality.  Punish the perpetrators and their kin.  Atrocities will not be suffered in grief alone, but in vengeance. The matriarch tempers her excitement for an anthropic feast.  The others remain eager.

“They will kill all of you.  What good would that do you?  Needless bloodshed.”

They are not convinced.  The desire to take flight, but nowhere to fly.

“We are your advocates.”  A half-formed notion.  Half bargain, half principle.  “There are so many of them that would let you pass, but we are your advocates.”

They know it is true.  Here a victory, but inevitably total defeat.  Before in the long before a victory, an act of survival without reprisal, but now things had changed.  The great assent had reversed much of the law.  Now was a time for diplomacy, even for those who once reigned absolutist kings and queens.  They relent in their siege.  We are their advocates, frightened in a tree.

New From Adam Marc. I’ve added no photos to this one, for obvious reasons…
–
I have no intentions of following the linear model. No intentions of hanging a line with dazzling ornaments. There is no need. It is ever so cumbersome.

How long can an echo resonate before it is too faint to be heard? How far away can a home linger on the horizon before it is lost in an abyss of curvilinear uniformity? How long can we walk forward before we forget what’s behind us and what’s ahead?

I saw a photograph that chilled me. A family stood smiling some time decades ago. A homely family if ever I saw one. Four or five women in the front row, two men in the back. All smiling. Two of the women and the two men stood erect, proud in their middle-aged youth. The other women, all but one, bore the signs of a life of toil. Homely older women, but seasoned. Their ankles creased, their feet bound by their tight old black shoes. Their frocks loose fitting, flimsy linens doubtless many years old, also with the look of hard labor that begs respect from those who understand.

All smiling. A tradition, but something genuine there. They looked very much the family, very much the rural family, salt of the earth. Their smiles, the hardness of the old women and the pride in the youngers’ posture, all spoke of triumph. Triumph over hardships. An unending battle, still ongoing, but overcome. Perhaps their solidarity the source of the victory, perhaps their God. Yet the triumph plain as their appearance, simple yet durable.

Chilling, their deaths. Some decades ago. Already at least middle-aged. A reasonable presumption. Where are the remains? Not worth a photograph, too chilling, too mortifying. Gone their smiles. Gone their solidarity. What of their God? What of the triumph? The hardships overcome, the costs born, to what end and who will hear their legacy and who will carry their torch? All disintegrated. Scattered beyond recognition. Something lost, antiquated, frozen.

How unthinkable it would be to consider who might ponder your lifeless simulacrums after you have ceased to smile, after those that you huddled with to keep warm have cooled over. In what sands lay buried the remnants of Ozymandias?

Their lives, before the photograph, after the photograph, preoccupied with dreams, plans, struggles, life. All old and outdated, all expired. The black and white tells it all, so too the horror of the smiles.

The other, neither erect nor worn. A disabled. A woman disabled. Her face and limbs contorted by a haunted mind. Also smiling. Her right arm interlocked with one of the other women’s. An equal in love. Cherished, protected, a source of solidarity and triumph through hardship. A loved and a lover. Happy, if any of them were. She too taken by some decades. A testament to resilience, altruism, compassion, but undeniably of futility and fragility also.

Chilling, the future. Their future, our past. Our future, another their’s past. Look at a photograph behind glass and see a strange family passed. Look at the backlight, the reflection and see the familiar darkened face and glinting gaze of the past approaching. Youth, pride, triumph, struggles, toil, dreams, all to be washed away and disintegrated. Forget judgment and condemnation, who will keep you together? How long can you huddle for warmth before the embers die out? Good or bad, virtuous or vicious to be but a mortal?

The photograph family, all the appearances of happiness, yet they are gone. Is happiness a thing to be enjoyed only in the smallest temporal quantities, a transience more protean and ephemeral than a lifetime, itself soon to end? Photographs raise questions even as smiles offer answers. Carpe diem. Live for the moment. Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today. Don’t forget to stop and smell the roses. All sage, all hollow. Nothing, no toil, no huddling, no God to shield me, you, us from the curse of loneliness, the scourge of quietus. Damn the questions. Damn the answers if they are as I suspect. Is this the comeuppance of sentience, the bittersweet fruit of the Tree of Knowledge? Cogito ergo sum. Mort.

A photograph chilled me to despair and cast me into desolation. It was of a family, a homely family. But all photographs bear this ghost, this specter of the present turned future, the future rotted to past. How prescient that red fellow, whichever one he was, may he rest in peace, that warned of the soul stealing of the photograph. The photographs of the present are never developed; they are always of the past, when more life was harbored. The quaint treasures that bedeck books, walls, and mantles, they are but grim reminders. Who can participate in the thrill of once was; who is relegated to the vicarious role of spectator of never again? What soul is there in the past? What soul was left in the family, may they rest in peace? Hollow.

A dreadful, calculating theory of a grand coping mechanism. Terror management theory. Cogito ergo sum. Mort. We know we die, yet we live and even rejoice. A peculiar thing, this perseverance. No matter our struggles, dreams, plans, pride, it ends in disintegration. How do we press on, fight, fight the dying of the light? We are no immovable object to the unstoppable force. Our mind’s weave a silken veil, a rose tinted concave glass of grand delusion through which hope may be grasped till death do we part. And what function God? Such is the theory. And if it malfunctions? A lame cow is put out to pasture. Plagued by the realization of the truth, we are crippled within society, useless if the plague is malignant. Van Gogh’s last painting was as ominous and more than the photograph. A road over a small hump through a field of wind swept wheat. Gray, tumultuous clouds gathered, crows circling. All in signature chaotic, foreboding swirls. To where, no answers, only questions. Crippled by the plague.

Manage the terror is a neat notion. Hem in a black tempest that perpetuates itself endlessly, a black hole. Lean over the event horizon and even time loses all meaning. Manage is neat like trimming hedges or emptying the recycling bin. Menial management that can’t triumph in perpetuity.

Yet what have we but to hedge our bets that happiness that is transient is well worth the stake we all must put in as big blind. The past is tragic, but the present refuses to be. So long as infinity persists, the present will be one step ahead, a flash of color in an endless spectrum of dead undulating energies, a sea of infras and ultras, greater thans and less thans.

I was chilled today as I stood alone in a stranger’s house before a photograph of people I will never know. I can only guess at their story and no one will record mine. Damn the questions and damn the answers if they are as I suspect, I will huddle close to you to keep warm while flames yet flare.

Although I have nothing but disdain for graduate students, and although he looks like the junior counterpart of Sanford & Son, I do proudly make an exception, welcome, and present our newest Author: Adam Marc. Here is his first submission…

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Art draws from us two of our greatest strengths, our capacity to feel and our ability to design. The former is a visceral experience, the latter an analytical tool. Combined, these two basic human attributes allow us to express and create beauty and ingenuity. They also allow us to reverse engineer the fruits of others’ labor; they grant us the privilege to critically engage with the art that surrounds us. Subject, form, and content are the constituent elements of art upon which to base any such appraisal. Though these elements may be most salient with visual art, they also apply to the written word. Indeed, both writer and reader stand to benefit enormously from assuming this perspective.

Because it is so often construed as the foundation of a work - debatably so - subject stands as a profitable starting point to understand writing’s essential qualities. Truth be told, subject is not so very important to the success or profundity of a piece of writing. The sublime can be universally educed from the mundane, so long as there is an adept observer willing to expend the resources in the process of extraction and refinement - a tall order to be sure. Here it is elucidating to invoke the meaning of Einstein’s famous e = mc2 equation. This simple mathematical formula conveys that each atom throughout the universe contains a staggering amount of energy, as evinced by the nuclear fission that at once provides us with a viable, albeit controversial, source of energy and a means of self-destruction, and also the nuclear fusion that can power our sun for billions of years. Similarly, everything we experience, corporeal, metaphysical, imaginary, is laden with the vast potential to transform the way we conceive meaning and purpose in our lives. This is no less true for writing as it is for nuclear physics.

A personal example that immediately comes to mind is D. H. Lawrence’s The Rainbow. The novel tells the tale of three generations of a rural English family from the late 18th and early 19th centuries. The details of the lives of this, the Brangwen, family are unremarkable. They are all decidedly average. And yet, the events of their lives, particularly their emotional reactions to those events, are the source of a resplendent order of narration. So well acquainted with the capricious, enchanting nature of love is Lawrence that no reader can walk away feeling as though they are alone in the intensity of their daily libidinal pleasures and pains.

We are collectively endowed with the ability to detect, record, distill, and embellish the poetry that fills our lives. This is an invaluable gift. Another example, albeit from another discipline, is the style of Paul Cézanne, the Frenchman who pioneered Post-Impressionism. Like Lawrence, forty-six years his junior, Cézanne was a master at capturing the highest qualities of the often-overlooked aspects of existence. In particular, he painted still lifes, an apple arrangement here, a landscape of his native Aix there, always devoting utmost attention to depicting the purities of visual forms. His signature tool was color. Cezanne radically transformed the artists’ palette by illustrating how light and natural color complements can yield a work that is as vivid and nuanced as a Realist painting. Heavily criticized during his own time, Cezanne has since come to be regarded as one of the few individuals to incite a paradigm shift in his craft. His contribution has little to do with subject.

And yet despite how arbitrary the choice of subject may ultimately be, it is a persistent cause of much angst amongst novice and virtuosic writers alike. A blank page is an intimidating page. Being able to write about literally anything can be paralyzing for the writer who has so much to say (read: show) and no conduit through which to say it. In a recent address to a group of aspiring wordsmiths at Ithaca College, the author Tom Wolfe noted that every 20-something has one autobiography to write, but they don’t have two. Implicit in Wolfe’s remark is the notion that subjects accrue with the accumulation of experience. Experience does not have to be equated solely with a quantity or even a quality of life events. It may also refer to an enriched perspective on life. As time passes and lives follow their course, people naturally become more attuned to the highs and lows of the human condition and are thus increasingly capable of articulating them. Thus, a person might conceivably be able to write two categorically different autobiographies on the same period of their lives; the subject would be the same, but there would essentially be two different authors coloring the details.

In the end, subject is about exposure. An individual - a reflective mind - needs only remain open to either the breadth or depth the world has to offer in order to wax eloquent and prolific. The most moving accounts can come from intensely probing the presumably insignificant aspects of our daily routines, as in Robert Burns’ poem To a Louse, plumbing the vortices of our psyches à la Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, or circumnavigating swaths of the globe in the manner of Bill Bryson. Even subject can be the subject of writing. From one self-proclaimed aspiring wordsmith, explore your environs, both internal and external. Do not be afraid of the span of the horizon or the reach of the sky; they are your muses.

Next installment: Form.

Latest from Shea (see more in his Author Page)…

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Trivia is dead and the I-Phone killed it.

Take a moment between questions during your next barroom trivia. Look at the frequency of I-Phone and Blackberry usage and notice how that frequency increases dramatically when a question is asked. Coincidence…

“But Shea, I wasn’t searching the Internet for an answer, I was just having a text conversation with my friend.” Get serious. Your friend, is he the one with the psychic connection to the VJ, because it seems like he only texts following the delivery of a question!

A Theory About Why They Do It and Why that Makes Them Stupid

They do it for the prize money. This is the stupidest of all reasons. Barring the crème of the crop trivia challenges, we’re looking at around 30 dollars as the grand prize, and typically its not even currency, but bar dollars.

Lets say you’re on a team of four people. Two drinks each at four dollars apiece, comes out to 32 dollars. You have, after only two drinks (and that is if you refuse to tip) broke even. You have entered into a self perpetuating cycle: you came to win thirty dollars in order to repay the thirty dollars you spent coming to win thirty dollars. Most of the time the tab is closer to seventy dollars, so essentially you’ve spent seventy to win thirty, a net loss of about ten dollars per person.

Now, everyone is guilty of this. Anyone who comes to trivia will leave with a lighter wallet, win or lose. But some people aren’t willing to cheat to achieve this end. It would be like bringing cliff notes to an SAT exam and getting a 600 anyway.

So it can’t be the money. It’s probably because these people need to hear their team name announced next to the highest point total. That way, in case we somehow forgot that “Quiz on My Chest” is without a doubt the pinnacle of all human creativity, we can remember that the folks behind the name weren’t just incredibly original and witty, but damn savvy intellectuals to boot!

The Nature of Cheating

I do not denounce cheating. It is natural and I believe it keeps man on his toes. It is a test of human ingenuity as trivia is a test of memory retention: yin to the yang, cunning to intellect. Without it, there would be no equalizer between people who have brains and people who have wits.

But searching the Internet for an answer is not cheating. It’s just being a dick. A lazy, lazy dick.

It’s like cheating at cheating!

Here are some acceptable methods of cheating

Bathroom Barter Con: Enter the bathroom and slink in close to the man at the adjacent urinal. He will become uncomfortable, and thus his guard will lessen. Offer to trade him an answer for an answer. He will want nothing more than to terminate the current lavatory exchange, so he will agree without argument. After you have pertained the necessary answer, return the favor with a fake but plausible answer. Zip up and return.

Surreptitious Observation: Sometimes bars have televisions. The channels are usually fixed on celebrity gossip, or news, or sports. If a question pertains to any of these subjects, take the opportunity to use these televisions to your aid.

Accidental Eavesdrop: Anyone careless enough to shout an answer deserves to have it copied. People’s faults should be exploited at all times.

Shea O’Neill Solves the Trivia Problem:

Solution One: Random EMP Generation. At several points during the night, the bartender will generate a short wave EMP burst, effectively disabling all electronic devices in the premise. Any phone not turned off before the blast will find its circuits irrevocably fried, and justice will be served with electromagnetic precision.

Solution Two: Hold Trivia Contests in the Absolute Most Dangerous Neighborhoods Imaginable. I’m talking places that average three shootings a night, where muggings are as commonplace as hobos asking for change. Let’s see how many people bring their I-Phone’s into these neighborhoods.

Solution Three: Random Decimations. On random nights, one in every ten IPhones should be taken outside and executed, gangland style

Solution Four: Accept it and Move On.

Editor’s Addendum:

Well said Shea. Cuisinart’s next item of busines: A crusade against the ’sub-mental’ social catastrophes who shout out answers that are obviously wrong, for all to hear. This is not wit. This is not even “Quarter-Wit.”

No one - save for the other sub-mental cromagnum men at your table - laughs at this. Never, ever. And when you’re “winning,” that does not make it OK, it makes it worse. You will be found. You will be confronted. You will be destroyed.

And another thing, Shea and I are not bitter about never winning the 30 dollars at our respective bar trivia nights, ok? We’re not! So shut up and leave us alone!

A new entry from Shea:

On Valentine’s Day, while some sipped champagne, composed fruitless love letters, or, more accurately, masturbated using homemade lubricant of tears and self-pity, others converged amid gathering storm clouds to exhaust their own romantic frustrations and sexual aggressions in a much different manner. Below is one man’s recollection of what truly happened that day.

–Two thousand, contiguous, nameless faces. A light drizzle. Heavy fog lingers over the Bay. In the distance, storm clouds foreshadow the events to come. Even the women and children have been called to arms. I scan the masses. There are no allegiances here safe what fellowship and love entail, and even these bonds are uncertain when pillows are involved.

–Phone calls from invisible sources. Where are you amid this madness? I’m next to the statue? What statue? Actually it is more of a structure? What structure? Its pretty abstract so I’m not sure what you call it. Nevermind, I’m going to wave my red pillow in the air. Yes, I am aware there are about a hundred red pillows in the air. Mine is the one near the statue. What statue? Actually it’s more of a structure…

–I am alone. Utterly, utterly alone.

– Off in the distance a light thwack of matted goose against corduroy. The sound precipitates a contagious frenzy that circles outward until my hand is no longer my own, raining down upon the button nose and ovular face of a bearded Spaniard in khakis.

–The fray has begun.

–It does not take long for the first feathers to burst from their cotton linings, leaving one to speculate what part their owners played in such an early release. Tricky knife work, or a premature exertion of excessive force? The feathers hang in the air listless, like ash from a volcanic eruption. Some see the airborne threat, and bring masks and bandanas to their mouths. We not previously versed in the terms of this peculiar battle must do without.

–A circle forms. Contained within a man in a chicken hat. “Chicken hat,” screams the crowd. We stop our small conflicts and swarm upon him like moths to the flame. We are the mob and the mob asks no questions. One feels sorry for the individual who thought a chicken hat would suit the festive nature of this battle. One feels sorry for all the hapless souls who brought backpacks, hats, or any clothing accessory easily identified in the sea of flesh and pillows. Panic sets in. I begin to question how my own outfit will be perceived amid the madness. Jeans. Black Shirt. Blue flannel. Wait, how blue? Medium blue. Phew. Facial scars? None of note. Hair? Sweaty and mousy, but not spiked enough to stand above the crowd. Pillow? Red—but, then again, its Valentine’s Day.

–Predictable, little warrior. You are a prisoner to your zealotry, and thus you must swing first. I find my timing. Side step. Grab your pillow between my elbow and ribs. “You cant’ Grab my pillow, it’s a rule,” you say. “Rule, MWUAHAHAHA. There are no rules in pillow fights,” I thrash your rule abiding face with my pillow of anarchy, bringing your perfectly ordered little world to a standstill in a shower of feathers. I watch in ironic horror as you twist my own maniacal laugh back upon me. I am left with a limp, tattered shroud of linen. You hold a mace of hardened goose and a score to settle. You beat me senseless. Without weapon I flee. The ground is littered with the dead. Gutted, sinewy strands of tattered goose lay muddied with footprints, and soiled with spit and sweat. I search the cotton gore for an intact pillow. Please. Please. Success. It will take some time to grow accustomed to the new weight. But I am optimistic, even in these dark times.

—Amidst a particularly hazy storm of white feathers and the pungent odor of farts, released comfortably and openly in the confidence that no one will ever identify the asshole of origin, two men fight opposite one another. Perceiving a presence behind them they turn, pillows drawn. Their eyes light up. Their embrace is as vicious as the swipes of their pillows. How long has it been since they last saw one another? How many have they lost along the way? The questions do not linger, and the reunion is soon shattered. Love has no place in a pillow fight. Not even on Valentine’s Day.

— Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves. You once taught me a valuable lesson. Relationships based on intense experiences never work. I should have paid heed to your advice. Knocked to the ground with a sideways blow to the face. A defensive reflex, my feet swipe the floor like antennae, feeling for my assailant. I connect with her shins, bringing her down on top of me. Eyes lock, lips meet. We do not part, but instead steal a moment. Our lips are sweaty and the kiss is sour. Yet we hold. “Make out,” I hear, and realize my mistake too late. Pillows guided by anonymous hands pummel us like shoes in a dryer. Is it their jealousy that fuels them? Or is it a painful reminder that one must never let sex obscure the task at hand? Especially when pillows are involved.

—A miracle. Among pillow induced pain and feather related emphysema, I find an old friend. We agree to join forces, fighting back to back. We fight small fish at first. Graduating soon to dual wielders, and similar duos. From the distance lumbers our greatest challenge. He rises high above the crowd like the Eiffel Tower in Paris, or an Ultrasaurus in a new growth forest. “Get the Giant,” cries the masses, and once again we are united by purpose. He has physics on his side. One by one he flattens his assailants like hapless moles in circular arcade prisons. Some attack his thighs. Others attack his abdomen. His blows are powerful, but they exhaust him quickly. Soon he ceases his attack. Was it the combined might of our pillows? Or in the distance did he glimpse more supple prey? Who knows what he sees with his giant’s eyes?

—Thirst consumes me. I meet someone and ask for water. She provides Fresca. It offers no refreshment and leaves a sour taste of over processed grapefruit in my mouth. What is Fresca? What is its purpose for existing? Why does grapefruit need to be carbonated? I spit the remnants about the crowd. The girl follows suit. Our actions enrage a pack of Asians. They swarm upon us, fueled by a sticky, grapefruit flavored vengeance. I look upon Lady Fresca. Her eyes speak of courage and loyalty. We are bonded in this Fresca debacle, she and I. I know then that she will follow me until the very end. I, on the other hand, will have no part in such madness. I grab her by the shoulders and toss her into the hoard. In the ensuing confusion I flee.

—The fray continues, but I will no longer play any part. I reconvene with my friends at long last in front of the statue, which is perhaps more accurately a structure. We share stories of battle, sipping interchangeably upon water and beer. We wonder had this been Lord of the Rings how quickly we would have died, and how we would have met our ends. We settle upon seven seconds, though allowances are made for protagonists.

—I arrive home. I go on to cap the night in true warrior fashion—with beer and pizza, though to me it tastes like mead and mutton. I revel in my moments of glory, and toast to the fallen. Finally, returning at long last to my chambers, I put the day to rest in a most fitting manner: I lay down my weapon, and allow it at last to fulfill its intended purpose.

Hello,

I would like to talk briefly about the writing process…

The story,  scenery,  characters,  themes, and the tone are vital organs to the vast majority of stories in any medium. Anton Chekhov once said, “Don’t tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.” Details, and evocative images, are what lifts a story off the ground and into our, imaginations. Having a great idea, with vivd characters, and an elusive plot are not the only components to great story telling. You unearth what it is you want to say, and then you must determine, how to say it.

And that’s the problem I’ve encountered recently; I”ve been coming to grips with the fact that I don’t have the command over the English language; and its rules, the way I would like two. Its so important to implement the proper punctuation in the proper places… The fluidity, at, which your writing will be read by someone, rests wholly-on your ability to annuncinate, and then punctunate your thoughts?

The beauty of this challenge, is that there is no 1 rule. Hemingway; used commas, infrequently, and wrote, very, terse prose. Nietzsche would write a whole page that was one sentence. An’d Cor-mac McCarthy’s writing’s, specifically/ “No Country For Old Men” hasn’t got nearly any apostrophe’s; semicolons’ at all!1

So, as I stated, I’ve encountered the problem, of: How should i 4matt my writings? I, recently! Bought THIS BOOK, and I think it has had a very positive affect, on, the way I convey my thoughts,

I definately want too recomennd, it, to all writer’s, who are searching- themselves, and try-ing to find they’re inside voice and there style(

Wheel all be benefactors as the residualult. So keap rite-ing!

-stockton