||[Jan. 4th, 2013|09:28 pm]
Do you write? If so, what do you write? Poetry/short stories/novels/non-fiction/something else? Will you share a snippet or excerpt of your writing with us? |
I mostly write poetry although I do some nonfiction and short stories too. I'll post one of my poems in the comments.
Music and poems. And plenty of nonfiction since I am also in college.
Poetry, on rare occasions. But it's so bad that I can't share it with you. I have been trying to write a novel since the eighth grade, but that has gotten absolutely nowhere. I've got ideas for so many books and nothing to show for it.
I write stories. Not really short stories, but they can't be called books because I haven't completed any.
Okay, making good on my promise to post a poem in the comments. I don't think it's all that great but I like to share anyway. It doesn't have a title.
It’ll be my secret
And I’ll carry it through the night
And back again, I won’t stop
Your eyes glisten, shine
We fall in line
Holding on to what we know
Tonight I dream only for you
Like a comet darting through the sky
Asteroids crash down beneath us
Miss each other by seconds, breaths,
Then reverse their track
We’re exploding upwards, sideways
Crash into me again
This time, get it right
Wade through the muddled mess
Give my secret away
Blow it out into the sky
Drifting like a dandelion
I can’t bear the weight
It pushes me into the ground
Come on, collide into my bones
Lips brush my shoulder
My map floats down
Sits sweetly on the ground
So grab my hand
Twirl me around
We are in a whirling dance
Foxtrot faster, faster still
Escape to our haven
Time slows to a simmering stop
It might be the last night
When the sun hits the lights
We run full stop
On the edge of the earth
But I will remember
Your laugh, your smile
Those full lips coming toward me
Touching me ever so lightly
Awakened by your poison kiss
I used to write poetry and song lyrics, but I haven't for a few years.
I do a bit of everything. Here's a bit from a short story that I did for a competition -- I made the final round. (I had to write a historical fiction piece that dealt with cannabalism...I'm not usually that macabre!)
“His majesty, King Louis, gave the order that this man should die, and that I might use
him to test my Humane Death Machine,” Guillotin said, as a matter of fact. Jacques was not
quite sure that there could be such a thing as a humane death machine, but he had bigger moral
issues than mere pedantry.
“Die? What is his crime?”
“One and the same.”
“Who did he...eat?”
“I believe it was three friars, six blacksmiths, four clerks, an innkeeper and four of the
inn’s guests, and the bishop.”
“He...ate...all of these people?”
“Killed and ate, yes. I believe he had bits of blacksmith in his bouilibaisse and fresh
caught fish with the friars.”
“...He is an aristocrat?” There was, utterly, Jacque thought, no other way he would have
been able to afford such fine delicacies.
“Worse. A priest.”
“Well, then,” Jacques mused, “that explains the bishop.”
“Right. So what are we doing again?”
And here's a little bit from my current novel attempt:
" Taban could not sleep. He found the bed space he had paid for to be too stifling. It wasn’t the snoring of the other drunken men that got to him, nor was it the creaking of the bed coming from across the room. The creaking was a steady, rhythmic thing that, on any other night, would have made Taban chuckle. Tonight it annoyed him.
Deciding it was useless to try any longer, Taban rose from the bed. It took only a few minutes to dress; as was common among ordinary sailors, he kept his wardrobe simple. He wore a shirt with the collar untied, breeches that had seen better days, boots, and a brown belt at the waist. He kept his knife in his boot, and kept his change purse in an inside shirt pocket that he had sewn.
Taban tried not to make noise as he headed towards the staircase. His efforts went for naught, however, as he still had to pass the bed from whence the creaking, and even though he pretended not to notice, they noticed him.
“CAN’T A MAN GET SOME PRIVACY?”
“In an inn? You’d be the first.”
“PISS ON A RAT’S NEST!” The shouting woke everyone, and the woman sharing the man’s bed slid under the ratted blanket.
“I’ll be sure not to tell your wife.” Taban fled down the stairs; while he thought it unlikely the man would want to go at him while unclothed, it wasn’t a certainty. "
I write newsletter articles. And briefing sheets.
I write about the news.
I used to write more fiction as a kid, but not so much recently .
Yes. Personal narrative, fiction, and satire mostly.
Oh, look at this. I told the guy he could put this up and so he did. I write and draw comics and here's an example.
I like writing novels. But, it's also sometimes nice to make a bit of money from the writing, so I also write non-fiction. My non-fiction books sell ten to one over the fiction. But then, I'm terrible at marketing, so it's probably my own fault. But, I do it for the fun of it. Which is good, because if I had to earn a living at it I would starve. And, I'd quit, since then it would seem like work.
I'm not sure why, but one of the first questions a writer gets asked is how much they make from their work. I'm not sure why. No one asks this about other hobbies. No one says, "That's a lovely sweater you knitted. How much are you going to sell it for?" Or, "That's a great flower garden you've got growing there. But, I'm not sure you can make any money from it."