What Are You "Branded" With?

Everybody who takes their craft seriously--whether they paint or sculpt or weld or write--has a unique voice, a distinct flavor. If they're really good, you know them immediately; there's no need to see their signature on their work...you just know it's them...

This is my son-in-law doing the work he does. He is a painter (the artistic kind, not the wall kind) and a tattoo artist. (Jason is gifted as well as unique. He usually wears a dress shirt and tie when he works, but this photo was taken at his home.) 

This is my son-in-law creating a tattoo on me...

(I asked Cathy C. Hall's husband if it was okay with him if I got a tattoo. He said, "Sure, as long as you're married to someone else besides me!")

I've had the tattoo for a month now, have gotten used to it, and am no longer startled when I see something there on my flesh...something that was not there for the first 50+ years of my life.

What is your brand?  How do readers know it is you when they read your words? How do you plan on leaving your "mark" on this world?

Like Trees, Walking

             This the book I just started a while ago: Like Trees, Walking by Ravi Howard.  I started reading it on  a car trip and set it aside. It's a book I am picking up again to finish, now that I've inhaled the three "Hunger Games" books.

          Like Trees, Walking is a novel, set in Alabama.  Howard has a very deliberate, precise writing style. Here is a bit taken from the first few pages:

                    Paul's truck idled on the curb with parking lights on and the door wide open.
           The radio was on. The weather report that came through the speakers told us what
           we could already feel, cool morning temperatures, low humidity, easterly wind gusts.
           I all of a sudden felt cold, as if hearing about the chill made it that much sharper.

        Howard bases his story on  a lynching that happened in Mobile, Alabama. According to the description on the back cover, the novel fictionalizes the aftermath.

        Lynching is a part of our country's history that we--sometimes--try to sweep under the rug. It makes us hang our heads in shame. It's a part of the fabric of our country that has been frayed (and somewhat repaired) many, many decades ago.

         The shocking thing is this lynching took place in 1981...
         

All Roads Lead to Seinfeld...

         Last week, I had nothing to bring to my critique group. Since I'm not like Tammy, with her skilled sphincter and all, I could not pull something out of my butt. (What comes of my butt is not gems.)

         So I resigned myself to digging through some oldies but moldies, figuring I would have to bring a piece that had been freshly dusted off and brought out of the archives. (When I opened up the folder filled with pieces from the past, I even think I saw a moth flutter out.)

         But then an odd thing happened. When I stopped pushing and searching frantically for some inspiration, an idea came. In fact, two ideas shuffled in.

        And since I can connect just about everything to Seinfeld, I have to mention this episode:

         
                             Elaine had a new boss, Mr. Pitt. He was obsessed with finding the
                   right kind of white socks. Elaine had to make multiple trips to countless
                   stores, all in vain. 

                             Enter Kramer. Kramer brought in one of those "hidden picture" 
                    paintings. To see the picture that was not immediately obvious, all a
                    person had to do was unfocus their eyes, and the picture would appear,
                    as if magically.

                             Mr. Pitt became frantic as he tried to see the hidden image. In
                    fact, he got quite agitated as his desperation increased.

                              Later, Mr. Pitt inadvertently got a spot of ink on his upper lip--
                     making him now resemble Hitler--and when he made a speech about
                     a new brand of bottled water he was proposing (Moland Springs?), he
                     proclaimed that "The stock shall rise," and when he raised up one arm
                     in an accompanying gesture, the new water never had a chance...

         What writing experience can you connect to a Seinfeld episode or
character? Or would you be willing to share a story about how an idea came to
to you in an unusual manner?

         And if you want to find a Seinfeld expert--or you want to follow a blogger whose replies to comments are just as funny as their posts--follow Val.

        

Book Blurb Friday #60

        Yes, it's almost Friday. That means another Book Blurb Friday offering from Lisa Ricard Claro. 

        The idea is write a book blurb--150 words or less--that is enticing enough to prompt hordes of people to engage in a purchasing frenzy.

        The photo was supposedly snapped by Lisa's daughter. But since Lisa is only 31, that's impossible. Actually, Christina is a rent-a-kid, but Lisa keeps dragging her out, desperately trying to keep the ruse alive. That's okay; we'll let her slide this week.

         The photo is gorgeous (unlike that lame one last week). It's so breathtaking, it calls for something ethereal  soaring --well, what it should get is something that's not juvenile. But that's what came to me this evening.

To the Moon, Mom

        by Sioux Roslawski

Tubby Toblerone gazed  at the moon, every night. And every night it was out of his reach.

He dreamed of going there some day, sure. But what were the chances? Tubby spent his time after school eating Vienna sausages, and Taco Bell bean burritos. And reading science books…

Would he ever don an astronaut’s suit and fly to the moon? Would he ever travel in a rocket ship? Would Tubby’s dream ever come true?

Probably not, but what he lacked in persistence, he made up for in gas. Huge clouds of stinky farts. The foggy fume followed him every moment of every day.

One day, he had a flash of brilliance. Or was it just that third can of sausages talking back? Tubby was going to the moon. And setting his farts on fire was going to be just the propulsion he needed…

(147 words)

Is That Underwear Or Is It Shorts?

        Lynn, a fellow WWWP, and I are plotting. We are going to put a stop--somehow--to Beth's beauty and talent (okay, that's just me), to Linda's habit of being a publication pig (okay, that's only me as well), and to Tammy's skillful sphincter. (She claims her writing is crap, but when it comes out of her butt, it's mind-blowing.)
        Actually I'm the only one who's getting snipy. Lynn is far too nice to get snarky at all.
        But really, we do talk a lot about confidence and and persistence. So when I saw this video (with Ray Bradbury as the "star) allowing me to get a little into a character's head, I jumped on it.
         And although I love his writing, the sight of him in a tie and shorts (or are they boxers?)  is a little unsettling.
         My question for you: How do you keep persistent at writing?

Hungry for More Hunger

         Yesterday afternoon I began reading the book The Hunger Games. Yes, I know. I am the last human being left on the planet who has not read the book and no, I haven't seen the movie yet either.

         To say it is a page-turner is a gross understatement.

photo by Pranzie
(Okay, you should know better than to ask, "Is that you, Sioux?"  Look at her thighs...thin and firm-looking. Decidedly not jiggly. Check out those arms. If you pull the skin up, the skin will pop right back into place, instead of remaining up for a moment in "suspended animation."  And those boobs. They are in her chestal region, NOT hovering around her knees. So no, it's not Sioux, silly.)

         As a writer, I am in awe of the story conception. It's so unique, my mouth gapes open at just how imaginative Suzanne Collins is.

         I'm almost finished with it. And although I am usually sad when a book I enjoy is over, in this case, I'm not.

         Because the 2nd and 3rd books are waiting in the wings for me...