English language = :-(

Why does the english language get a sad face?

Well, mostly 'cause someone who likes to laugh at me, almost as much as I like to laugh at myself, sent me this today:


1) The bandage was wound around the wound.

2) The farm was used to produce produce.

3) The dump was so full that it had to refuse more refuse.

4) We must polish the Polish furniture.

5) He could lead if he would get the lead out.

6) The soldier decided to desert his dessert in the desert.

7) Since there is no time like the present, he thought it was time to present the present.

8) A bass was painted on the head of the bass drum.

9) When shot at, the dove dove into the bushes.

10) I did not object to the object.

11) The insurance was invalid for the invalid.

12) There was a row among the oarsmen about how to row.

13) They were too close to the door to close it.

14) The buck does funny things when the does are present.

15) A seamstress and a sewer fell down into a sewer line.

16) To help with planting, the farmer taught his sow to sow.

17) The wind was too strong to wind the sail.

18) Upon seeing the tear in the painting I shed a tear.

19) I had to subject the subject to a series of tests.

20) How can I intimate this to my most intimate friend?

FYI, they obviously forgot about bow/bow, and a few others, but it's still fun :)

Reading + writing?

I've seen many times online how people say they don't read while they're writing for fear of (unconsciously) adopting pieces of what they're reading, including the voice/style of another author.

Now, I don't read while writing... but it has nothing to do with fear. I just suck at multitasking, and am not afraid to admit it ;)

Writing takes up too much brain space to allow for much of anything else (yes, yes, here's the spot to insert/comment/send me dumb-blonde jokes), and when I'm in writing-mode, the dog needs to perform a pretty remarkable tango to snap me out of that writing-mode and remind me of the fact that she isn't actually capable of using indoor plumbing.

When I first read (several years ago) about being afraid of adopting other writers' style/voice/etc, my reaction was... "Seriously?"

Because that just doesn't compute...

But then I kept hearing/reading the same thing.

I think it would take a lot of work to write in a voice other than my own... to change my style, to merge/meld with another. Maybe I'm just lazy? Maybe my dyslexic-brain can't switch gears to a new track? Sure, I can draw in any number of different styles, but I like my own. I like the lines and shapes my pencil automatically follows when I'm sketching/doodling. Writing my own voice/style is just as easy. I don't think, I just do.

But what do you guys think?

To you, is this a legitimate fear, and if so, why/how?

I get that, when you analyze something you like, how you can use it as a tool to *improve* your own writing, but I wouldn't consider that *adopting*. I'd call that learning. That's how/why I can draw in so many different styles. You analyze, you learn, you re-create, you move on and integrate it into your own thing.

Yup, I totally thought those sharp Anime/Manga styled noses from the 80's & 90's were ridiculous until I figured out *why* they're drawn that way.


A little while ago, I kinda ranted about 'kick-ass-female-characters' because I read 6 books within a couple of days where the lead female characters were near carbon-copies of each other. Does that mean any of those authors were *adopting* from each other? Or from an earlier book?

If every story has been already told a thousand times, and all that makes us interesting is our own, unique take on the tired, regurgitated plots & character archetypes, then where do you think the line is?

Do you read while you write? If you don't, why?

I do foolish things

Since I mentioned earlier today that I did a foolish thing, I've had a couple people email and ask what the heck it was...

...and since it's a pretty funny story...

You know what a split-wood fence is, right? Something like this:

Well, there's one around the off-leash dog park. The strips of oddly-hewn wood are approximately 4-5" wide, 8-10 feet in length, and not a single one is a flat surface, some have up to a 45 degree slope.

Can you see where this is going?

Now look at this picture:

You all know I love Vibram Five-Fingers, right? The shoe in the middle is a Merrell Vapour Glove, the bare-foot experience, but has a hard sole to take the pounding from asphalt, cement, etc. The shoe on the right is a Merrell Pace Glove, another barefoot shoe, but meant for soft dirt/trails/etc... so you can see how the rubber has worn away to nothing (because I was using it on the seawall) where the ball of the foot strikes. See that vaguely squarish shape where the green has worn away? That's hard, slick plastic.

Well, since Sunday, I've not just been walking the narrow/rickety split-wood fence... I've been running on it.

But I've been running it with my Five-Fingers, or my Vapour Gloves.

Guess what happens when you're running/jumping in about 3' strides, but you're wearing shoes where the rubber/tread has worn down to nothing, and you're used to shoes that stick/grip.

Yup. So, I'm re-familiarizing myself with the acronym RICE, and have taped my knee up pretty good.

Too bad KT Tape does nothing for the spectacular bruising I have on my other leg, hip, back, & shoulder. After all, I did fall/roll off a 4' tall fence while running at full speed ;)

I've had three people shake their heads and laugh at me when I told them what happened... They've all said, "only you..."

And, sigh, yeah. I have to admit that's probably true.

By the way, I entirely blame the fact that I have ridiculously small feet for my height... I'm 5'9", and wear a size 6.

FFF 10.2

There's a nice, warm drizzle outside, and you know how much I love the rain ;)

Funny how the more I write these flash fiction pieces, the less I end up editing. My first draft was 218 words, I fleshed it out to 263, then I re-wrote a line and cut out a couple extra words to make it 250:

It was nearly morning. The moon was an overturned bowl shaking the last drops of milky starlight into the silkscreen washed sky. Tomorrow it would be a waning crescent on its way to a new moon. Funny how a lightless night, after the moon has been extinguished, is when it’s thought to be reborn.

I flicked my lighter, the tiny sunspot of manufactured light as fast and ephemeral as a single heartbeat. My thumb pulsed, keeping time with sparks and the sharp scent of flint. Not the same as gunpowder, but close.

The lights were still off in the house, doors and windows latched for the night.

She’d be out soon. She ran every morning for an hour, her Belgian shepherd, Kali, keeping a loping pace at her side.

Flick, spark, burn, wait.

A razor gap of black widened as she opened the front door in the dark. In a pink sports-bra and knee-length shorts, she bent to tug the laces of her shoes tight. She took a few minutes to stretch, her hamstrings first, then planted her hands on the door and leaned into an almost-kneel to target the tendons in her calves and feet.

I checked the holster straps, ran my hand over the butt of my 9mm. 

She took off jogging, and I let her get half-a-block away before I followed. In this light, I didn’t want to be seen.

It was time to do my job.

I would keep her safe.

Flash Fiction Friday 10.0

Wow, I really can't believe I've maintained 10 Fridays in a row...

It rained a little last night, which cleared some of the heat from the air :)

Another short sentence for today, but this time I'm not near-delerious from insomnia. I'm going to take Eva out, and write mine up when I get back.

I did a... very foolish thing yesterday and busted up my knee, so short walkies for the next few days :)


It was nearly morning.