Katherine Frances's Blog, page 370
May 9, 2015
"thinly veiled skies ignite
glowing bulbs
popping out in the midst of
kelly green
birds crying
for..."
thinly veiled skies ignite
glowing bulbs
popping out in the midst of
kelly green
birds crying
for their mothers
listen to their tiny voices
joining into one
harmony
bringing life to the dead
splashing color on gray
the approaching
freedom
- bourne-identity, “spring” (via wnq-writers)
Question of the Month: May
If you won $10 million, what would you do?
If I won 10 million, first I would pay off all my debt and student loans. Then I would buy a small cabin house for my mom, somewhere she’d like with woods and ocean, and a mobile home. Then I’d pay back my dad all the money he’s given me for school with lots of interest. I would then put aside enough money to build interest and keep a steady influx of money from that. I would keep about 10,000 in my bank account, and the rest I would donate to charities and maybe a few friends that needed it for school or a place to live.
May 4, 2015
wordspinning:
It is 2015 and some of you still think it’s...
It is 2015 and some of you still think it’s acceptable/humorous/whatever to use the term “oreo.” Think about what you are saying when you call someone that. That their culture and community is worthless? That the best they can be is white-passing? That light skin is better? That’s disgusting. Think about your words. Think about the ideas you’re propagating with that statement.
“I will never stay silent in a world that expects me to leap out of my own ancestry to earn it’s approval. Acceptance means more than looking for a mirror inside somebody else. What makes you think the best we could be was a reflection of you?”
Writers
Laying in bed: *constructs perfect plot*
Standing in shower: *constructs perfect characters*
While driving: *constructs perfect setting*
Staring at blank page: “wut r werds.”
I dare you to write about a world with at least two different cultures
((Accidentally drafted this instead of queuing so posting now))
Be creative! A lot of fiction builds off of historic human culture or is high fantasy where there are different races which each have only one culture. Challenge yourself to write about two different human cultures or two different cultures within one species of your choosing.
This can be in outline or note form or in a story exploring each. Up to you!
Think outside of the box! If you’re brave enough to post don’t forget to tag ‘I dare you to write’ and indicate whether or not concrit is welcome.
Warning to writers
While you are worrying about whether beta readers will steal your ideas, there is a more genuine threat on the horizon.
When offered a publishing contract, please do all your research before you sign. There are a number of fakes and scammers out there, as well as good-intentioned amateurs that don’t know how to get your work to a wide audience. I won’t tell the heartbreaking stories here - there are too many.
Being published badly is worse than being never published.
It can destroy your career and your dreams.
The quick check is to google the publishing house name + scam or warning.
But, to be sure, check with these places first. They aren’t infallible (nothing is) but they can help you protect yourself. They are written and maintained by experienced writers, editors, publishers and legal folks.
Absolute Write: Bewares and Background Checks
and the WRITER BEWARE blog
Keep yourself and your work safe.
This is really important, so if you are a writer or have writer friends, or you are a writing blog, please reblog it.
Just to let you know, PublishAmerica changed their name to America Star Books.
HEAD’S UP, WRITER TYPES: THIS IS AN IMPORTANT PSA!
"He’s harsh as winter when in full swing
He’s tender and beautiful as a butterfly’s wing
He’s a..."
He’s harsh as winter when in full swing
He’s tender and beautiful as a butterfly’s wing
He’s a deep breath of air on the first day of spring
He’s the bitter attack of a scorpion’s sting
”- ineedasavior (via wnq-writers)
How are you a writer?
I was asked this question yet again yesterday. I’m sure everyone has comments or just moments that bring them back to being a little kid, helplessly stranded in a sea of self doubt, surrounded by other kids, mocking. These moments are like portals to the little self we keep inside that’s still wounded from the years of torment. For many it’s probably something physical. “Why are your ears so big?” “Why is you’re nose shaped like that?”
For me it’s misspelled words. I was in the grocery story with my roommates, and he was reading the list I’d written of things we needed. Half the words were misspelled because pen and paper have no spell check. He made sure to point out every misspelled word and laugh. He made a point to correct me, as if telling me how the word it actually spelled would help me some how, would teach me a lesson. As if I’d just been goofing off while the other children were learning to write properly.
“How are you a writer?” he asked between snickers. Yes, how am I? How is it that someone so stupid to misspell “sandwich meet” and “letus” could possibly be a writer, be in college, be a functioning adult? I take it back, it’s not the misspelled words, it’s not the comments that take me back, it’s that feeling. That feeling of being helpless and worthless and stupid.
Suddenly I’m in the 4th grade again. They’re making me write on the board and my hands are shaking because I don’t know how to spell follow. I sound it out in my head. F-a-l-o-w, each letter a scribble because my fingers are slick with sweat. The teacher points and asks “Is that how you spell follow?” and I say no, because of course it’s not. I begin hovering over letters to erase, watching for changes in her expression, watching to see the right answer. Eventually she just gives it to me, because I’m obviously a lost cause. I sit down, heart pounding, sick to my stomach. I know this is how she gets kids to learn. But I can’t learn, because, like the kids whisper behind my back, I’m too stupid.
This is dyslexia. Dyslexia is not just a learning disability. For me, it’s a feeling. A feeling I’m lulled by adulthood into thinking that I've escaped, only to be rushed back when I least expect it.
