Grind Writers Writing...

"READ DATING" FOR WRITERS - VPL's answer to speed dating

2012-01-22T09:33:00.000-08:00

Wed. Feb 15
6:30 - 8:30pm
Downtown Central Branch
in the Alice MacKay room on the lower level

Are you single and aged 55 or older? Do you enjoy reading? Want to meet others who are interested in the same thing?

Come to our fun and casual Read Dating event for up to 17 dates in one night.

This Read Dating event is a fun and easy way for singles to meet lots of potential dates in one evening.

Participants are given 4 minutes to chat with each person, and will be provided with a temporary email to exchange.

Bring your favourite book, DVD, or CD to discuss.

Registration has been underway since Jan.16th at the Popular Reading info desk on Level 2.

More info: Popular Reading Library
T: 604-331-3691

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Today's free-write prompt at Grind Writers - Jan 21, 2012

2012-01-21T10:12:00.000-08:00

If you need more information on doing free-writes before you start - see "Free-writes, how-to" post of Jan 21, 2012.

Our prompts today come from EMOTIONAL CURRENCY (Kate Levinson, PhD. Berkley: Celestial Arts; 2011). The subtitle on this is "A Woman's Guide to Building a Healthy Relationship with Money" -- but most everything in this book applies pretty equally to men as well.

Prompt questions to write to around you + the cash:

What 3 things has the culture you grew up in taught you or conditioned you to believe about money?
Are you comfortable with your level of spending? (If not, how would you like it to be?)
What kinds of things are you seduced to buy?
What messages did you receive about being a man/woman in relation to money--making it, spending it, saving it, sharing it and giving it away, investing it?
Were money matters discussed in your family? In what manner were they discussed Did your parents retreat to discuss money in private, or did such discussions take place openly.
What relationships do you have that involve money? And..?

Ok. Now, as Natalie Goldberg loves to say: "Go: 10 minutes!"

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Margo Lamont

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Free-writes - how to

2012-01-21T09:51:00.000-08:00

Set aside 10 to 15 minutes per prompt.
Select a prompt to write to. Do not spend too much time on this. It can be as easy as opening a book at a page, jabbing some line with your finger - then writing to that. Many writing-prompt sites online. Or get a book of prompts. Or randomly choose a photo in a magazine, or a newspaper headline.
Once you have a randomly chosen prompt, write to it.
Write straight for 10 to 15 mins., no stopping. Pen does not leave the paper or hands do not leave hte keyboard. Just keep on pressing forward, writing whatever comes out. Whatever! Because this is just a draft, you might even write about what you want to write about around that prompt. Doesn't matter - just keep writing.
DO NOT EDIT as you write. Generating the words and editing them are 2 entirely different processes. They need to be kept separate. Repeat: write, do not edit.
Even if you hate your prompt, or do not feel like writing -- keep writing. Write about how much you hate the prompt or why you don't feel like writing. Don't worry about language or grammar. Just write.
Don't have any expectations for this piece of writing to "be" anything.

Now you have something. A whole lot of drivel. A draft. Some ideas. A scene. Maybe a scrap of dialogue you'll use later.

Do a free write at least every day. You'll be surprised what happens.

And read The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron about writing your Morning Pages and you can refine this.

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Margo Lamont

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Grind Writers as President Obama

2011-12-29T22:28:00.000-08:00

Writing groups can't be serious and literary all of the time....

Sometimes we need to have fun...........

and play.....

Creepy isn't it......... but, then we wrote!

Grind Writers and the books they free-write and journal in

2011-12-29T22:04:00.000-08:00

People write in fancy journal books, in 3 ring notebooks, in shorthand books.

You find the paper and pen and format that works for you.....

And then.....................just write.

Why We’d Rather Schmooze Than Write - Margo Lamont

2011-12-04T10:57:00.000-08:00

This was actually a prompt from another group, The Closet Writers. We noticed that with the slightest provocation we would spend our entire meeting yakking and schmoozing, and decided to free-write as to why.

Why We’d Rather Schmooze Than Write

We’d rather schmooze than write because writing is a lonely occupation. No, not lonely—who is ever lonely when the ink is flowing and the thoughts are piling out?

No, not lonely: solitary. It’s you + something inanimate: the pen & paper, the computer. It’s your brain and your thoughts – as convoluted or creative as they may be – and the paper, that daunting blank ahead of you. And we all read, explore, attend lectures, meet curious people—and we want to share it. The schmoozing is about sharing and support; it’s about looking up from that page and being part of something bigger than you & it.

It’s about community.

Margo Lamont

September 7, 2010

Work #32 - by Lindsay Glauser

2011-10-12T22:12:00.001-07:00

The female model came in to the room, wrapped in a blanket, while the man stayed in the corner setting up his easel. She dropped her blanket, stretching her leg up against the platform, and he turned the page. Sketches of conte, he moved his hand aroung the page while keeping his eyes on the shapes of her frame. She stayed still until she knew he was finished, and she knew it was time when she heard the man take a breath.

(c)2011 Lindsay Glauser

Candice James, the Poet Laureate of New Westminster, does the Grind Writers free-write challenge

2011-08-14T17:51:00.000-07:00

by the Poet Laureate of New Westminster, Candice James

Not the same picture Candice
wrote to, but a similar landscape.

Same photographer: Warren Gordon

a 15 min. free-write done to a prompt: a photograph of a lone person fishing on the Margaree River in Cape Breton on a magnificently sunny summer day not unlike the one we were experiencing at the Summer Dreams Literary Arts festival where this challenge was offered up.

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Footsteps sinking into silk

Wet flow of nature’s milk

The sustenance to which were drawn

In surreal world of peace and calm

The shine of sunlight on the fields

Unmeasured dreams and brilliant yields
The essence of the whispering wind

and secrets of the past begin

To unwind in the wind of the river

As it flows round my body like a shiver

And I pull my mind around my heart

Like a blanket, tattered, torn apart

The trees stand in jurious solitude

Against a sky opaque and nude

And life is shadowed in between

The river, stream and pastoral scene

Where we wander like wolves and sheep

Leaving this realm with nothing to keep

Save our sanctimonious souls

As - the thunder rolls.

George Bowering, Canada's first Poet Laureate adds his bit

2011-08-14T17:32:00.001-07:00

We started a Round Robin story at the Grind Writers table at the Summer Dreams Literary Arts fest. It was was such a beautiful day--the sun and the seaside, and the dozens of poets reading and slamming, gulls, BBQ fragrances wafting on the wind, workshops, face-painting and wonderful blues--that I'm afraid we didn't get very far with the story.

However, we were fortunate to have George Bowering, Canada’s first Poet Laureate, start it off.

I think he was being a bit of an imp. He looks like he is capable of great naughtiness, don't you think?

If you'd like to add to the story with its auspicious beginnings, please do - and send me your bit in an email to (wonderwords@shaw.ca) and I'll post it up. The ///s indicate a new person is writing.

________________________

Rooting around in an old trunk in Mom’s attic after she died, I froze when I found /// myself covered in ice cubes. After the cubes began to melt suddenly I had this urge for peanut butter. Realizing, or maybe thinking, I was hungry, I headed down the crickety stairs she had always wanted painted--and I never did--to the kitchen. /// the pungent aroma of fresh Cuban coffee hung thick in the air, wrapping me in her embrace, leading me to the sultry yellow cup beckoning me to touch it. ///

But I didn’t…how could I?--he was holding it. “What are you doing here?” I demanded.

Summer Dreams Literary Arts Festival - Freewrite challenge 2011

2011-08-14T17:26:00.000-07:00

A day in the sun at the Summer Dreams Literary Arts Festival and some takers to the Grind Writers DEAW ("drop everything and write") 15-min free-write challenge. Some prompts were text, others photographs:
__________________________

Warren Dean Fulton ©Aug2011

Prompt was a photograph of Russian nesting dolls

MATRYOSKA

Nesting within

in decreasing size

smaller and smaller and smaller, yet

a layering chart of past mes,

down to the tiny bean

of a baby

I once was.

______________________

Ingrid Steenhuisen ©Aug2011

prompt - her own

STANLEY PARK’S RICHES TO A CHILD’S WEALTHY/HEALTHY IMAGINATION
For a child, a park is a wonderful place for a wide variety of reasons. Regardless of whether it is a small open neighbourhood park or a large majestic and varied one like Stanley Park.

As a child born and raised in Vancouver by immigrant parents, being alert, aware, cautious and inventive, parks were a place for us to be adventurous. Being the eldest also meant sharing that curiousness with the others and teaching them things that were done in a fun way and encouraging varying types of independence -- first steps, first dip, first swing, first teeter-totter, first swim stroke(s).

We--my twin sister and I--found it amazing how each (next) child seemed to mature/learn faster than the one(s) before them. But, now we realize that it was because each one had more teachers than the sibling before them.

Stanley Park s fun, Fun, FUN! To arrive early in the morning to commandeer two picnic tables to have enough seating for all of us. Oatmeal cooked on a Coleman® camp stove (and Dad having to pump it, so it would work for Mom) -- then potato and other salads prepared for dinner, while lunch was always sandwiches. Playground and zoo in the morning - then swimming after lunch - then reading and playground again (for the little ones) until dinner.
______________________

Timothy Shay ©Aug2011

prompt was “Describe a typical day for you”

A typical day begins………

I feed pepperoni the cat at seven a.m.
and assure him that he is indeed a

wild forest cat and we have killed

the grilled chicken chunks late the previous night
and as pepper the cat has short term memory
he accepts this with the dawn gusto
of a hungry hunter. After eating the bathtub curtains
must be adjusted to afford pepper the cat
a long secret tunnel to the waterfall (faucet) which
runs incessantly like an ancient river
then it is time for pepper the cat’s dose of nip
and his cantankerous day begins, bugs beware;

and like his tired cyclic god
I return to bed and dream other worlds.
____________________

Shan Kelly ©Aug 2011

prompt: write a 500 word biography of yourself in the third person

BIOGRAPHY

Shan was born in Dublin in 1965 to a young, working class couple from Ballyfermot, Dublin, Francis and Eileen named their first child Patricia after Eileen’s dad and Sarah after Frank’s mother. But Grandma Sarah was unhappy--that hers was no the first name given to her first grandchild, so nobody used either name.

Eileen’s delivery was like being in a car rash and the young Mum was too ill to attend her baby’s Christening when the baby was gien a new name, Sharon.

For Sharon’s first four years, Francis, Eileen and baby Sharon lived with Eileen’s Mum, Josie, who had lost her husband to a brain hemorrhage the year before. In 1969, Eileen was expecting again and the Kellys moved to a new house in Milltown which was where Sharon spent her childhood.

Shan was a good student and won a place at the College of Commerce. She graduated in 1984 and moved to London on her twentieth birthday, not returning to live again in Dublin until 2007 when she moved back to the house in Milltown with her daughter, Grace, age two.

Frank was dead by then and Eileen had been widowed for more than two decades. Sharon had shortened her name to Shan after getting a degree at the London School of Economics where she studied under Dard Sterkey.

Shan/Sharon Patricia Jean Kelly--she had also collected a Confirmation name by now--managed to survive a brain hemorrhage in 2001 and to make a full recovery with “no deficits,” as the English National Health Service put it. But she found it hard to return to her job as a journalist and instead got involved with her community from 2002 until after the birth of her daughter in 2005 when she was 39.

Shan went back to work in 2006 and edited two business magazines in London and Dublin before beginning taking classes in creative writing. She is still hoping to write stories for publication as novels, plays or as screenplays, but life keeps getting in the way.

Maybe this year she will do it.
_______________________

Aine Rathwell ©Aug2011

prompt: unknown

Once upon a time in a flash of light far, far, further away there was flashes of lighting. Split a civilization disappeared on the wind like gone with the wind. A civilization blew away. Gone Civilization, gone with and like the wind. He saw it all in a cloud and all his fellow ancestors all mixed up like spoon that turned into soup. The soup of his ancestors are all marked like an ancient myths….a history of a totem.

Hiroshima, Aug 6, 2011 - by Niko Kerhulas

2011-08-10T22:40:00.000-07:00

This was a 15-min. freewrite on the topic Hiroshima on the 66th anniversary of the dropping of the A-Bomb on that city.
............................................................................................

Gosh, where to begin? I wrote my Senior Thesis on the necessity of dropping both bombs. At my young age I felt as if I understood why it occurred and how it helped. It’s interesting using the word “help” when they did such terrible things to so many. My views have changed as I’ ve aged. I could still argue both sides if I wished but now I lean far more towards wishing such things never occurred. I know why it occurred and all the steps that led to intelligent people saying, “Yes, this is a good idea” but when I take a step back and look at it all it’s hard to justify hundreds of thousands of deaths.

Becoming a parent changes views. Everyone that died had a mother and a father. Some had siblings or children of their own. When viewed in that light it’s quite hard to ever justify such actions but when I was 21 I did just that. The title was something like The Necessity of Dropping the Atomic Bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I had page after page of facts and quotes.

I put it in perspective. Something like 54 million people died in World War II but less than ½ million died because of those two bombs. I spoke of how many more lives were saved and how after so many years of war it was easier to make that choice.

Just end it. No more. And it’s all true. It did probably save lives.

Tens of millions more died from the billions of bullets and bombs used in the years prior not to mention all the deaths from hunger and exposure. Why single out these two bombs from the billions of other causes of death?

It feels dirty too. How do you justify death? I guess by making it so prevalent and common as to remove the terribleness of it all. I was able to do it in my younger days. It’s probably why the military enlists such young men and women. They view the world as black and white, right and wrong rather than grey. Most things in life are a shade of grey.

I didn’t really question my views back then. I had spent four years studying at a large university renown for its History program. I had already questioned my views, hadn’t I? Here is my conclusion; no need to question that.

Age is a beautiful aid to life. I very much question my views now though I’m sure there are some that I still turn a blind-eye too. I know though that I’ve been wrong in the past and will be wrong again in the future. That’s not a bad thing. Not questioning and correcting it is the great flaw.

How do I convince others to question their views? That is a goal worth pursuing. I don’t need to change their views. I need them to change their own.

I got an A on my Senior Thesis. I don’t know if the Professor agreed with me or not but he felt I had fulfilled the assignment well. I don’t recall a single person in that small class disagreeing with me. I do remember a couple that did agree. I wonder if they still do?

August 6, 2011 Niko Kerhulas

Don't Write About What You Know -- article in The Atlantic

2011-08-01T10:23:00.000-07:00

--quote: Every Wednesday, I teach an introductory fiction workshop at Harvard University, and on the first day of class I pass out a bullet-pointed list of things the students should try hard to avoid. Don’t start a story with an alarm clock going off. Don’t end a story with the whole shebang having been a suicide note. Don’t use flashy dialogue tags like intoned or queried or, God forbid, ejaculated.
      Twelve unbearably gifted students are sitting around the table, and they appreciate having such perimeters established. With each variable the list isolates, their imaginations soar higher. They smile and nod. The mood in the room is congenial, almost festive with learning.
     I feel like a very effective teacher; I can practically hear my course-evaluation scores hitting the roof. Then, when the students reach the last point on the list, the mood shifts. Some of them squint at the words as if their vision has gone blurry; others ask their neighbors for clarification. The neighbor will shake her head, looking pale and dejected, as if the last point confirms that she should have opted for that aseptic-surgery class where you operate on a fetal pig.

     The last point is: Don’t Write What You Know. --unquote

Bret Anthony Johnston writing in The Atlantic. Rest of story.

Everyman by Lesley Prentis

2011-06-26T16:46:00.000-07:00

A poem that came from a free-write 15 min. writing prompt at the Grind Writers Group – writing to a painting in an exhibit at the gallery. Below the freewrite version is a version that has been further revised, for comparison purposes.

The paintings are on display until the end of June. We invite you to write to one of the paintings and send it to grindwriters@gmail.com for posting here.

Everyman
first version June 11, 2011

Everyman stares out

Of black eyes, focused inwards

Looking inwards (outwards)

Staring out of sunken sockets in his

Weathered face,

Naked form gathered in on his self

Oblivious to the audience

Of stunned discomfort

Embracing the sight

Of he lost in (his) life’s storm

They sheltered in their clothes

And small minds

Shunned by others

Who turn their backs

Viewed with scorn

By narrow minded pouting lips

Everyman stares out of black eyes

Unfocused eyes, looking inward eyes

Scared eyes, angry eyes.

Staring out at an angry world

Bewildered to be at the centre of the storm

Unable to weather the daily comings and goings

Finally left exposed to the world,

Naked, body drawn in on itself

Inside he hears acceptance

Raison d’etre

I understand whence you come from my son

I know your pain

I know the worth of you

More and less than you think

More and less than others say

Walk the line

Do not dally or they will pull you down

Creativity lost and found

_____________________

Everyman

June 16, 2011 (initial re-working)

Everyman stares

Out from black eyes focused inward

Looking inward? (Outwards)

Stares from the sunken sockets

Of his weathered face

His naked form gathered in on himself

Oblivious to his audience

Of stunned discomfort who

Embrace the sight

Of HE lost in (his) life’s storm

They sheltered in their clothes

And their small minds

Whilst he shunned by others

Who viewed with scorn

And narrow minded pouting lips

Who turn their backs

On his unspoken needs.

Everyman stares

Out from black eyes, looking inward eyes

Scared eyes, angry eyes

Stares out at an angry world

Suddenly aware, bewildered

To be the centre of the storm

Unable to weather the daily comings and goings

Finally left exposed to the world

Naked, body drawn in on himself

Everyman stares

Out from black eyes focused inward

Inside he hears acceptance

Raison d’etre

The words

I know whence you come from my son

I know your pain

I know the worth of you

More and less than you think

More and less than others say

Walk the line

Carefully

Do not step on the cracks

Do not dally, do not pay heed

Creativity lost and found.

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The less you wear...

2011-06-25T14:36:00.000-07:00

A scene that came from a free-write 15 min. writing prompt at the Grind Writers Group – writing to a painting in an exhibit at the gallery. The paintings are on display until the end of June.

-I have a secret, Gloria whispered.

-We don’t have secrets…well, not since grade two…

-I’ve something to tell you, Sandra…it’s important.

-OK, slow down, breathe…you’re not… (checking out tummy area)

-No, it’s not that…I’ve…

-Gloria, you’re not seeing him again??

-No! Just listen.

-Ok, ok, shoot…

-I’ve got a new job…

-Well, that’s fantastic! What’s the big deal?

-It’s how I’m earning…

-Oh God, no…Look, if staying at my place helps…

-Why do you always think the worst?! Not that!

-What then?

-I’m modeling.

-Models make great money. What?--designer clothes, lingerie…?

-Less.

-Less what, money? Models make great money…you know
the rule of less?

-What’s that?

-The less you wear, the more you make.

-Not in this case.

-Why not?

-I wear nothing…except maybe some drapery--a scarf, a discretely
placed cushion or bolster…

-How does that work?

-Well, I show up…

-Where?

-At the figurative art studio.

-Then what happens…who’s there…do they watch?…is it seedy?

-Stop!! (laughing)

-Do they play burlesque music?

-Sandy! (exasperated) No!! I go to the bathroom.

-To throw up? Nerves?

-No, to change…

-Oh.

-Then I wear my robe between poses.

-How long’s the session?

-Well, at first they’re short one, two, five and ten-minute poses.

-Do you move around? Show me one of your poses.

-Ta da! (posing)

-Doesn’t your ‘hoohoo’ show?

-Look, it’s not an issue…

-Since when isn’t your ‘hoohoo’ an issue?

-They’re sitting all around me. I’m on a small, raised platform with locked wheels.

-Do you get to look at their work?

-At the twenty-minute break, I sometimes circulate…it’s…wonderful.

-Respectful?

-Absolutely…one guy even gave me his half hour sketch.

-That’s a long time to hold a pose…

-You choose that one carefully…

-Show me…(demonstrating) hmmm, I don’t think I could hold that for thirty minutes.

-Never know ’til you try, Sandy, never know til you try. Check out the model
requirements on their website! It’s not easy money, but it’s fun!

-Not on your life! (dissolving to laughter)

kjbox@telus.net
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The Supportive Wife

2011-06-24T23:54:00.000-07:00

A story that came from a free-write 15 min. writing prompt at the Grind Writers Group – writing to a painting in an exhibit at the gallery. The paintings are on display until the end of June.

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Stella stood shocked, shaking, then slumped into a chair, setting her sherry down on a nearby table. For an instant she thought it might drop out of her trembling fingers and the last thing she wanted to do now was draw more attention to herself. She looked around her, as she reeled at the revelation that had just washed over her and she saw Terrence across the room, preening. He had not made eye contact with her when she came in. She had thought that strange, but now---now she understood.

“He’s got such a bright open palette,” she heard a man saying to his companion.

“Yes,” she heard the companion reply. “He’s a combination of Cézanne and Picasso.”

“And a little Matisse on the side,” the man said, pointing at No. 44 with his wineglass.

The comment swirled around her. Stella breathed in deeply, deliberately. Yes, Picasso—one infidelity after another… But this—

At that moment Terrence glanced in her direction. In a flash of a moment and even in her state of tremulousness, she saw him take her presence in and in such a brief flash that she could almost have believed she imagined it, she saw that gleam of malicious satisfaction—and then it was gone, papered over with a social smile to someone who had tapped his arm and asked him a question. Did he know she had caught it?

Stella finished her sherry and got up. She perambulated the room again. There it was up on the wall for everyone to see. In every painting featuring Stella, she had her back to the viewer and he had portrayed her as chunky, old and fat. Nos. 42 – 60 – 23 – 16 – 34 – 38. And, no mistaking it, in the rest of the paintings was the beautiful, younger woman who stood beside him now at the opening. Stella did not know her name but she knew enough from her wife’s instincts of twenty-three years.

Some knowing force caused her to look Terrence’s way just as the women, the naked subject in all his other paintings, was regarding her.

Stella felt a presence sidling up to her: her sister-in-law, Helen, Terrence’s brother’s wife. “Stella—hiding here when you should be in the limelight with Ter?”

Was she being ironic? did she know? was she rubbing salt into the wounds? it was hard to tell; they’d never been the best of friends.

“I—uh—”

“I just heard someone compare Ter to the German Expressionists—how darling! I bet you know the difference between the French and the German Expressionists – and even between the Impressionists and the Expressionists, not like we Philistines, Stella!” Helen gave a champagne giggle.

Stella waited a beat. As always Helen was only asking rhetorically; she didn’t want any answers. “And who is that captivating European woman—I mean obviously she’s the model, but do you know her? Ter introduced me but I didn’t get the name—vaguely Czech-sounding or Eastern European. I think you are the most understanding spouse to let him spend all that time with someone twenty years younger…”

Helen’s words were getting lost in the packed room’s dialogue. “….dancing pastels maintain a precarious balance…”—A woman Stella recognized as an art critic.

Stella thought she might pass out. She was standing again in front of No. 60. He’d called it “Portrait of a Marriage.” It was she, back to the room, sitting naked and fat, fatter than she was in real life, with big bulges all over. It was such an unloving portrait. She recognized herself by the hairstyle. His model had cascading black hair in the paintings and here in real life, across this crowded hot room, long black hair she was sweeping back over her shoulder now as Stella regarded her. It was that gesture women with long hair make, where they sweep their hair off their face and shake it backwards, over and over when they are talking to a man, another kind of preening.

Stella’s grey hair in the painting was in a braided bun coiled around the nape of her neck like a serpent.

It was always the hair.

Her hand went to the nape of her neck and cupped the heavy bun. She had wanted to cut her hair years ago and had brought it up several times over the last ten years. He’d always said, “I like it that way. Why would you want to cut your hair, darling?”

She thought of her scissors back home.

________________________________

wonderwords@shaw.ca

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Pix of the open mic at the Fed. BC Writers AGM social

2011-05-14T08:02:00.001-07:00

http://vimeo.com/23713532

Grind Writers meeting dates 2011

2011-04-30T11:26:00.000-07:00

Please email me before you attend, as we sometimes move the venue - wonderwords@shaw.ca.

Sun May 29

Sat June 11

Sun June 26

Sat July

Sun July 24

Sat Aug 6

Sun Aug 21

Sat Sept 10

Sun Sept 18

Sat Oct 1

Sun Oct 16

Sat Oct 29

Sun Nov 13

Sat Nov 26

Sun Dec 11

AMBER STONES by Lilija Valis

2011-04-30T11:20:00.000-07:00

Amber has been washing up

on Baltic beaches a long time:

pine-resin preserved life,

Ice-Aged for posterity

— a leaf, an insect —

connecting us to a past

millions of years back,

turning it into gold —

Gintaras is what they call it,

(the Greeks named it “electron”)

made into jewelry, it has been

traded since 7000 B.C.

associated with the Sun God,

the Awakener, symbol

of happiness and healing,

purifying and protecting,

it permeates the body with light

the Baltic coast dwellers,

people of the sacred stone,

older than history,

dedicated themselves

to guarding the Sacred Fire,

through centuries of invasions,

deportations and forced conversions

by the stronger and more numerous,

they kept the Sacred Fire burning,

as did the Persian Zoroastrians,

something ancient

and essential to life,

hiding and shielding it

from the changing winds,

taking it with them

to the corners of this earth.

REAL by Lilija Valis

2011-04-30T11:16:00.000-07:00

          Someone was asked if there were any real atheists.
         Do you think, he answered, that there are any real Christians?
                                                                 — Denis Diderot (1713-1784)

Is anyone real?

I mean, is anyone One?

Or does everyone

and everything

have the opposite mixed in?

A saint commits a sin,

a criminal acts generously,

a soldier brings about peace,

a pacifist invites war.

Good can produce bad,

and bad bring forth good.

Certainly carries doubt.

Love can turn to hate in a split second

and hate can fall into love

against the will of the both.

Maybe that works best.

Don’t blame me.

I didn’t create the world.

Though I did my part

in reshaping society

and, forgive me, if it’s not

all the better for it.

© 2011 Lilija Valis

E: lilijavalis@gmail.com

Wine & Write with Grind Writers - May 20, 7pm

2011-04-27T07:54:00.001-07:00

Wine & Write

“Ernest Hemingway loved the Mojito, William Faulkner had his mint juleps, and F. Scott Fitzgerald was convinced gin was the way to go (he thought its smell would be undetectable on his breath).” ~NPR

Could a little sip from the bottle help all of us writers? We’ll find out at an experimental Wine Tasting/Writer’s Workshop on Friday, May 20 at 7pm.

We’ll sniff and sip before we get set on a variety of writing journeys. There will be reading aloud of stories, but don’t worry, the wine should unleash your confidence, inhibitions, and brilliance… or so this is the thought. Very experimental! Definitely fun! I will be leading this as the writing facilitator.

When the wine is in, the wit is out

~Proverb floating around the Internet

I guess we’ll find out.

*Seating is limited so please sign up early to save your spot.

When	Friday, May 20, 7 to 9pm
Where	Harvest Table, Legacy Liquor Store (yes, a liquor store with a beautiful wooden table where we can sip and write). 1633 Manitoba Street in Olympic Village. Five minute walk from Science World/Main Street Skytrain.
Cost	$25 for Wine, Bread and Cheese
Who	Who: For writers and aspiring writers led by writer and writing facilitator Gloria Chang (www.gloriachang.com)
How	How: Sign up through Gloria’s recently launched meetup group for eaters and drinkers: www.meetup.com/culinary-adventures-vancouver Or send Gloria an email: gloria@gloriachang.com
What to bring	A notebook and pen or laptop to write on.

Here’s a link to a special web feature by NPR on writers and their cocktails

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=6624971

More info: Gloria Chang

E: gloria@gloriachang.com
T: www.twitter.com/gloriajchang

Vachon to Seattle Grey by Pamela Swanson

2011-04-26T20:59:00.000-07:00

vashon to seattle grey

stone and tarmac muttering –

a shopping day of here to there

garlic oranges apples peas –

a windless rain of back forth -

ferry hopping groceries –

the streets are washed to half a pace

carrots lettuce yogurt tea

from paper shops to cutting boards –

the giant man still hammering

a steady background silhouette

for lemon juice and anise seeds

the banks are closed against the fog

on this monday eastering

through memories of here and not –

avocados broccoli –

my mother born a sigh away

inside the Swedish hospital

more than eighty years before

bananas ice cream cinnamon –

i feel an echo of her now

in videos that cross my eyes

reweaving ancient yesterdays

vanilla coffee envelopes –

and as i pause a waiting breath

between the stops of here and there

i almost see her smiling

seattle rains and postage stamps.

E: pam@poetpam.com
W: http://www.poetpam.com/

Their Painted Faces - by Bonnie (c)2011

2011-04-19T19:05:00.000-07:00

Prompt: If you could start your life over what would you do differently?

Maybe I would start wearing makeup at a younger age. I know, I know…most people would probably choose something like: I would spend more time in the garden or I would judge less and listen more. But do you have any idea how hard it is to learn to apply makeup when you are in your forties?

When I was younger I never had need of it. I was always athletic and fit and looked great in just my skin. Now, even though I am still in fairly good shape, still healthy, I need whatever help I can get to make me look a little more attractive, or at least a little younger. So I have decided to start spackling my face with colour. Makeup! Now there’s a minefield. Who knew it was so complicated?

When I was a kid, my sister had one of those Barbie Styling Head toys. Have you ever seen one of these things? It creeped me out then, and the thought of it still makes me shudder a little. It’s basically a large, plastic doll’s head cut off at the shoulders and fitted onto a base. Little girls create hairstyles and apply makeup to it. My sister would spend hours playing with this thing, experimenting with colour schemes and dressing the hair in different styles, but I never really got it.

“This look is for when she is going out on the town,” she’d say very seriously, standing back so I would have sufficient room to appraise it properly. Or, “here she is going to work in an office.”

I would roll my eyes at her and head outside to play with the boys. War was the name of our game. It involved sticks and running around trying to use them on each other.

Even as a teenager I became disoriented whenever I walked into the bathroom at school and found myself confronted by a line of girls jockeying for space in front of the mirrors. There would be a noxious cloud of hairspray hovering over them as they applied yet another layer of sticky lip gloss onto their pursed lips.

I preferred sports, and still do.

But now I find myself crawling back to those very same girly types I distained, sadly in need of some help.

Twenty year old makeup counter girls explain to me the absolute necessity of concealer and discuss the pros and cons of shades of brown vs. shades of green eye shadow with my skin tone. I try to focus when they’re talking, honestly I do—but I find myself staring at their painted faces and wondering if I dragged my finger down their skin, would it leave a trail?

Maybe if I had spent less time running around in the empty lot behind my house, trying to ambush Mike (who really was a little shit and very deserving of whatever he got), and more dressing up with my sister, I would be having an easier time of this whole aging thing now.

Maybe, if I had played with the doll’s head I wouldn’t feel so out of touch when I look in a mirror today and wonder about the middle-aged woman staring back at me, or why her hair is such a mess. Would that have staved off the rapid decline of my skin, or the graying of my hair? Or worse still, the downward migration of my breasts?

After a day navigating the perfumed makeup counters or the over-priced hair salon that has suddenly become de rigueur, I find myself tying up my sneakers with anxious fingers, desperate for a run, or packing my swim bag and rushing to the pool. Afterward, in the showers, I notice the sideward glances of teenaged girls. They’re thinking what I was thinking at their age.

I am never going to look like that.

I just smile and turn around to give them a back view of their future horror. And the potions I buy – the lipsticks, the face creams, the powders – just keep accumulating in my bathroom cabinet while I go, go, go.

Talking About Your Fat - by Bonnie Sim (c)2011

2011-04-17T16:26:00.000-07:00

A 10-minute free writing exercise

Prompt: Is it more difficult for you to speak kindly of honestly?

“Do I look fat in this?” Suppose the answer is yes. Maybe the answer is, “a little bit.” What do I say? How do I say it?

You know, I wish I could just say, “Yes, you do, just a little. But never mind about what you look like, stop being so damn insecure!” That’s what I wish I could say. But that will never happen. I’m a nice girl. So it’s obviously more difficult for me to speak honestly than to speak kindly. But is it really? I’m terrible at small talk. I choke on the words because they sound phony. I don’t think people care what the weather is so much as they care about having a distraction from revealing too much of themselves…truth.

I do it differently. I don’t talk at all. I’m against small talk. I cut straight to the chase, but I won’t tell you you’re fat.

You don’t look fat.

Just big-boned.

Ridiculous. I won’t say that either. What the hell is big-boned and why is it better than being fat? I’d rather be fat. Who wants big bones?! Sounds like a medical horror to me. At least fat melts away, or it can.

Whatever. I won’t tell you you’re fat. I’ll probably change the subject…tell you I like the colour of your dress and ask you where you found it.

Dishonest.

Kind.

I don’t care about the dress that makes you look fat. Why would I? It makes you look fat. I definitely don’t want to know where it came from. Or perhaps I do, so I can avoid that place always.

Honest.

Unkind.

Well. It seems there’s a 50/50 chance you’ll get an honest answer from me. If it’s not, then at least it will be kind. Probably not both though… especially if we’re talking about your fat.

Bonnie Sim: bonniesim@shaw.ca

Dark and Stormy Night

2010-08-18T09:05:00.000-07:00

This is one of my attempts at the well worn, "It was a dark and stormy night".

It was a dark and stormy night. I imagined all the things that could go wrong as I strolled through the posh neighbourhood with my two small dogs. These were not guard dogs. They were ankle biters who even in their most frenzied state would not frighten too many strangers.

I continued slowly along the rocky shore. “Million dollars homes and no street lights,” I mumbled to the dogs who were oblivious to my increasing anxiety as we made our way further and further from our home. I imagined evil doers lurking among the full leafy shrubbery surrounding each home.

I decided to curtail these silly thoughts as the road curved to the right and I saw a marina to my left. Waves crashed to the shore and the wind picked up as we entered the open space. The “ting, ting, ting” of boats, moored to docks and rocking in the water increased my apprehension but I continued determined to complete our walk before the worst of the storm hit.

Rain began to spit down on us. Still, I paused.This was a good night for a murder. As that thought crossed my mind, I heard a scream coming from the waves. It made me jump slightly and my focus sharpened. I glanced at the dogs. Their little ears were pricked up and one of them growled lowly. Their response confirmed what I hoped was only a part of my overactive imagination.

I heard the scream again. Both dogs responded with full out barking. There on one of the boats I saw two people facing each other. One seemed to be speaking rapidly but the wind carried the words away from my ears. The other one was more animated, gesturing wildly and then she screamed again.

To be continued…

Five Words

2010-07-14T09:59:00.000-07:00

Our last meeting ended with a writing exercise to be done at home. We each picked a word and are to write a short piece. The words are: Malaysia, diocese, trees, piano and Batman.

Here's my effort.

Malaysia slowly raised the high powered binoculars to her eyes and peered out the third story hotel window. The dropoff was arranged by Bishop Jonas at the Diocese of the First, and Only, Most Holy Virgin of Mount Gotham Emmanuel. For the purpose of this matter, Bishop Jonas requested that Malaysia use the alias 'Catwoman'. Bishop Jonas was to be called 'Batman' and the carrier 'Robin'.

The clock beemed 1:05. Robin was five minutes late. Malaysia wasn't worried. Operations arranged by Batman often hit snags. She turned from the window and dropped the binoculars on the bed. At the same moment, Robin appeared from behind a patch of maple trees across the street. A leather bag hung at his side. He stopped on the sidewalk and raised his sunglasses above his head to examine the hotel. No sign of Catwoman. He glanced at his watch. Should he wait?

The leather bag contained sensitive information, if Catwoman didn't show, he would have to return it to Batman before midnight. Robin sauntered across the street and noticed a coffee cart on the corner. He decided to buy a coffee and if Catwoman didn't show he would return by the same route he came.

Malaysia decided to go downstairs. She put on the red baseball cap with a kitty logo. This was how Robin was supposed to identify her. She trotted down three flights of stairs to the lobby and stopped at the front door to gaze across the street. Still no one. There was time for a latte. If Robin didn't show in the next ten minutes, she would alert Batman via the Joker.

From a fifth story window in an office building beside Catwoman's hotel, Batman watched the pair bumble around. They both fell into his trap perfectly. Workers hoisted a piano up to the room beside his.

As Robin sipped his coffee, he noticed Malaysia's red kitty cap. He moved beside her, "Who's your favourite superhero?"

"Batman, of course," she replied.

"Would you like to walk?"

Malaysia did not reply but took her latte and stepped away from the coffee cart facing back toward the hotel. She began to walk. Robin strolled beside her.

Still watching from the office window, Batman grinned. They moved in the right direction. It was too easy. He pressed a button on his walkie talkie alerting the piano movers. "Count to 5 and let go."

A poll for artists and writers....

2010-04-23T10:07:00.000-07:00

Understanding the Creative Workforce -- A Study of Artists and Arts Practice

Artists and the creative workforce have been hit hard by the recent government budgets [in BC]. The global economic downturn have effected the revenue streams of many artists, creative workers, and creative industry professionals and personnel.

Despite the downturn, preliminary statistics suggest that the downturn is leaving the cultural sector relatively unscathed, precisely because of the reputed flexibility of cultural/creative workers in finding other jobs.

In order to better understand the impact of these recent trends on artists and the creative workforce we at the Centre for Policy Studies on Culture and Communities at SFU [Simon Fraser University] are launching a survey of those working in the creative sector.

This survey--in partnership with Curtin University, Australia-- is part of larger international project that seeks to increase understanding of artists' careers.

Follow the link below to the survey website for more information on how you can participate in this survey and share your story with us:

http://www.sfu.ca/cultureandcommunities

As a way of saying thank-you, we will enter all participants into a draw to win an Apple iPod. As well, we will make available to you a report highlighting the survey findings, upon request.

We would like to thank you in advance for your interest in this survey -- The Centre for Policy Studies on Culture and Communities

***********************

Fumie's hometown in Japan - Nara

2010-04-04T19:43:00.000-07:00

The Winter of My Discontent - (c)2009 Jordan Devine

2009-12-18T23:44:00.000-08:00

Jordan took the freewrite challenge at the Summer Dream Festival in August 2009.
Prompt was: Bring two historical characters together and writ the dialogue for their meeting over lunch or dinner.

The Winter of My Discontent

Scene: A trendy restaurant called Winter. King Richard III sits alone at a table for two, looking nervous. Two full wine glasses sit upon the table. Enter Joan of Arc, trailing her sword behind her.

Richard: Joan?
Joan: Who else? the maitre d' informed me you have reserved the entire
restaurant.
Richard: Yes, yes. These are trying times for England and its king.
Safety first.
Joan Strange, I’ve lived through similar times myself.
Richard: Small world.
Joan: I am Gods messenger.
Richard: (aside) Oh, Christ!
Joan: Majesty, did you say something? And why the grin?
Richard: Oh, I can smile and murmer when I smile…
Joan: And you, Majesty, do you perform Gods Work?
Richard: My life is lived with the Divine Right of Kings. My every
action is Gods Work.
Joan: Humour me, Majesty, recite the Lord’s Prayer.
Richard: Well, now, youre putting me on the spot.
Joan: (aside) Oh Christ! (Joan stands). I knew a blind date
was a mistake.
Richard: No, no, don’t leave. At least try the Malmsey.
Joan: Not likely, Majesty.
Richard: Now is the winter of my discontent.

_______________________________________

Where Have All the Summers Gone? (c)2009 Perry Wilson

2009-12-18T23:39:00.000-08:00

Perry took the freewrite challenge at the Summer Dream Festival in August 2009.
Prompt was: You (or your character) have moved into a new house and while lcenaing you find an old photograph (or an old diary) in the basement or attic…

Where Have All The Summers Gone?

“Joe come see." I gave the old book a gentle rub to remove some of the dust and cobwebs.
“What?”Joe stomped down the wooden stairs to the basement of our new house.“Did you find buried treasure?”
“Maybe,” I laughed. “But not the kind you mean. Look.” I handed him the book. “It’s a diary.”
He laid the bok in his lap and let it fall open; it naturally did at about the one-third mark. “Today was a good day—” he read, “the bees seem to be returning.”
“Huh?” I reached for the book. “What do you mean?”“It says right here.”Joe pointed to the faded ink. “See?—bees.”
“Look deeper.”

He flipped back toward the front of the book. “I got the cherry dusted.” He looked up. “I’ve no idea why dusting furniture would be so important.”
I turned back to the shelf where I’d found the book. “Look at these.” A box of squat glass jars and chicken feathers was the only other thing on the shelf.
“There’s string there too.” Joe touched the feathers aside.
“Read more.” I didn’t even know where to start looking for an answer to this mystery.
“The hives are starting to populate, but the bees are sluggish.” He shrugged.
“ It might help if we knew what bees are.” I took the bok and put it back in the box, returning it back to the shelf. “Maybe we’ll have time to do research when we’ve settled in.”

______________________________________

Maybe Not an Urban Cottage - (c)2009 Sally Reesman

2009-12-18T23:36:00.000-08:00

Sally took the freewrite challenge at the Summer Dream Festival in August 2009.
Prompt was: You (or your character) have moved into a new house and while lcenaing you find an old photograph (or an old diary) in the basement or attic…

Maybe Not an Urban Cottage

It was a full time job, pulling and clipping the vines that clung and surrounded their way between the clapboard of the old house. At moments the delicate tendrils would loosen their cling and curl in search of another surface to clasp and grasp their clinging length. While suffocating in their growth, they still loosened their hold with a god swift tag — the edge of grass—stopped short of a wall — of old tree stumps covered in vines like green and growing fountain of vines – ripping these loose – a gray gargoyle plaster—like an Angel of Death—Black wings behind strong sinewed eyes lifting skulls from its feet and rolling them up in its knees.

At first thought it's a garden – gnome — a winged garoyle that is lying among vines that is inconsequential. The more the vines were pulled aside — revealing — more bones — ham bones, mutton bones, chicken bones… It was when I saw —r ooster claw bones … cat bones … and large bones like the haunches of a horse or a large ribcage of what could be a bear or a horse. They had been covered in lime, bleached white, with bits of the marrow exhibiting — yellow and black interior not yet gone back to nature.

It was then — what sort of activities went on in this house of vines—covered in vines so thick that the vines had entered to the interior of the house through the cement foundations — to the eaves of the second floor, burrowing through the chinks of lathe — these suffocating clinging vines — entombing crushing the house – and the limbed bones of small and large animals—removed my impression of an urban cottage.

___________________________________________

The Lady in the Second Attic (c) 2008 Isabella Mori

2008-12-08T21:52:00.000-08:00

Isabella took the Grind Writers Free-write Challenge at our home base, the Grind Gallery Cafe.
_________________________________________

The Lady in the Second Attic
(c)2008 Isabella Mori

Holy camoley, I didn’t know that there was another attic. Nice up here, lots of sun. Like a little den. I wonder if someone lives here? Looks like it … or not. The flowers in the vase are totally dry. But no dust. Very strange. Oh, and there are all those photographs on the wall. Old, old, old, how old? I bet at least a hundred years old. From the same family? Here, I like this one. A portrait of a woman in a garden … She is beautiful, her skin very dark. She wears a white dress. There is a plantation home in the background. A big garden. Is she sad? She looks a little sad … maybe just thoughtful.

I wonder what her name is. Jackie? Why Jackie? Her black skin looks so beautiful against the white. Her long hair is combed back, some sort of fancy hairdo – my, women back then, they spent so much time on their hair. A ribbon in her hair, even longer than her thick do, curling down all the way into her lap. A book and a quill, and a little inkwell beside her on a high stool. Back to her face. Does she really look sad? There are worlds in her eyes. Is she writing a book? Is that what those worlds are? She looks like she’s quite tall. Her legs are crossed, a tip of a shoe – white again – peeks out from under her frilly skirt. Frilled skirt is better maybe, there’s nothing frilly about her appearance, she is almost stern. She reminds me of Mary Shadd up here in Canada. Maybe they knew each other? Maybe she, our mysterious“she," this “Jackie," was writing a letter to her.

I wonder whether Jackie ever spent time up here…? I can see her in some of the other photographs, too. Maybe she came up here to write – I would like that, I would like that thought. She draws me to her, and I like the idea of being in the same room that she was in. Sitting on the rattan loveseat over there, looking out the window across to old the oak tree, thinking about her book, thinking about the book she was writing, and that Mary Shadd had encouraged her to start. So difficult to be a woman writer back then, and a black woman writer to boot. Especially difficult when a woman is as quiet as our Jackie here, quiet, inside herself, always thinking and imagining, not struggling, not striving, just writing, thinking …

The dried-up rose here. What words would she have found for it? Would it have mattered to her? What things did she write about? She doesn’t look like someone who would write romance novels, not even of the Jane Eyre kind. Was she a philosopher? Or more like Emily Dickinson? No, not that, either. More, perhaps, a forerunner of Toni Morrison, but heavier still, and darker, sparkling in different ways.

What did her handwriting look like? I imagine it large and imposing, like a man’s, serious, with as few frills as possible. Legible. Every word like an exclamation mark. So different from her demeanour. Everything goes into her words. The rest does not matter. That she is tall and beautiful and her eyes large and inviting doesn’t matter. That she loves dogs and horses doesn't matter. That she loves women not men doesn't matter. It all goes into her arm, into her fingers, flows into the quill and out with the ink on paper, paper, paper, wherever she can find it. Sometimes she writes with handmade ink, when she is too impatient to wait for a fresh supply to arrive from the city.

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The most important thing I ever learned on a trip (c) Mary Seus

2008-11-15T18:58:00.000-08:00

Mary took the Grind Free-write Challenge, given at the Surrey International Writers' Conference in October 2008:

The most important thing I ever learned on a trip
©2008 Mary Seus

That sounds like it could be extremely boring when I write it. It sort of resembles “what I did last summer.” I don't want to sound stilted like those childish essays --"Then we went to the park." That's where it begins…

Once upon a time I decided to run away from evil Ottawa with my pitbull mastif. I packed a few valuables and left with him on a chain. It was the first time I had hitchiked. No one picked us up in Canada. We took a taxi to Kingston and stayed overnight in a nice B&B (credit card). I was told that he had to go in the bathroom. I ignored that though Cricket (derived from Crockett) was not allowed on the bed. In the night there was some commotion at the door. Cricket, a six-month old big puppy, was snapping as some people (the innkeepers) tried to enter my room. The next morning we took a cab to the Canadian border. I had already jettisoned a radio while trying to be picked up. Cricket shifted a picnic table with his brute neck while I was discussing with Customs. We walked over the bridge. I have American citizenship by birth so I can cross that border on a whim. We arrived in upper state New York. Another hotel, more people at the door, though this time at a respectable hour, not trying to break in, and just wanting to see the dog.

I hadn't realized before I wrote this, but Cricket is a subset of the most important thing I ever learned on a trip. It is the beauty of our animal beast friends. He was a friendly dog with a huge head but as someone pointed out while petting it, "big ass" as well. He grew up to have the horns for I kept him full male. I felt this would keep his disposition good. His first attack came when we were in the night hitchiking. People must have thought there was a bizarre monster driving by some dog on two legs wound around his mistress humping and biting her ponytail gently. Anyways the most important thing I learned on that trip was an appreciation of nature. Cricket, as I did not realize before was a part of nature, though a domestic pet. We slept in a pile of weeds one night and by bushes in a small town where I woke up being dragged across the grass by a Cricket intent on getting moving. We camped near building sites in Colorado and I yelled at a guy making a pass at me and I had to leave for a while. Other men there were evil too. Funny men evil, nature good. One night in Boulder we went for a walk down a small mountain. We came to a cliff as it grew dark. A PO came out with a German Shepherd. We spent the night freezing and overlooking a cliff.

What the Free-write Challenge at the Summer Dream Literary Festival Was All About

2008-07-30T23:22:00.000-07:00

Free-write Challenge – Summer Dream Literary Arts Festival

Lumberman’s Arch, Stanley Park
Vancouver, British Columbia
July 26, 2008

Posted here are a series of free-writes written by people attending the Summer Dream Literary Festival, which was held in Stanley Park, beside fabled Lumberman’s Arch, on Saturday July 26th. The Grind Writers Group of Vancouver issued a challenge to writers attending the fest and to the random beach-goers who just happened along.

We wanted people to experience the joy of free-writing, and the pure bliss of writing-without-editing, believing as we do in the total separation of “church and state” when it comes to writing and editing.

The challenge was to choose a story starter that Grind Writers spent many a cozy hour by blazing fires, sipping on hot toddies, and creating on dark and stormy nights. People drew starters randomly out of a hat, starters such as “The couple on the bench…” or “A kayak glides by…" Their mission (if they chose to accept it and about 20 people did) was to free-write for 10-15 minutes, while the Summer Dream Festival rocked & roared around them, bands played, poets declaimed, seagulls screetched, crows fought, and children zigzagged amongst adult legs.

The only rule was no stopping, no going back, no editing while writing. Just to write – full steam ahead. Here's hoping you will enjoy the creativity, imagination and rich variety of the work that emerged.

19 pieces are posted from the Free-write Challenge so keep clicking on "Older Posts" and you'll see them all.

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For more information on the annual Summer Dream Literary Festival or Pandora's Collective, visit: http://www.pandorascollective.com/sdrfestival.html

Returning - Lesley Prentis

2008-07-30T23:19:00.001-07:00

Returning
©2008 Lesley Prentis
Starter was: “In the light of distant civilization he could see his ancestors stir in the totem…”

I no longer stand straight and tall
I now lean a little more each year
Eventually my light will fade
And I will lie
Embraced by the land
Where my end will come
In slow decay
Returning to the soil
That which gave me life.

My children have moved on
To new lands and new homes
Remembering dimly
The stories of our ancestors
Theirs and mine
In time they will make new stories.

Lost in his own life - Shelley Haggard

2008-07-30T21:30:00.001-07:00

Lost in his own life
©2008 Shelley Haggard

In the light of distant civilization, he could see his ancestors stir in the totem. Stanley Park was quiet. The Sunday crowds that had circled the totems earlier in the day, hunting the perfect angle, the perfect distance, with their myriad cameras, were gone. Now it was just him gauging the shadows the totems cast, trying to see if they were writing directions for him on the grass. He was lost, not physically, he was lost in his own life. It had become a maze that he couldn’t navigate on his own any more, and he had come here for help.

He felt the ancestors’ presence fully, could hear them drumming in the echo of his heartbeat. He could hear them chanting old words that lifted his spirit to position where it could look Eagle Clansmen in their eyes. Those eyes penetrated the shields he had placed in his mind as protection from the battering the humans in his world kept inflicting. Eagle spirit telegraphed an ancient wisdom into his brain. “Trust yourself,” it said. “Do not let the negative voices of others rule your spirit. Your spirit, mind, and body should operate as one—-then life will be as full as it can be.”

He got the message and he felt a calm descend. The negative voices within and without were getting too much of his precious time. He resolved to cast them out, to get back to what made him happiest, creating art through carving; showing gratitude to the ancestors.

Even if the sun should set - Kayla Feenstra

2008-07-30T21:10:00.000-07:00

Even if the sun should set
©2008 Kayla Feenstra

Stars in her eyes
But the sun hasn’t set
they shimmer
and she dances
innocent, perhaps
but so wise
and she stops to pick up
her fancy
She won’t remember
what it was
but I will
and I watch, enthralled
and enchanted
her feet catching
small leverages to higher ground…
always higher farther, more
with her, never satisfied
her insatiable thirst for
beauty applauds me
I have succeeded
my work is done—
she will look always to the skies
the mountains, the trees, always up,
never to the rocks, the weeds,
the dirt, the garbage – down
and as she holds the
pink-glassed seashell
next to her ear
I wonder what great sage
has been hidden inside,
whispering lost secrets
and promises for joy
and love and happiness,
always dancing
with stars in her eyes,
even if the sun should set
and the day turn black.

Harder than I thought to grow up - Maximilliano Gonzalez San Juan

2008-07-30T21:07:00.000-07:00

Harder than I thought to grow up
by Maximilliano Gonzalez San Juan

I’m travelling around the world
Looking for myself.
So far I’ve found friends and smiles
But no luck with giving peace to my heart.
I’m scared, at 28 years old,
Having so much energy to
Waste away and no plan for it. It’s
Harder than I thought to grow up
Even though it’s a one-way street.

My heart is filled with anger
But I have no clue where it’s from.
Contaminated with TV and Internet
I hope that my generation
Will find a cure for our disease.

My solution so far
Is to try my best and hopefully
G*d will take care of the rest.

Respectfully submitted…

A man and his chickadee family - George

2008-07-30T21:05:00.000-07:00

A man and his chickadee family
©2008 George
Story starter was: “On the edge of the Beaver Pond, playful chickadees whiz by…”

The random pile of colourful covers, jackets, plastic parts stirs at one end. An old sneaker kicks at the hidden shopping cart sending one wheel spinning.

“Owhh! Shit! Damn toe!” comes from under the other end of the pile. A hand waves at the green and yellow sleeping bag that covers the head end of the cloth pile. The hand parts the pile, showing a fully haired head, eyes squinting in the morning light.

A chickadee whizzes by, playfully stopping near the cloth pile. The man slowly turns his head to look directly at the chickadee. It cocks its head at the man, hops twice, then zips into the air toward the rushes on the edge of Beaver Pond.

The man, disappointed, stares after the little bird. After a minute of waiting to see his only friend, the man sinks back down into his possessions.

Two chickadees whiz in from the path toward the man. One stops on a dime on a thin branch over the man, chickadee’ing at him like laughter. He smiles up at it. The other chickadee zips between them, pulling the laughing bird along to more adventures down the path.

The man sinks down again into his pile. He looks over to the sky showing above the pond. “Better get up. Might be late, heh heh.” He rolls over, grunts as he settles back into a more comfortable position, but hits his toe again, “Owhh! Shit! Damn toe!”

I will return - Andrew Beddoes

2008-07-30T20:22:00.000-07:00

I will return…
©2008 Andrew Beddoes

The waves rolling in have a rhythm and calm that take me back to my childhood, visiting North Vancouver, laying at the beach. The beach was cold and alive. What it was, it was the rains from Earth’s early atmosphere, the water which begat the plant kingdom, from whence animals came; to my mother it was the source of all giving. And surely I will return to the sea, in our cloudy future, and become the waves rolling in.

And the ferry sales by... - Barbara Coleman

2008-07-30T20:21:00.001-07:00

And the ferry sails by…
©2008 Barbara Coleman
Story starter was: “And the ferry sails by, a passenger waving and pointing at me……”

And on the ferry sailing by a passenger was waving and pointing at us, or at least that was what it seemed to all the passengers on my side.

Anyone who takes the ferry from Tsawwassen to Victoria knows at approximately mid-point the ferries pass each other. Our passengers looked at each other in wonderment. Was there a problem with our vessel that we were not aware of?

Only I knew the secret. My love as waving and pointing at me.

A storm is coming - Addena Sumter-Freitag

2008-07-30T20:18:00.000-07:00

A storm is coming
©2008 Addena Sumter-Freitag

The storm is coming. There was no denying. You could smell it. (You know that scent just before it hits). It’s like the air freezes as it nears, and the next thing you feel is the impact. The pounding numbs you after a while, and you feel like a boxer after a good ‘spar.’ It takes a while for the colours to spread on the canvas. The obvious colours— the reds—spread out, splatter and splotch on contact, but the blues and the yellows and blacks and purples appear on their own time, in their own pattern, depending. Sometimes it’s almost like painting at the summer festival colouring tent. I can see the perfect open hand pattern .. here.. on my cheek. My lips are matching the hired clown. Big, and puffed, and look! split like a pea pod.

The marks and bumps, that are camouflaged by eighteen dollars of Mac cover, throb and ache as I see the lightning flashing in your eyes. My body quivers as you roar in that thunderous boom, your fists opening and closing. The hate that drips like poison in the air makes me brace my soul ‘cause it lets me know .. A storm is imminent.

The couple - Darlene

2008-07-30T20:17:00.000-07:00

The couple
©2008 Darlene

The couple on the bench sat quietly as they peered over English Bay. Until something came over the wife and she immediately started chattering a blue streak, while the husband listened attentively, occasionally getting a word in edgewise. They have been together for many years and this has been part of their daily routine. They finally decide it is time to go home and begin their way back to the bus stop.

The empty kayak - Louise

2008-07-30T20:16:00.002-07:00

The empty kayak
©2008 Louise

I was sitting quietly facing the water thinking of nothing in particular when a noise caught my attention. I squinted into the sun, shading my eyes to get a better look. I was so surprised to see a kayak glide by, but no one was in it. This can’t be, I told myself; it must be a mistake. Where was the owner of the kayak! I began to ponder the possible reasons – did the owner fall out? -- was there a leak? -- maybe it had been stolen then released? My mind became distracted and began to wander until I was drawn to a commotion down the beach where a small crowd had formed. I heard voices raised in excitement. Suddenly there appeared………

The empty kayak - Peter Lojewski

2008-07-30T20:16:00.001-07:00

The empty kayak
©2008 Peter Lojewski

A kayak glides by. Sleek, no one is inside. Green as the river, upside no one near by. Oh, my God! Where is the kayaker—floating nearby? The kayak on is way, effortless in its manoeuvre, missing the jagged. It disappears in the bend of the river, out of sight Then bobbing along the river a body floats by. A lifeless body. Oh, my God! Drag it ashore and see a hole in the head of the kayaker. A sniper bullet found the mark. But, why? A former politician, corrupt and criminal who stole from us. No longer enjoys spending his/her ill gotten gains.

The couple - Liz Ong

2008-07-30T20:15:00.001-07:00

The couple
©2008 Liz Ong

Shoulder against shoulder, they sit on a worn wooden bench on Main Street. The side of her head tilts towards him and fits perfectly in the place where his shoulder meets his neck. I see this couple once a week, she in her wide-brimmed hat and a matching blouse, modest knee-length skirt, nylons and heels; he with his freshly-ironed black suit. He is a Chinese gentleman in his fifties, she a Caucasian woman with bright red lipstick and shining powder over the worn old skin. They shine with ageless joy, the joy of being together, hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder. I wonder how they met, how they came together in this place where Chinatown and downtown meet.

This time I approach. “You’re a beautiful couple,” I say shyly, smiling.

“Thank you," they giggle and I leave them, giggling myself.

Twisted homonyms vs. Californian Spanish? - Jill Binder

2008-07-30T20:14:00.000-07:00

Twisted homonyms vs. Californian Spanish?
©2008 Jill Binder

There is a man on stage from California. (I just noticed you’ll never read my handwriting so I better print—it’ll be interesting how it changes my writing.) Half of his poems are in Spanish. Just as he says there is a richness to the language. There are sonorous sounds, melodious trebles, a fluidity to the rush of tongue. English, our Canadian English, sounds chopping in comparison. Not choppy like Cantonese, and certainly not one steady stream of water like Mandarin. We are the in-between. We re the bastard child of many fathers. We have Latin, Greek, Italian, French. We have strange tenses and twisted homonyms. I hear that learning English is one of the most difficult things to do. Why would anyone want to? When they could instead have the soft ballad of Parisian French, or the deep bass of this man’s Californian Spanish. I blame globalization. The U.S. media making American drinks, sneakers, movies, and television cool. English is—what was that European amalgamation language they tried to instate?—English has become that … the language that is not its own but a child bred in back alleys with many dirty lovers.

It has grown up to be the rock star everyone wants to be.

I want to be this man’s Californian Spanish.

A time when there are no more words - Charlene

2008-07-30T20:13:00.000-07:00

A time when there are no more words
©2008 Charlene

So I’ve picked “beach combing” as a prompt for the impromptu writing exercise. Have stumbled across a writers’ festival in Stanley Park – hear a children’s storyteller shrieking joyfully to my right; a man on another stage thanking people for the opportunity to be heard—he starts his reading with an Incan invocation—has survived the Spanish Inquisition.

“Listen, you who abide in the Ocean In the Sky.” Reminds me how much we all long to be heard—long for a listener—when beach combing—see how cleverly I return to the topic?—when beach-combing, I find myself listening to the ocean inside, waves lapping gently or cracking relentlessly and then to the sweet relief of the water flowing – knowing the Earth will survive, in all its beauty, long after my petty problems have been put to rest.

There’s a crow hopping towards me – another lifts off, crosses the flight path of a white seagull’s outstretched wings. I realize I, too, am dressed today in black and white, but inside am singing green and inspired by the peaceful gathering of people around me—biking, talking, relaxing, listening to each other—then—WAR—we are also Canada—a nation sending our young sons to Afghanistan—to kill “insurgents”—read Afghan citizens who will not tow the Western line. It is hard to hold this newly-budding optimism with the seeming obliviousness to that horror being carried out—in our names, with our tax dollars, and the blood of our people and the terror they bring to a distant country—this is a war about oil—not about compassion. When will we take the responsibility to live our principles? Democracy is not about invading others for our gain.

Sometimes there comes a time when there are no more words.

Who's afraid of Sylvia Plath? - Jennifer Getsinger

2008-07-30T20:11:00.000-07:00

Who’s afraid of Sylvia Plath?
©2008 Jennifer Getsinger
Prompt was: “What stops me from writing every day is………” (blue paper)

Nothing. Nothing stops me from writing except my own choices not to write. Those choices may favour paid work, which is a good thing or too many crossword puzzles, sudoku, cooking, gardening, or other things that fill in the day because I’m not a very disciplined time manager. I have probably written more “every days” than most published writers. I know I was devoted to daily journal-writing for the first fifteen years of my journal, and relatively dedicated to writing often for the rest, about another quarter century. That should add up to forty-one and a half years since I started the journal.

Now my writing challenges are different—in addition to the journal-diary, I try to write down and get around to writing about a dozen novels I have made up in my head over the years. It just seems so silly to do that when I hardly work enough to get by, but now it’s possible due to doing editorial work at home on my own schedule, part time.

I’m almost done typing up the first draft of a love story with the working title, Red Rock Romance, about a couple of geologists. I’ve promised it to an editor so am somewhat motivated to finish it, although the thought of anyone reading these hopelessly naïve and boring stories is kind of scary.

Another work is a novel in diary format, which is constrained by having a limited point of view and a chronological narrative by necessity from the diary structure. This is not the flip and cheerful brief diary of Adrian Mole or Bridget Jones; nor is it the morose journal of Virginia Woolf, or fascinating social life of Anaïs Nin. It is loosely based on my own style of describing the natural world around me as I proceed through life as more of an observer than participant. But the plot is not based on my own story any more than a sparkly micaceous garnet schist resembles the mushy black mud from which it was metamorphosed. This one is called Moss & Woodsmoke and is on its fifth draft. What keeps me from editing it to a finished work is my commitment to finishing the romance first, a story with more of a typical narrative arc.

What keeps me from writing is mainly embarrassment. Embarrassment that my writing is not scintillating enough (I guess we can’t all write diaries as clever as Sylvia Plath, but then I wouldn’t want the same results). Embarrassment about trying to write intimate moments without creating mockery in the reader. Embarrassment about weak stories. And lately, embarrassment that it has taken me so long to write them down. When I tried to promote the romance to an editor from a well-known publisher of romances recently, I was told my story—which takes place in the 1970s and 1980s—wasn’t “contemporary.” After a few drinks I got over feeling depressed that I was so old my real life couldn’t even be defined as “contemporary,” and decided I would start a new genre of “historical fiction!”

Mr. Zipper - (c)2008 Theresa Dunphy

2008-07-30T20:10:00.000-07:00

Mr. Zipper
©2008 Theresa Dunphy

They’ve got the facts wrong again about Mr. Zipper. Here is what he is really like:

Stout and smart—a whippet really. Short of genius and already a Mensa member, although he never gloats. Humble he is, Mr. Zipper. Stocky posture brings forth his grounded presence, but at times it is easily misconstrued as potentially aggressive or possibly personal-space invading. Mr. Zipper is a fifty-nine year old Albanian that wears a reputation unbeknownst to him. What he’s really like is kind and gentle. This man’s hands have been worked through the bone and into marrow itself. A person seeing the scaling flesh dangling from between his fingers might presuppose the digits are of eighty or more years. Mr. Zipper has hands to shake upon first greeting that hug one’s heart within three strokes, and he leans softly upon your eyes, silently whispering, “Let go but hang on.” Most people think Mr. Zipper is homeless. The fact is Mr. Zipper is a millionaire a few times over. Mr. Zipper hardly speaks with words. He is a man of movements and gestures and subtleties.

Where did Mr. Zipper come from? No one knows for sure. He is Albanian, that’s a fact. Rumors have circulated that Mr. Zipper is somehow related to Mother Teresa. Since he has an overwhelming presence, (one might consider spiritually engulfing once one is within his zone) there is no doubt he is studied or practiced in meditation and centering. At a distance, Mr. Zipper seems to offend the general public’s ideality of aestheticism, what with his second-hand torn and tethered t-shirts and cargo pants. Every one knows those pants. The forest green pair we’ve only known him to be seen in. The ones that have a zipper with a Holy Cross on them.

Mr. Zipper is really like a friend who shows up in the midst of a flash flood. You always remember that day—and never forget his name.

A dear diary - (c)2008 Belle Curd

2008-07-30T20:09:00.000-07:00

A dear diary
©2008 Belle Curd

A long time ago one Christmas, my mother gave me a five-year diary. She must have known I liked writing and now I had my very own book to write in every day. At first I started out enthusiastically but occasionally missed a few days. No problem. I’d catch up or maybe write more than space allowed for each day. I had fun embellishing the pages with odds and ends from school. I shared my secrets, thrills, accomplishments, tears, and the mundane thoughts of an adolescent. Amazingly, I still have that old diary, tattered and torn though it is. I have been keeping a diary ever since, thanks to that precious gift my mother gave to me.

You're wrong about Wynn - W. Ruth Kozak

2008-07-30T20:05:00.000-07:00

You're wrong about Wynn
©2008 W.Ruth Kozak (aka Wynn Berton)

They’ve got the facts wrong about Wynn. Here’s what she’s really like: she’s actually quite shy though the way she carries on when she’s with her friends out salsa dancing you’d get the idea she’s a real party girl. Actually, she does have that reputation and some people (the ones who know how old she really is) are amazed! Yes, she does give the impression she’s a bit like the Energizer® Bunny, but she’s actually a quiet person, spends a lot of time alone, and loves quiet moments of solitude. She puts on this really brave front about doing things like going off camping alone in foreign places but she’d never risk camping alone here in her own province.

Some of her friends raise eyebrows and worry about her seeming nonchalance about roaming around town on foot and by public transit at night. They’d never take the chance. What they don’t realize is, Wynn’s been wandering about the city on her own for most of her life and as “shy” as she is in some situations, she’s pretty street-smart. Wynn’s a world traveller, a gypsy soul. If you didn’t know her well you’d probably think that she’s somebody’s mom or grandma (and she is).

Nor would you imagine that she spends half her time in “other worlds,” most specifically the world of ancient Greece—her favourite place to be. Because Wynn’s a writer and that’s what writers love to do most of the time, when they’re not out salsa dancing or enjoying sunsets on the beach, lost in their wonderful thoughts and memories.

The Price Of Gas

2008-07-23T16:41:00.000-07:00

Alright, as promised, a random poem just for here:

The Price Of Gas

"Have you seen the price of gas?"
Asked the lass, the pretty lass.
"'Tis enough to tear your hair!"
Said the bear, the grizzly bear.

"I no longer drive me truck!"
Cried the buck, the whitetail buck.
"It costs an arm and a leg!"
Complained the chick, in her egg.

"They've gone completely insane!"
Called the crane, wincing in pain.
"I do believe we've been had,"
Said the lad, looking quite sad.

"Don't you just love my new tan?"
Asked the oil company man.
"I must say you're looking fit!"
Crooned the gas lobbyist twit.

"How much more must we endure?"
Demanded the working poor.
"Why, it just went down a cent!"
Laughed the fat cat government.

Writing Exercise for July 20, 2008

2008-07-20T22:46:00.001-07:00

I'm going to cheat and repost todays writing prompt from my Daily Writing Practice blog. Please feel free to add your take on the prompt in the comments!

I'll come back later in the week and add something original and (hopefully) exciting.

The exercise:

The starter for today is "If I had a dime for every..."

Mine:

If I had a dime for every time I was given flowers, I would never see the Bluenose. But guess what - I like flowers. Yes, a straight guy who likes pwetty wittle bwossoms. Go figure.

My question, though, is this: am I in the vocal minority, or am I part of a mostly silent majority? Is this just another symptom of insecure machismo running wild? Probably.

Guys, let me let you in on a few secrets here: when someone sees you walking down Broadway with a big bouquet of daisies they would never think it's yours; flowers are pretty and smell nice, just like girls except they only need water and a bit of sun to be happy; and having flowers around your apartment makes you more secure in your masculinity, not less.

No, this is not a plea for flowers. Yes, I would be thrilled if I did receive some as a result of this. Yes, I fully expect to get crap from my male friends about this. No, I won't care.

And for God's sake don't call me a metrosexual - that term is offensive to homosexuals, heterosexuals, and the entire human race. Just call me secure.

Geyser Stew (c)2008 Wayne Smith

2008-07-19T23:47:00.000-07:00

Wayne Smith said... A great idea Margo!
Here's a short story just to start your blog going.
It's about how I went from being a tenant to homeowner.
When I was 24 about 30 odd years ago. Its called Geyser stew

by: Wayne Smith Aug 10/06

The first explosion occurred while my back was turned; by the time I reached the window all I could see was pink mist. A violent hissing filled the air and my heart sank, realizing what I had done. The pressure cooker left on high, had somehow been forgotten, the consequences never will be.

As a tenant in the basement suite of George and Elli Varaljay I had become more sensitive to my landlords' needs. Elli had suggested I try cooking the more smelly things outside, as she does. Odors from my cooking in the basement rose upstairs, lingering in the air, causing considerable discomfort and tension, in our relationship. I began hearing the sound of stomping feet, going around to all the heat registers, slamming them shut in an attempt to thwart the foul odors, and then a volley of something incomprehensible would follow, in Hungarian.

It was under this concern that I had fashioned a small cooking table outside my bedroom window, well away from the windows upstairs. A hot plate was set up on the table, with an extension cord running through the window, into the suite. I had begun experimenting with one-pot meals, in my new pressure cooker. The dinner meals included lots of tomatoes, ox tails, beets and other juicy salubrious fluids, all combining to make an interesting reddish colored meal of sorts.

My meal had been started around five o’clock. I am not sure what had called my attention away from cooking but when I returned to open the bedroom door, memory swiftly returned. A pink mist was beginning to congeal on the outside of the bedroom window. Just beyond the geraniums in the window box, great blasts of red goo erupted high into the air followed by intense hissing from the now valve-less pressure cooker.

I flew outside as fast as I could, out the back door, around the house to where my makeshift kitchen cooker was set up. The site was spectacular a massive V-shaped swath of vulgar colored ooze covered George’s siding, all the way to the sofit, two floors up. Thick messy drops strung down everywhere. My once-full pressure cooker sat spluttering the last of my supper over the burner and was beginning to smoke and smell terribly.

I felt sick. How could I tell George, and surely the Hungarian would flow from Elli. Courage found, I told George there’s been a bit of an accident. Yes it seems my stew pot somehow exploded and the contents got onto your siding. What! He exclaimed, yes, well we’d better take a look. I’m not sure how it happened, I explained as we stood looking up at the now red wall. I expected the worst, but all he said was never mind it will wash off, yes, I agreed and I will get at it as soon as I get home tomorrow.

The next day, before I had time to wash the siding, George had been up and cleaned it all off. All Ellie said was, Vain don’t you vant to buy the house next door, it's for sale. Yes I said, I would; that was over 30 years ago. Today George and Ellie still say I was the best tenant they every had. And I say they have been great neighbors, as good as anyone could ever hope for.

George and I have covered many topics in the back lane over the years from raccoons to plum trees; the topic stew or red siding has never been mentioned.

GS

"Open Me First" - WELCOME GRIND WRITERS...

2008-01-01T16:23:00.001-08:00

Some people wanted a place where they could put up their work where other Grind Writers could comment on it.

GRINDERS POSTING WORK FOR FEEDBACK AND COMMENT: Please make sure that when you put a piece up, at the very top - put the question you want answered, for example: "Does the ending work?" - "Do you find yourself engaged with these characters?" "Do you want to know more about what happens to them?" - "Does this scene do X?" - that sort of specific thing.

PEOPLE RESPONDING: Please try and address the questions posted. And please don't just put "I like it" or "I don't like it" - try and add specifics for any observation you make.

ALL POSTERS: Please sign your posts at the bottom so the person can contact you if they have any questions or need clarification.

N O T E *** N O T E *** N O T E

1) Make sure you put your name, contact address or email, and date on your work.

2) Put the magic (c) for Copyright in front of your name and the year i.e. (c) Erin Jones 2008. And consider whether you really want to post it up here where anybody could copy it.

3) KEEP AN e-OR HARD COPY OF YOUR WORK. We will not be responsible for loss of any original work up to and including closing the blog down.

Thanks............ enjoy.