Wielding Shakespeare’s Quill

I recently read that poet T.S. Eliot’s fountain pen replaced Charles Dickens quill and the Royal Society of Literature.

The Society’s mission statement reads “The Royal Society of Literature, founded by George IV in 1820, celebrates and nurtures all that is best in British literature, past and present. We organise roughly twenty-four events a year; make awards and grants to established and emerging writers; run regular Masterclasses with the Booker Prize Foundation; and campaign on issues affecting writers, such as the closure of local libraries or reductions in PLR payments.

At the heart of the RSL is its Fellowship, which encompasses the most distinguished authors working in the English language. One of our aims is to build bridges between our Fellows and those who enjoy their work, so that their unique talents are shared as widely as possible.”

Impressive, ain’t it?

I’ve been thinking about Eliot’s pen and Dickens’ quill, even Shakespeare’s quill and quite honestly, I’m really not that impressed. Of course, It would be something to wield the quill that penned Hamlet or A Tale of Two Cities or the pen that gave birth to The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, any awe I would feel would quickly vanish for there is only one pen I need to hold – my pen.

My pen holds my stories and I need my stories far more that I need the stories of other men (or women), great as those stories may be. Besides, if my pen is ever to be in a museum somewhere, I better keep writing.

Writers, know what I mean?

Related articles

• TS Eliot’s fountain pen gets first outing at Royal Society of Literature (guardian.co.uk)
• Eliot’s Pen, Fabio’s Mane, and Other News (theparisreview.org)
• “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” (littlegrowingpains.wordpress.com)

What I Would Do To Sell My Book

Today, I read an interesting article in a publication called The Independent. The article highlighted ways “brick and mortar” bookstores are attempting to compete against the book selling giant Amazon.com. For example, some authors are offering extra material, say a chapter or two, for bookstore chains that sell their books.

Anyone who buys the new Joanne Harris paperback Peaches for Monsieur le Curé from Waterstones will find it contains an extra chapter not included in copies sold elsewhere, after the book chain signed an exclusive deal with the author.

This got me thinking. What would I do to get an “exclusive deal” with a bookstore chain?

1. Provide extra material? Of course.
2. Offer to lead book discussions? Yes.
3. Stock book shelves? Absolutely.
4. Vacuum the bookstore? Yup.
5. Offer customers beverages and finger foods? All day.
6. Make the finger foods? Let’s get cooking.

Guess you get the idea. I want to sell my book. So, why not go to Amazon.com and buy a copy. ; )

Related articles

• Waterstones offers bonus material in books to lure buyers away from Amazon (telegraph.co.uk)

Ten Reasons Why I’m a Terrible Blogger

I admit it. A blogger I am not. After a bit of blogger
self-evaluation, here are a few reasons why.

1. I don’t consistently post.
2. Sometimes, the computer is all the way on the other side of the room.
3. What to blog about? I never know.
4. I need more sleep.
5. I’m too busy working on my next book.
6. Repeat number 3
7. What’s the point? No one reads my posts anyway. (Guess that means reason number 7 is growing frustration.)
8. I have no idea how to attract readers.
9. Even though I promised 10 reasons, I’ll stop here. Why? No one reads this stuff anyway.

There…I got to whine a bit. I feel better. I’ll blog more soon.

Confederate Ghosts

The poem posted below is taken from my developing
manuscript, The Journals of Lt. Kendal Everly: a
Story of the American Civil War. I thought it well
met a writing challenge presented on New Jersey poet Adele Kenny’s
blog, The Music In It. The
challenge is to write a “mysterious” poem. Would you like to read
the challenge? Just visit Adele’s blog.
In this journal entry/poem, Everly imagines his enemy,
Confederates. What will they be like? He wonders for he is soon to
meet them. Let me know what you think. Confederates July 17,
1861 – Entry Two Night comes and my heart finds its
rest. But daylight: a cursed time, when the enemy unfurls long
shadows, long fingers that stretch from behind the wrinkled hide of
trees and stones, scratch promises on the wind: blood and death.
Damned, foul ghosts: gray, so gray.

Related
articles

• Writing Challenge: Christmas and the Civil
  War (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)
• A Poem from my Forthcoming Book
  (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)
• Where I (Wish I Could) Write
  (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)
• I Wonder as I Wander – Why?
  (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)
• One Writer’s Resolutions
  (thelintinmypocket.wordpress.com)
• Faces of the Civil War
  (cbsnews.com)

Where I (Wish I Could) Write

A Writer’s Dream Room

The photo featured here…well, it’s beautiful. Isn’t? It’s a reader’s/writer’s dream. Perhaps one day I’ll have a room like this in my house, a room with dark brown, leather chairs, shelves heavy with old books, a fire place, and most of all, a room draped with a silken quiet. Yes, there I could read, and write, and think, but I don’t have a room like that.

Yesterday, I started a poem in a local karate dojo, where my son is taught karate. Kids were everywhere: noise, noise, noise. And I was sitting on a plastic chair – no brown leather. And I couldn’t find the glow, the warmth of a fire – or a fireplace for that matter. Still I wrote anyway, the first few words of a poem. I saw my son smiling. I watched him diligently punch this and chop that. He was happy. That made me happy. It made me warm. Guess my dream room can wait.

Below are the words I spoke of, the first words a new poem crafted in a karate dojo. In the poem, my new book’s protagonist, writes about waking up after killing a Confederate soldier, killing him brutally, and after being injured himself.

The Ache of Light

September 3, 1861

When my eyes opened again,
light draped over me like an ache;
it soaked through skin, into bone
and caught fire.

Related articles

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Boundless Writing

I admit it. I like how being a writer feels. For example, somehow, my world seems vast, as if my writing provides me with a ticket to…well, to anywhere. I’ve access to the world: the darks of Africa, the peaks of the Andes, the deeps of seas, and the heights of clouds. That’s a good feeling. I can go anywhere. And perhaps more importantly, since I visit these places, I gain experience. My mind is sharper and wiser for it. Now, I don’t mean a literal ticket nor do I mean literal journeys. Nevertheless, I still feel boundless. I’ve been everywhere and will be everywhere. Ironically, I’m rarely more than 25 miles from home.

Writers, am I making any sense? Let me know.

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Downton Addict

I admit it. I’ve become captivated by Downton Abbey, a television show. Here’s a short description.

The series, set in the fictional Yorkshire country estate of Downton Abbey, depicts the lives of the aristocratic Crawley family and their servants in the Edwardian and post-Edwardian era — with the great events in history having an effect on their lives and on the British social hierarchy. Such events depicted throughout the series include news of the sinking of the RMS Titanic in the first series; the outbreak of World War I, the Spanish influenza pandemic, and the Marconi scandal in the second series; and the Interwar period and the formation of the Irish Free State in the third series (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Downton_Abbey).

My wife and I watched season one and two over my Christmas vacation. Season three began last night.

I’ve been enveloped by the history the program represents. The aristocratic culture, shall I say, lends itself to several advantages. Yes, there’s the money, but that’s not I refer too. I refer to the time to explore.

In Downton, there’s a tremendous library complete with leather sofas, a fireplace, dark wood floors draped with rich carpets, and exorbitant paintings of regal men on horses. Oh yes, I’ve forgotten the books…hundreds: Shakespeare, Keats, Byron, Swift, etc.

Finally, there’s a desk, a place to think, to ponder, to wonder, and to write. I want that desk, those books, that fireplace, those carpets, and the time to think, ponder, wonder, and write.

 

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• Eat Like You’re A Crawley – The Food of ‘Downton Abbey’ (kymx.cbslocal.com)
• English Countryside Rentals Inspired by Downton Abbey (flipkey.com)
• Ostrow: PBS’ British hit “Downton Abbey” begins addicting season 3 on Jan. 6 (denverpost.com)
• Downton Abbey makes an American splash in newest series debut: A review (joyat60.wordpress.com)

 

An Experimental Writer

Wordsworth on Helvellyn (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In the Preface to the Lyrical Ballads, William Wordsworth wrote The first volume of these Poems has already been submitted to general perusal. It was published, as an experiment [...]

If I may, allow me to make one revision to Wordsworth’s statement. The first volume of these Poems has already been submitted to general perusal. It was written as an experiment [...]

Each poem I write is an experiment. If an experiment is a test under controlled conditions that is made to demonstrate a known truth, examine the validity of a hypothesis, or determine the efficacy of something previously untried, than my poems are experiments.

Generally, I attempt to demonstrate a known truth. Most recently, I’ve attempted to demonstrate the beauty and horror of war. I want my readers to breathe deep the Civil War, smell it, taste it. If I fail than my poem has failed.

I’ll post one of my experiments soon.

The Skull On My Desk

I don’t have a desk. I have a couch. When I write, I sit on it. I’m sitting on it now. I don’t have a desk. But, if I did, I’d put a skull on it. My desk would sit in a dark room that harbored musty scents, earth and wood. It would sit in a room illuminated by candles and be cluttered with large leather books, and maps, and parchment…and there’d be a skull on it – if I had a desk, but I don’t.

I Wonder as I Wander – Why?

A few weeks ago, I wrote about one of my habits, a habit that, in part, compels me to write: I wonder. I grant my mind liberty and let it travel where it might. But why do I wonder?

As a child, I often visited places I was unable to travel to physically; however, I did travel to these places both mentally and emotionally. Simply stated, I employed my imagination. As all children do, I embarked on incredible adventures. I explored the reaches of space. I grappled with undersea tyrants. I flew. I spoke to animals. I became animals. I piloted starships. I…well, I did it all. But all kids do. Right? But I’m not a kid anymore. A few days ago, I turned 44. Guess what. I’m still piloting starships.

Psychological studies suggest that people wonder, or day dream, because it helps them relax, manage conflicts, boost creativity, and relieve boredom. I’ve no doubt that all of this is true, but I believe that, for me, it’s more. When my mind zooms me to new and other places, it’s asking me to knit reality to the dream. It wants me to blend each into one. When I write, that’s exactly what happens.

For the last few years, I’ve been writing about the American Civil War. My efforts resulted in my first book, Private Hercules McGraw: Poems of the Civil War. Currently I’m writing a second volume of Civil War poetry, The Journals of Lt. Kendal Everly. Respectively, each book tells the story of its title character; however, it also tells my story. As I carved each story, I lived each story. I smelt the cannon smoke. I trod upon earth muddy with blood. For me, my poems are much more than poems; they’re memories.

So, I’m a writer. I write because I wonder and I wonder to weave reality with fantasy – but why do that?

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