Are you writing about what you dream or do you dream of writing…decide and tell your story…
Featured Quote:
“All of us failed to match our dreams of perfection. So I rate us on the basis of our splendid failure to do the impossible.”
William Faulkner
Featured Poems:
There is No Frigate Like a Book
By: Emily Dickinson
There is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul!
A Dream Deferred
By: Langston Hughes
What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore–
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over–
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?
Poetry Writing Prompt:
What if our dream did explode and made it’s way into someone else’s life. How would that poet write about the tiny part of the dream they received? Will they ever connect?
Short Story Writing Prompt:
Write about those tiny pieces of a dream a character may received and what he/she does with it. How closely connected do each character feel to each other? Do they know that they are tied together by the same dream? If you need help in deciding on a plot or setting, check out The Kingdom Keepers by Ridley Pearson. As you write share your work with others so that each character can grow and realize more of the dream than an individual author can deliver.
Departing poetic thoughts…
Little
© 2009 Skyler Wolf Jones
A little piece of dirt,
I see you, dried up in the scorching sun,
Waiting for a drop of rain,
To soak away the cracks and pain.
A little piece of land,
With dirt and bugs a little bland,
No vegetation growing in this earth,
I wonder what it’s worth.
A little piece of me,
Deserted from the life I know,
Is this the way I want to live,
No experiences to help me grow.
Moisture for the dirt,
Water for the land,
Emotion for my life,
And the will to take a stand.
All the little pieces,
Are essential for the whole,
All the little life experiences,
Are essential for your soul.
Give yourself a little dream,
Take a little glance,
At the life you’ve left out to dry,
Give it another chance.
If you are an author in search of readers or have comments about our show, contact us:
ramblingverser@storyinstitute.com
615-431-WRIT (9748)
This week’s episode was brought to you by Enchanted Travel Tales, bringing travel, magic, and fun to your holidays.
Remember to Imagine, Enhance, & Grow Your Stories @ www.storyinstitute.com
Running Time: 11 minutes 35 second
Tags: Author conversations, belief, characters, Emily Dickinson, inner voice, Inspiration, Langston Hughes, poetry, Skyler Wolf Jones, William Faulkner, writing, writing methods, writing podcast, writing tips
Poems from our forums and relationships found…
Featured Quotes:
“A single rose can be my garden… a single friend, my world.”
Leo Buscaglia
“Let us be grateful to people who make us happy, they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.”
Marcel Proust
Featured Poem: One Word Is Too Often Profaned
By: Percy Bysshe Shelley
One word is too often profaned
For me to profane it;
One feeling too falsely disdained
For thee to disdain it;
One hope is too like despair
For prudence to smother;
And pity from thee more dear
Than that from another.
I can give not what men call love;
But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
And the heavens reject not,
The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow?
Poems from our Forums:
Something Mystical
By: Lamar Cole
Something mystical happened today.
I felt your touch.
Even though you’re far away.
I felt your hands upon my face.
It seemed as though your sweet lips.
I could taste.
It seemed as if I could feel your embrace.
It took me to a wonderful place
Because even when you’re far away.
I feel your love in every way.
Thirsty Soul
By:Lamar Cole
Love, darling, is you.
Your love cascaded down the waterfalls of your heart.
To my thirsty soul.
Your love filled the crevices of my life.
Your love is my lighthouse.
My beacon in the night.
I found home in your heart.
Short Story Topics – Roll of the Dice
What if our life did depend on the roll of a dice? A gambling woman would carry around her own dice. Every move, every call, she makes is determined by her roll. Each option is assigned a number that corresponds to the dots on the dice. One means she takes the bus to work; Five indicates she takes her bike. This is not always the best method, but she rolls them every day…she needs to roll them everyday.
What event in her life triggered this behavior? Why is she bound to keep on rolling? Has she ever stopped trying? If she did, what happened? Did she lose her job? Did she lose a loved one? Did she go back a few spaces and start this round of her life over again…same house, same car, same trials and tribulations.
What would the roll of the dice bring if it was on the edge? Does the woman wish to even think about it? Where did these dice come from? Who had them before her? Can she get rid of them? Or, do they end when her streak ends? Decide on the story, and write. Post it here, or share elsewhere, but write and enjoy…
If you are an author in search of readers or have comments about our show, contact us:
ramblingverser@storyinstitute.com
615-431-WRIT (9748)
Remember to Imagine, Enhance, & Grow Your Stories @ www.storyinstitute.com
Running Time: 11 minutes 29 seconds
Tags: Author conversations, belief, characters, inner voice, Inspiration, Lamar Cole, Leo Buscaglia, Marcel Proust, Percy Bysshe Shelly, poetry, writing, writing methods, writing podcast, writing tips
Choices for you and choices for your characters…End where you began but make it a good one…
Feature Quote:
“The thing always happens that you really believe in; and the belief in a thing makes it happen.”
Frank Lloyd Wright
Featured Poem:Traveling Through the Dark
By: William Stafford
Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.
By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;
she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.
My fingers touching her side brought me the reason–
her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.
The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.
I thought hard for us all–my only swerving–,
then pushed her over the edge into the river.
Featured Poetry Writing Prompt:
Rewrite this poem, or choose another topic where a choice is indicated at the beginning and followed through on at the end. Whether it is for the greater good or for the needs of the few, follow the intentions that begin at the start of the poem.
Featured Short Story: Love is a Fallacy
By: Max Shulman
Cool was I and logical. Keen, calculating, perspicacious, acute and astute—I was all of these. My brain was as powerful as a dynamo, precise as a chemist’s scales, as penetrating as a scalpel. And—think of it!—I only eighteen.
It is not often that one so young has such a giant intellect. Take, for example, Petey Bellows, my roommate at the university. Same age, same background, but dumb as an ox. A nice enough fellow, you understand, but nothing upstairs. Emotional type. Unstable. Impressionable. Worst of all, a faddist. Fads, I submit, are the very negation of reason. To be swept up in every new craze that comes along, to surrender oneself to idiocy just because everybody else is doing it—this, to me, is the acme of mindlessness. Not, however, to Petey.
One afternoon I found Petey lying on his bed with an expression of such distress on his face that I immediately diagnosed appendicitis. “Don’t move,” I said, “Don’t take a laxative. I’ll get a doctor.”
“Raccoon,” he mumbled thickly.
“Raccoon?” I said, pausing in my flight.
“I want a raccoon coat,” he wailed.
I perceived that his trouble was not physical, but mental. “Why do you want a raccoon coat?”
“I should have known it,” he cried, pounding his temples. “I should have known they’d come back when the Charleston came back. Like a fool I spent all my money for textbooks, and now I can’t get a raccoon coat.”
“Can you mean,” I said incredulously, “that people are actually wearing raccoon coats again?”
“All the Big Men on Campus are wearing them. Where’ve you been?”
“In the library,” I said, naming a place not frequented by Big Men on Campus.
He leaped from the bed and paced the room. “I’ve got to have a raccoon coat,” he said passionately. “I’ve got to!”
“Petey, why? Look at it rationally. Raccoon coats are unsanitary. They shed. They smell bad. They weigh too much. They’re unsightly. They—”
“You don’t understand,” he interrupted impatiently. “It’s the thing to do. Don’t you want to be in the swim?”
“No,” I said truthfully.
“Well, I do,” he declared. “I’d give anything for a raccoon coat. Anything!”
My brain, that precision instrument, slipped into high gear. “Anything?” I asked, looking at him narrowly.
“Anything,” he affirmed in ringing tones.
I stroked my chin thoughtfully. It so happened that I knew where to get my hands on a raccoon coat. My father had had one in his undergraduate days; it lay now in a trunk in the attic back home. It also happened that Petey had something I wanted. He didn’t have it exactly, but at least he had first rights on it. I refer to his girl, Polly Espy.
I had long coveted Polly Espy. Let me emphasize that my desire for this young woman was not emotional in nature. She was, to be sure, a girl who excited the emotions, but I was not one to let my heart rule my head. I wanted Polly for a shrewdly calculated, entirely cerebral reason.
I was a freshman in law school. In a few years I would be out in practice. I was well aware of the importance of the right kind of wife in furthering a lawyer’s career. The successful lawyers I had observed were, almost without exception, married to beautiful, gracious, intelligent women. With one omission, Polly fitted these specifications perfectly.
Beautiful she was. She was not yet of pin-up proportions, but I felt that time would supply the lack. She already had the makings.
Gracious she was. By gracious I mean full of graces. She had an erectness of carriage, an ease of bearing, a poise that clearly indicated the best of breeding. At table her manners were exquisite. I had seen her at the Kozy Kampus Korner eating the specialty of the house—a sandwich that contained scraps of pot roast, gravy, chopped nuts, and a dipper of sauerkraut—without even getting her fingers moist.
Intelligent she was not. In fact, she veered in the opposite direction. But I believed that under my guidance she would smarten up. At any rate, it was worth a try. It is, after all, easier to make a beautiful dumb girl smart than to make an ugly smart girl beautiful.
“Petey,” I said, “are you in love with Polly Espy?”
“I think she’s a keen kid,” he replied, “but I don’t know if you’d call it love. Why?”
“Do you,” I asked, “have any kind of formal arrangement with her? I mean are you going steady or anything like that?”
“No. We see each other quite a bit, but we both have other dates. Why?”
“Is there,” I asked, “any other man for whom she has a particular fondness?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
I nodded with satisfaction. “In other words, if you were out of the picture, the field would be open. Is that right?”
“I guess so. What are you getting at?”
“Nothing , nothing,” I said innocently, and took my suitcase out the closet.
“Where are you going?” asked Petey.
“Home for weekend.” I threw a few things into the bag.
“Listen,” he said, clutching my arm eagerly, “while you’re home, you couldn’t get some money from your old man, could you, and lend it to me so I can buy a raccoon coat?”
“I may do better than that,” I said with a mysterious wink and closed my bag and left.
“Look,” I said to Petey when I got back Monday morning. I threw open the suitcase and revealed the huge, hairy, gamy object that my father had worn in his Stutz Bearcat in 1925.
“Holy Toledo!” said Petey reverently. He plunged his hands into the raccoon coat and then his face. “Holy Toledo!” he repeated fifteen or twenty times.
“Would you like it?” I asked.
“Oh yes!” he cried, clutching the greasy pelt to him. Then a canny look came into his eyes. “What do you want for it?”
“Your girl.” I said, mincing no words.
“Polly?” he said in a horrified whisper. “You want Polly?”
“That’s right.”
He flung the coat from him. “Never,” he said stoutly.
I shrugged. “Okay. If you don’t want to be in the swim, I guess it’s your business.”
I sat down in a chair and pretended to read a book, but out of the corner of my eye I kept watching Petey. He was a torn man. First he looked at the coat with the expression of a waif at a bakery window. Then he turned away and set his jaw resolutely. Then he looked back at the coat, with even more longing in his face. Then he turned away, but with not so much resolution this time. Back and forth his head swiveled, desire waxing, resolution waning. Finally he didn’t turn away at all; he just stood and stared with mad lust at the coat.
“It isn’t as though I was in love with Polly,” he said thickly. “Or going steady or anything like that.”
“That’s right,” I murmured.
“What’s Polly to me, or me to Polly?”
“Not a thing,” said I.
“It’s just been a casual kick—just a few laughs, that’s all.”
“Try on the coat,” said I.
He complied. The coat bunched high over his ears and dropped all the way down to his shoe tops. He looked like a mound of dead raccoons. “Fits fine,” he said happily.
I rose from my chair. “Is it a deal?” I asked, extending my hand.
He swallowed. “It’s a deal,” he said and shook my hand.
I had my first date with Polly the following evening. This was in the nature of a survey; I wanted to find out just how much work I had to do to get her mind up to the standard I required. I took her first to dinner. “Gee, that was a delish dinner,” she said as we left the restaurant. Then I took her to a movie. “Gee, that was a marvy movie,” she said as we left the theatre. And then I took her home. “Gee, I had a sensaysh time,” she said as she bade me good night.
I went back to my room with a heavy heart. I had gravely underestimated the size of my task. This girl’s lack of information was terrifying. Nor would it be enough merely to supply her with information. First she had to be taught to think. This loomed as a project of no small dimensions, and at first I was tempted to give her back to Petey. But then I got to thinking about her abundant physical charms and about the way she entered a room and the way she handled a knife and fork, and I decided to make an effort.
I went about it, as in all things, systematically. I gave her a course in logic. It happened that I, as a law student, was taking a course in logic myself, so I had all the facts at my fingertips. “Poll’,” I said to her when I picked her up on our next date, “tonight we are going over to the Knoll and talk.”
“Oo, terrif,” she replied. One thing I will say for this girl: you would go far to find another so agreeable.
We went to the Knoll, the campus trysting place, and we sat down under an old oak, and she looked at me expectantly. “What are we going to talk about?” she asked.
“Logic.”
She thought this over for a minute and decided she liked it. “Magnif,” she said.
“Logic,” I said, clearing my throat, “is the science of thinking. Before we can think correctly, we must first learn to recognize the common fallacies of logic. These we will take up tonight.”
“Wow-dow!” she cried, clapping her hands delightedly.
I winced, but went bravely on. “First let us examine the fallacy called Dicto Simpliciter.”
“By all means,” she urged, batting her lashes eagerly.
“Dicto Simpliciter means an argument based on an unqualified generalization. For example: Exercise is good. Therefore everybody should exercise.”
“I agree,” said Polly earnestly. “I mean exercise is wonderful. I mean it builds the body and everything.”
“Polly,” I said gently, “the argument is a fallacy. Exercise is good is an unqualified generalization. For instance, if you have heart disease, exercise is bad, not good. Many people are ordered by their doctors not to exercise. You must qualify the generalization. You must say exercise is usually good, or exercise is good for most people. Otherwise you have committed a Dicto Simpliciter. Do you see?”
“No,” she confessed. “But this is marvy. Do more! Do more!”
“It will be better if you stop tugging at my sleeve,” I told her, and when she desisted, I continued. “Next we take up a fallacy called Hasty Generalization. Listen carefully: You can’t speak French. Petey Bellows can’t speak French. I must therefore conclude that nobody at the University of Minnesota can speak French.”
“Really?” said Polly, amazed. “Nobody?”
I hid my exasperation. “Polly, it’s a fallacy. The generalization is reached too hastily. There are too few instances to support such a conclusion.”
“Know any more fallacies?” she asked breathlessly. “This is more fun than dancing even.”
I fought off a wave of despair. I was getting nowhere with this girl, absolutely nowhere. Still, I am nothing if not persistent. I continued. “Next comes Post Hoc. Listen to this: Let’s not take Bill on our picnic. Every time we take him out with us, it rains.”
“I know somebody just like that,” she exclaimed. “A girl back home—Eula Becker, her name is. It never fails. Every single time we take her on a picnic—”
“Polly,” I said sharply, “it’s a fallacy. Eula Becker doesn’t cause the rain. She has no connection with the rain. You are guilty of Post Hoc if you blame Eula Becker.”
“I’ll never do it again,” she promised contritely. “Are you mad at me?”
I sighed. “No, Polly, I’m not mad.”
“Then tell me some more fallacies.”
“All right. Let’s try Contradictory Premises.”
“Yes, let’s,” she chirped, blinking her eyes happily.
I frowned, but plunged ahead. “Here’s an example of Contradictory Premises: If God can do anything, can He make a stone so heavy that He won’t be able to lift it?”
“Of course,” she replied promptly.
“But if He can do anything, He can lift the stone,” I pointed out.
“Yeah,” she said thoughtfully. “Well, then I guess He can’t make the stone.”
“But He can do anything,” I reminded her.
She scratched her pretty, empty head. “I’m all confused,” she admitted.
“Of course you are. Because when the premises of an argument contradict each other, there can be no argument. If there is an irresistible force, there can be no immovable object. If there is an immovable object, there can be no irresistible force. Get it?”
“Tell me more of this keen stuff,” she said eagerly.
I consulted my watch. “I think we’d better call it a night. I’ll take you home now, and you go over all the things you’ve learned. We’ll have another session tomorrow night.”
I deposited her at the girls’ dormitory, where she assured me that she had had a perfectly terrif evening, and I went glumly home to my room. Petey lay snoring in his bed, the raccoon coat huddled like a great hairy beast at his feet. For a moment I considered waking him and telling him that he could have his girl back. It seemed clear that my project was doomed to failure. The girl simply had a logic-proof head.
But then I reconsidered. I had wasted one evening; I might as well waste another. Who knew? Maybe somewhere in the extinct crater of her mind a few members still smoldered. Maybe somehow I could fan them into flame. Admittedly it was not a prospect fraught with hope, but I decided to give it one more try.
Seated under the oak the next evening I said, “Our first fallacy tonight is called Ad Misericordiam.”
She quivered with delight.
“Listen closely,” I said. “A man applies for a job. When the boss asks him what his qualifications are, he replies that he has a wife and six children at home, the wife is a helpless cripple, the children have nothing to eat, no clothes to wear, no shoes on their feet, there are no beds in the house, no coal in the cellar, and winter is coming.”
A tear rolled down each of Polly’s pink cheeks. “Oh, this is awful, awful,” she sobbed.
“Yes, it’s awful,” I agreed, “but it’s no argument. The man never answered the boss’s question about his qualifications. Instead he appealed to the boss’s sympathy. He committed the fallacy of Ad Misericordiam. Do you understand?”
“Have you got a handkerchief?” she blubbered.
I handed her a handkerchief and tried to keep from screaming while she wiped her eyes. “Next,” I said in a carefully controlled tone, “we will discuss False Analogy. Here is an example: Students should be allowed to look at their textbooks during examinations. After all, surgeons have X-rays to guide them during an operation, lawyers have briefs to guide them during a trial, carpenters have blueprints to guide them when they are building a house. Why, then, shouldn’t students be allowed to look at their textbooks during an examination?”
“There now,” she said enthusiastically, “is the most marvy idea I’ve heard in years.”
“Polly,” I said testily, “the argument is all wrong. Doctors, lawyers, and carpenters aren’t taking a test to see how much they have learned, but students are. The situations are altogether different, and you can’t make an analogy between them.”
“I still think it’s a good idea,” said Polly.
“Nuts,” I muttered. Doggedly I pressed on. “Next we’ll try Hypothesis Contrary to Fact.”
“Sounds yummy,” was Polly’s reaction.
“Listen: If Madame Curie had not happened to leave a photographic plate in a drawer with a chunk of pitchblende, the world today would not know about radium.”
“True, true,” said Polly, nodding her head “Did you see the movie? Oh, it just knocked me out. That Walter Pidgeon is so dreamy. I mean he fractures me.”
“If you can forget Mr. Pidgeon for a moment,” I said coldly, “I would like to point out that statement is a fallacy. Maybe Madame Curie would have discovered radium at some later date. Maybe somebody else would have discovered it. Maybe any number of things would have happened. You can’t start with a hypothesis that is not true and then draw any supportable conclusions from it.”
“They ought to put Walter Pidgeon in more pictures,” said Polly, “I hardly ever see him any more.”
One more chance, I decided. But just one more. There is a limit to what flesh and blood can bear. “The next fallacy is called Poisoning the Well.”
“How cute!” she gurgled.
“Two men are having a debate. The first one gets up and says, ‘My opponent is a notorious liar. You can’t believe a word that he is going to say.’ … Now, Polly, think. Think hard. What’s wrong?”
I watched her closely as she knit her creamy brow in concentration. Suddenly a glimmer of intelligence—the first I had seen—came into her eyes. “It’s not fair,” she said with indignation. “It’s not a bit fair. What chance has the second man got if the first man calls him a liar before he even begins talking?”
“Right!” I cried exultantly. “One hundred per cent right. It’s not fair. The first man has poisoned the well before anybody could drink from it. He has hamstrung his opponent before he could even start … Polly, I’m proud of you.”
“Pshaws,” she murmured, blushing with pleasure.
“You see, my dear, these things aren’t so hard. All you have to do is concentrate. Think—examine—evaluate. Come now, let’s review everything we have learned.”
“Fire away,” she said with an airy wave of her hand.
Heartened by the knowledge that Polly was not altogether a cretin, I began a long, patient review of all I had told her. Over and over and over again I cited instances, pointed out flaws, kept hammering away without letup. It was like digging a tunnel. At first, everything was work, sweat, and darkness. I had no idea when I would reach the light, or even if I would. But I persisted. I pounded and clawed and scraped, and finally I was rewarded. I saw a chink of light. And then the chink got bigger and the sun came pouring in and all was bright.
Five grueling nights with this took, but it was worth it. I had made a logician out of Polly; I had taught her to think. My job was done. She was worthy of me, at last. She was a fit wife for me, a proper hostess for my many mansions, a suitable mother for my well-heeled children.
It must not be thought that I was without love for this girl. Quite the contrary. Just as Pygmalion loved the perfect woman he had fashioned, so I loved mine. I decided to acquaint her with my feelings at our very next meeting. The time had come to change our relationship from academic to romantic.
“Polly,” I said when next we sat beneath our oak, “tonight we will not discuss fallacies.”
“Aw, gee,” she said, disappointed.
“My dear,” I said, favoring her with a smile, “we have now spent five evenings together. We have gotten along splendidly. It is clear that we are well matched.”
“Hasty Generalization,” said Polly brightly.
“I beg your pardon,” said I.
“Hasty Generalization,” she repeated. “How can you say that we are well matched on the basis of only five dates?”
I chuckled with amusement. The dear child had learned her lessons well. “My dear,” I said, patting her hand in a tolerant manner, “five dates is plenty. After all, you don’t have to eat a whole cake to know that it’s good.”
“False Analogy,” said Polly promptly. “I’m not a cake. I’m a girl.”
I chuckled with somewhat less amusement. The dear child had learned her lessons perhaps too well. I decided to change tactics. Obviously the best approach was a simple, strong, direct declaration of love. I paused for a moment while my massive brain chose the proper word. Then I began:
“Polly, I love you. You are the whole world to me, the moon and the stars and the constellations of outer space. Please, my darling, say that you will go steady with me, for if you will not, life will be meaningless. I will languish. I will refuse my meals. I will wander the face of the earth, a shambling, hollow-eyed hulk.”
There, I thought, folding my arms, that ought to do it.
“Ad Misericordiam,” said Polly.
I ground my teeth. I was not Pygmalion; I was Frankenstein, and my monster had me by the throat. Frantically I fought back the tide of panic surging through me; at all costs I had to keep cool.
“Well, Polly,” I said, forcing a smile, “you certainly have learned your fallacies.”
“You’re darn right,” she said with a vigorous nod.
“And who taught them to you, Polly?”
“You did.”
“That’s right. So you do owe me something, don’t you, my dear? If I hadn’t come along you never would have learned about fallacies.”
“Hypothesis Contrary to Fact,” she said instantly.
I dashed perspiration from my brow. “Polly,” I croaked, “you mustn’t take all these things so literally. I mean this is just classroom stuff. You know that the things you learn in school don’t have anything to do with life.”
“Dicto Simpliciter,” she said, wagging her finger at me playfully.
That did it. I leaped to my feet, bellowing like a bull. “Will you or will you not go steady with me?”
“I will not,” she replied.
“Why not?” I demanded.
“Because this afternoon I promised Petey Bellows that I would go steady with him.”
I reeled back, overcome with the infamy of it. After he promised, after he made a deal, after he shook my hand! “The rat!” I shrieked, kicking up great chunks of turf. “You can’t go with him, Polly. He’s a liar. He’s a cheat. He’s a rat.”
“Poisoning the Well ,” said Polly, “and stop shouting. I think shouting must be a fallacy too.”
With an immense effort of will, I modulated my voice. “All right,” I said. “You’re a logician. Let’s look at this thing logically. How could you choose Petey Bellows over me? Look at me—a brilliant student, a tremendous intellectual, a man with an assured future. Look at Petey—a knothead, a jitterbug, a guy who’ll never know where his next meal is coming from. Can you give me one logical reason why you should go steady with Petey Bellows?”
“I certainly can,” declared Polly. “He’s got a raccoon coat.”
Feature Story Writing Prompt:
Create a modern Day version of “Love is a Fallacy.” What is the modern day “raccoon coat?” How would this story be different in today’s terms? How arrogant can your narrator be? What choices will your characters make in action and conversation? Start with your ending at the beginning and tie it all together at the end.
If you are an author in search of readers or have comments about our show, contact us:
ramblingverser@storyinstitute.com
615-431-WRIT (9748)
Remember to Imagine, Enhance, & Grow Your Stories @ www.storyinstitute.com
Running Time: 33 minutes 44 seconds
Tags: Author conversations, belief, Frank Lloyd Wright, inner voice, Inspiration, Love is a Fallacy, Max Shulman, poetry, Traveling Through the Dark, William Stafford, writing, writing methods, writing podcast, writing tips
More podcasts and thoughts to get your writing moving and your creativity flowing…John shares one last handful of his favorite audio inspirations…
Featured Quotes:
A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness.
By: Robert Frost
A poem begins in delight and ends in wisdom.
By: Robert Frost
John shares some more of his favorite podcasts that help inspire and influence him.
Check out these great shows and sites:
Chad Corrie’s Mega Feed (The Works Worlds of Chad Corrie, Cauldron of Worlds, & The World of Traloden) – Chad Corrie
Grammar Girl – Mignon Fogarty
http://grammar.quickanddirtytips.com/
The Memory Palace – Nate DiMeo
BetaMouse – Henry Work, Jeff Chaney, Nate Parrish, Scott Barrett, Katie Siloac
WedWay Radio – Nate and Matt Parrish
http://wedwayradio.squarespace...
Be Our Guest Podcast – Mike Rahlmann, Rikki Niblett, Pam Forrester, Debbie Robertson
Do you have any favorite podcasts you would like to share? Have you turned your book, poetry, or writing into a podcast? Tell us about it either at www.storyinsititue.com‘s forum, email (ramblingverser@storyinstitute.com), or phone (615-431-WRIT).
Featured Poetry Writing Prompt:
A rose is a complicated flower, both to grow and behold. The color of this symbol can determine the type of relationship you share. The level of thorns can determine how long you would like to remain in that relationship. Connecting to the buds themselves enable you to appreciate the flowers and the person receiving them.
Be creative. Be encouraging. Be as intense as the hues these beautiful creations of nature. Open your heart as the petals expand. Tie your story into the intensity of the blooming intricacies. Post it at storyinstitute.com, or share elsewhere, but write and enjoy…
Not Just a Rose
White is the innocent beauty,
Which you will always be.
Pink is the friendship which we share,
Showing each other we really care.
Red is the eternal peace and love,
We attempt to realize,
As we continue to touch each other’s lives.
Featured Short Story Writing Prompt:
Have you ever thought that the horse of a different color could be real? What if the wish of one little girl helped make this fantasy more of a reality? What if the horse changed colors depending on the mood it was in? What if? What if? That is what the 6 year old little girl kept asking her daddy after taking a few riding lessons.
She was so enthralled by the horse, she wanted to be able to keep him. Her dad told her that they did not allow horses in their neighborhood and if he was seen, they would send him back to the farm. The little girl asked if the horse could hide for a while. She asked if she could talk to the horse about it. She asked, she did, and the horse, somehow found a way to be with the little girl. It seemed to camouflage itself and blend in. However, when the little girl needed a ride or just wanted to see her special friend, he was there.
Tell the story of how. Tell the story of why. Tell the story of when. Tell about the father and whether he believed. Share more than just a little girl and a special horse. Share more than a fantastic adventure about a horse. Share how strong a belief needs to be for a happenstance like this to become real. Decide on the story and write. Post it at storyinstitute.com, or share elsewhere, but write and enjoy…
If you are an author in search of readers or have comments about our show, contact us:
ramblingverser@storyinstitute.com
615-431-WRIT (9748)
Remember to Imagine, Enhance, & Grow Your Stories @ www.storyinstitute.com
Running Time: 19 minutes 9 seconds
Tags: Author conversations, belief, characters, inner voice, Inspiration, poetry, Robert Frost, writing, writing methods, writing podcast, writing tips
Podcasts and thoughts to get your writing moving and your creativity flowing…John shares a handful of his favorite audio inspirations…
Featured Quote:
Belief, by definition is an assent to a proposition. It is any cognitive content that is held true. It is some expression or a vague idea in which some confidence is placed. Thus, it defines some sort of an agreement with the world view. It may be unproven assertion based on some of the fundamental assumptions. Belief is a form of judging something to be true, intermediate between mere opinion and certain knowledge. To believe something in this sense is to judge that it is true by virtue of “a ground that is objectively insufficient but subjectively sufficient”; in mere opinion neither is sufficient, in knowledge both conditions are met.Myths which are believed in tend to become true.
By: George Orwell
John shares some of his favorite podcasts that help inspire and influence him.
Check out these great shows and sites:
Writing Excuses – Brandon Sanderson, Howard Taylor, Dan Wells
http://www.writingexcuses.com/
The Poem of the Day
http://www.sonibyte.com/public/clientpodcasts
Beyond the Book – Copyright Clearance Center
Twit Network -Leo LaPorte
Daily GizWiz – Dick Debartolo & Leo LaPorte
MuppetCast – Steve Swanson
WDW Radio – Lou Mongello
Do you have any favorite podcasts you would like to share? Have you turned your book, poetry, or writing into a podcast? Tell us about it either at www.storyinsititue.com’s forum, email (ramblingverser@storyinstitute.com), or phone (615-431-WRIT).
Featured Writing Prompt:
Write a poem, short story, or otherwise that reflects on the podcast and where it fits within your storyline. Is it just a little voice you hear in your ear as you jog or walk around the block? Or, is it much more than that for your character and inspiration? How does your character fit in with the podcast world? Make it all up, or base your verse or story on some show you know. Share it at Story Institute or share it elsewhere, but write and enjoy…
If you are an author in search of readers or have comments about our show, contact us:
ramblingverser@storyinstitute.com
615-431-WRIT (9748)
Remember to Imagine, Enhance, & Grow Your Stories @ www.storyinstitute.com
Running Time: 18 minutes 31 seconds
Tags: Author conversations, belief, characters, George Orwell, inner voice, Inspiration, poetry, writing, writing methods, writing podcast, writing tips
Do you believe in your characters? OK, but do you have faith in your characters to live beyond the time you put them on paper? Is there a difference? Listen and engage in the writing prompts.
Featured Quote:
Faith is not belief. Belief is passive. Faith is active.
Edith Hamilton
Inspiration for this week’s conversation:
Six Characters in Search of an Author is the most famous and celebrated play by the Italian writer Luigi Pirandello
Featured Poem: The Computation
By: John Donne
FOR my first twenty years, since yesterday,
I scarce believed thou couldst be gone away ;
For forty more I fed on favours past,
And forty on hopes that thou wouldst they might last ;
Tears drown`d one hundred, and sighs blew out two ;
A thousand, I did neither think nor do,
Or not divide, all being one thought of you ;
Or in a thousand more, forgot that too.
Yet call not this long life ; but think that I
Am, by being dead, immortal ; can ghosts die ?
Poetry Writing Prompt:
Write a Dialogue Poem between yourself, a modern day reader, and John Donne, the writer. How would you address his words in The Computation? If you need help with understanding a dialogue poem, check out this article:
How to Write a Dialogue Poem – By Jacqueline Thomas, eHow Contributing Writer
http://www.ehow.com/how_5089536_write-dialogue-poem.html
Additional Poem for creative inspiration:
Eternity
By: William Blake
He who binds to himself a joy
Does the winged life destroy;
But he who kisses the joy as it flies
Lives in eternity’s sun rise.
Short Story Topics – Pet Turtles Are Funny
Pets are wonderful for teaching children responsibility. What better way to teach a boy the responsibility of a pet than with a turtle. That is what the eight-year old boy thought. That is until he met the turtle. The creature disappears inside its shell every time the boy gets near. The boy’s sister sits and stares at the reptile for what seems like hours as it appears to dance, bob its head in and out to the rhythm of music, and go for a swim at random moments. When the boy passes, the turtle freezes and collapses inside its shell.
Describe the boy’s feelings. Describe the steps the boy would take to literally pull the creature out of its shell. Describe how the sister acts. Describe the turtle. What makes it special? Why does it stay in its shell? Is it just an ordinary turtle? Or, is there something a little more exciting, more imaginative? Decide on the path. Decide on the story, and write. Post it at Story Institute, or share elsewhere, but write and enjoy…
Short Story Topics – Flower Power
Picking the right flower can make or break a relationship. Do you go with the red ones? The pink ones? The white ones? The roses? The tulips? The brightly-colored, always in bloom ones? Wait, those might be plastic. They might be, but as you pass the store, you are drawn in by the beauty, fragrance, and allure of the rather unique petal filled vase. Something about these flowers says look at me, smell me, buy me.
What happens after you go into the store? What happens if you bring the flowers home to your significant other? What happens as you share in the moment together? Decide on the interaction between people and the flower. Decide on the interaction between the people and each other after interacting with the budding entity. Decide on the happenstance that erupts in the life of the first person to see the flower. Decide on the path. Decide on the story, and write. Post it at Story Institute, or share elsewhere, but write and enjoy…
Running Time: 14 minutes 38 seconds
Tags: Author conversations, belief, characters, Faith, healines, inner voice, John Donne, poetry, short story, writing, writing methods, writing podcast, writing tips
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