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the day I learn
what I am truly worth
to you
is the day I learn
what you are truly worth
to me
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Archive for the ‘Creativity’ Category
Value
Posted in Writing, tagged creative writing, modern poetry on 07 Sep 2018| Leave a Comment »
Experimenting on Others
Posted in Creativity, Writing, tagged beta reader, content editing, creative writing, editing, self-editing on 23 Aug 2018| Leave a Comment »
Summer is not my most productive season for writing. There are too many distractions—gatherings, to-dos, house guests, falling into an overheated swoon—and this summer has had more than its normal share, what with the passing of companion animals, a switch from office-office to home-office, and most recently, a week of sitting bleary-eyed, head-achy, and miserable, waiting for the smoke from wildfires to clear.
Also, I was editing a book.
Alas, not one of mine.
I have the honor of being a beta-reader for a good friend. He’d completed his manuscript and was in need of a fresh set of eyes. Editing someone else’s work is always an opportunity to learn, for me. Whether it’s through analyzing a passage that works well or through hitting a bump in the prosaic road, reading another’s early draft is a great way both to learn new things and to reinforce lessons learned long ago. (more…)
Sheepish Much?
Posted in Creativity, Writing, tagged creative writing, editing, historical fiction, short fiction, short story writing, The Book of Solomon, The Timberline Review, willamette writers on 16 Aug 2018| 2 Comments »
This week’s post brought surprise, rage, and embarrassment, all in a single envelope. Also enclosed: a copy of The Timberline Review #7, wherein my story, “The Book of Solomon,” is published.
So, exactly why did receiving a hardcopy of my published work engender such fire and furor?
Read on.
Vintage Wine
Posted in Writing, tagged book review, Bradbury, creative writing, Dandelion Wine on 02 Aug 2018| 1 Comment »
The first time I read Ray Bradbury’s 1957 classic, Dandelion Wine, it was an assignment for school. I was a little older than Doug Spaulding, the novel’s 12-year old protagonist at the time, and to be frank, I didn’t really care for the book at all.
That was a crisis for me, as Bradbury was one of the three novelists who I really, really enjoyed (along with Roger Zelazny and C.J. Cherryh). I’d gobbled up Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles and read every collection of his short stories that I could find. (more…)
Feline Delay Syndrome
Posted in Writing, tagged creative writing, pets on 12 Jul 2018| 3 Comments »
No writing was done this week because, Portia.
I know, I know, you’re sick of all these cat-related posts.
Well, tough.
Portia is a rescue from Seattle Area Feline Rescue (SAFR), a no-kill shelter down the street from me. My intention was to meet a little calico they had there, but when we arrived, there were so many great personalities among the cats available for adoption, we had to spend time with several. Portia—originally named “Porsche,” but there was no way that was going to stand; we quickly changed it to a properly Shakespearean homophone—was by far the one who clicked with us, and so she’s who we brought home.
And so, our 35-year streak of having only black or black/white cats remains intact.
She’s settling in. So are we.
Writing will recommence.
k
Persistence
Posted in Creativity, Writing, tagged creative writing, historical fiction, marketing, short fiction on 21 Jun 2018| 2 Comments »
Hope. Damnable hope.
For most of my life, this has been my Achilles Heel. I simply cannot stop hoping. For things to turn around. For things to get better. For luck to change.
Four years ago (!!) I wrote “The Book of Solomon,” a short story, and started sending it out to markets. After a year an a half of submit-reject-rewrite-resubmit, I called it a day and put the story in the trunk.
Except I didn’t. (more…)
Just a Cat
Posted in Creativity, tagged cats, pets, rainbow bridge on 18 Jun 2018| 2 Comments »
She was just a cat. Just an everyday cat, a cat like a million others. Nothing special. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a regular American domestic shorthair, black, with green/gold eyes.
She didn’t like people. She had an indelible antisocial streak. Old friends who visited didn’t believe we actually had a cat, thought the beds and toys were there just for show. Whether they stayed for the evening, or visited for a few nights, they didn’t see her. Our cat sitter never saw her. Not once.
She was a denner, a hider in small places. Above all, she wanted peace and solitude. She’d retreat to a closet to sleep on sweaters, or crawl under the bedcovers and cocoon in a lump. When I came home for the day, my first stop would be the bedroom. I’d go up to the tent I’d made that morning out of pillows and the counterpane, and whisper my greetings to her through the quilt. My reward was a purr and, sometimes, as I stroked her though the fabric, a paw would reach out and press against my fingertip.
She didn’t trust anyone, not completely, not even me. It was feet she feared most. It took me years to figure this out, to understand why she always shied away from me as I approached. It was my feet. As a black cat, so black that she was devilish hard to photograph without it coming out looking like a picture of a black hole, she was easy to miss. She was a shadow, a spirit barely seen, a haunt, and she got caught by the occasional misstep as one of us came around a corner and didn’t spot her. It wasn’t until I understood this that our relationship changed. As I walked toward her she’d stare at my feet, but if I stopped and wiggled my toes, she knew that my feet “saw” her, and it was safe, and she would look up at me. She would allow herself to be carried or held for short periods, but would always be looking down, waiting for us to betray her and drop her, even though we never did.
She would stomp down the hallway. She wasn’t that big, either by size or weight, but when she came down the hallway, with every step, she planted her front paws with a resounding thump. Maybe it was her way of announcing her arrival, to warn away the feet that were waiting around each corner. Maybe it was to scare up spiders or other prey. Maybe she just liked to do it, queen of her demesne.
She was afraid of the outdoors. While many cats are intensely curious about the world beyond the front door, she was not. No enticement could encourage her to join us on the front stoop, and even the sight of the open doorway would make her slink away on legs shortened by fear.
Yesterday, after seventeen years of living with her, we said goodbye. As cats often do, she gave no warning, living her life on her own terms until she could do it no longer.
She was just a cat. Like any other.
Variable. Complicated. Unique.
Just a cat.
k
Kurt R.A. Giambastiani 