TRUST Your GUT... LISTEN To The Whispers Of Your Spirit...
“I lost an arm on my last trip home. My left arm.”
This is how the story of Dana begins in Kindred, my first Octavia Butler novel. I read these words on a bus, home-bound from New York. I had heard of this author and knew to expect some mystery, some fantasy, some unreal sort of stuff. What I did not expect was something quite physically strange. These first words that Butler had spoken to me sent chills down my left arm. Because believe it or not, in the seat in front of me sat a woman without a left arm.
Unusual for both a book and a bus, yet each had a woman with a missing left arm. I suddenly had the feeling that everything around me was imagined. This is how Butler had me, so to speak, at hello.
There are so many…
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These are really great writing prompts & refreshers for writers at all stages, levels.
Journaling is a self-indulgent, narcissistic waste of time. It’s nothing more than self-administered therapy – the writer simultaneously on the couch and in the psychiatrist’s chair, endlessly picking apart the minutiae of her life to no good end. Time would be better spent alphabetizing the spice cupboard.
I have kept journals on and off since I was seven years old. My entries have ranged from copies of Shakespeare’s poems to what I did today to philosophical musings to documentation of the soap opera antics of the teenage years. I have professed love, eschewed love, and pined after lost love. I have envisioned my future, questioned my past, and reveled in my present. I have railed against the world and explored the dark and sparkling caves of my inner self. I have written letters that were never sent and scrawled meaningless sentences of disconnected prose just to keep my…
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Image from megankatenelson.com
Do you remember the first time you wrote? I don’t mean the first time you formed the letters of the alphabet or wrote your name. I mean the first time you sat down alone and wrote something all your own. Do you remember what you wrote, why you wrote it, or what it felt like to put words – your words – down on the page? Did you have any idea then that you would keep writing – day after day, year after year?
Today marks thirty-nine years, one month, and thirteen days since I wrote my first journal entry. I was seven years-old at the time, and the words I chose for the first page of my first notebook were not my own. They were Shakespeare’s. I copied his poem Fairy’s Song from my Read Me a Poem children’s anthology. (Even then I was a stickler…
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Source: THE CRIMINALIZATION OF THE BLACK PANTHER PARTY AND REWRITING OF HISTORY