(As part of my daily poem detox program, the doc said I should do an immediate purge post.)
Randomlings (noun. Origin: Parts Unknown. Witty and pithy merging of the words, “random,” and “ramblings”. Also, the descriptor for a collection of leftover thoughts before they grow stale and release a foul odor. Furthermore, a term for author over-sharing):
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I love quotes.
. . .
Thirty days of anything is a dang long time
Sorry I failed to craft one worthy rhyme
After thirty prosy poems for NaPoWriMo
Next year if they ask I may just say no
. . .
Thirty days of poems makes you a poet the way a month of novel-writing equates to your being a novelist. It doesn’t even make you good enough to become a bad one. That said, thirty consecutive days of anything changes the doer.
. . .
Thirty days of poetry changed me. It taught me the importance of word placement. It caused me to love the search for the perfect word to accurately articulate my thoughts, feelings and ideas. It made me a better something.
. . .
November is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo).
I’ve attempted it twice but both times failed to meet the minimum word count, even when cheating. The NaNoWriMo rule is 50,000 newly created and meaningful words written between November 1st and 30th. No re-use of work from previous writings.
50,000 divided by 30 gives an average of 1,667 new words per day that build to a comprehensive story. For reference, this entire post is about 600 words of disjointed thought, not one cohesive story idea.
A: How stupid would I need to be to agree to 50,000 words in thirty days again?
Two: How stupid would I need to be to promise daily posts of a novel’s progress?
C: How stupid would I need to be to think that the discipline of thirty consecutive days of creating something from nothing could make me a better something else?
And Four: How stupid would I need to be to consider a PhD in Engineering in the midst of artsy pursuits?
I’m already working on several book ideas, and I’ve got a life outside Mapping the Edge (although some may call it a half-life).
Yes, how stupid am I in need of being indeed!
. . .
I made a pretty girl cry this morning. She handed me a coffee through the window and asked if I wanted cream and sugar. Her skin was the color of candy.
“Only cream,” I said. “Seeing you this morning is sweetness enough to make my day.”
She crossed her hands over her heart and tilted her head.
“Awwww, that’s the most awesome thing I’ve heard in a long time. Thank you so much! You’re gonna make me cry!”
Her eyes got glassy. Both of them. As I drove away, she told me to be safe and have a great day. I was and did.
Young one, consider yourself sprayed with Todd sparkle, I thought. You’re welcome.
As I rounded the building and drove past her window again, I overheard her talking to a 911 operator. She said something about wanting to report a lovable but creepy man who was circling the building like an idiot, trying to find the parking lot exit.
“He scared me to tears,” she said on my third drive-by. “Don’t arrest him, just encourage him to choose the drive-thru across the street tomorrow. My grandmother works there. He will seem less creepy to her.”
She waved again.
“We’re on it,” an authoritative voice replied through the girl’s cell, her headset microphone, and the drive-thru speaker system.
Prepare to cry, pretty girl’s grandma. Mr. Sparkle has spray enough for you tomorrow – assuming he can get back on the highway today.
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