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Archive for the ‘Writing’ Category

Not that I’ve let Alexa into my life or anything, but this might be the one ability that would convince me to do it!

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“A well-composed book is a magic carpet on which we are wafted to a world that we cannot enter in any other way.”

― Caroline Gordon

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Photo by Kevin Wolf on Unsplash

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The other day I hemmed a pair of jeans for Mr Man. The method isn’t difficult but can be a little tricky to get right. All those thick seams and difficult fabric. 

I don’t sew much, so I had to go through the usual process of pretending like I know what I’m doing. A lot like life, really. Thankfully, muscle memory has been in charge of threading sewing machine needles since I was about twelve.

Once I finished, I realized something interesting. The results were good. Better than the last time I did it, actually. And the interesting part was that it wasn’t perfect, nowhere close, but I seem to have figured out what mattered.

For hemmed jeans, it’s thread color. 

For writing, I will argue, it’s the emotion that connects reader and written. 

It’s possible that I sometimes try too hard, in an effort to get everything right. (Hahahahaha, that seems even sillier when I write it down. Yeah, that’s not happening, like, ever;)

But what if I don’t need to get the whole thing right? What if I just need to get the right things right? 

Step one, figure out what those things are. Step two, take the next step.

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You’ve got this, kiddo. Photo by Jukan Tateisi on Unsplash

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“The truth is that the world is full of dragons, and none of us are as powerful or cool as we’d like to be. And that sucks. But when you’re confronted with that fact, you can either crawl into a hole and quit, or you can get out there, take off your shoes, and Bilbo it up.”

― Patrick Rothfuss

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Photo by Amanda Swanepoel on Unsplash

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Today in creative women, we have two items you might find interesting. First, a podcast on one of our great science fiction writers: 

Octavia Butler: Visionary Fiction

Octavia Butler’s alternate realities and ‘speculative fiction’ reveal striking, and often devastating parallels to the world we live in today. She was a deep observer of the human condition, perplexed and inspired by our propensity towards self-destruction. Butler was also fascinated by the cyclical nature of history, and often looked to the past when writing about the future. Along with her warning is her message of hope – a hope conjured by centuries of survival and persistence. For every society that perishes in her books comes a story of rebuilding, of repair.

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I was also interested to see this piece on largely forgotten female composers, complete with interactive map. I’m not a classical music buff, but I didn’t even know Amadeus had a sister, much less one who was also a child music prodigy. Now I do, and I’m better for it.

‘They deserve a place in history’: music teacher makes map of female composers

Two siblings, both considered child prodigies, dazzled audiences across Europe together in the 18th century, leaving a trail of positive reviews in their wake. But while Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart went on to be celebrated as one of the world’s greatest composers, the accomplishments of his sister – Maria Anna – were quickly forgotten after she was forced to halt her career when she came of age.

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Here’s to not stopping.

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Photo by Johannes Plenio on Unsplash

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How about a bit of free fiction today? I’m still on day job vacation but had to take a meeting. Thankfully, my work day was nothing like this piece by David Shultz over at Diabolical Plots:

“Boom & Bust” by David F. Shultz

Kondo barked his orders. “Rocco, cover the east window. Valiant, you’re on ammo detail. Pepsi, keep an eye on market changes. Luna, get me a full asset list.”

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Photo by Jayden Staines on Unsplash

Bonus fiction:

Sounds like those workers could have used a union. Maybe Alexa can fix them up;)

Alexa, Play Solidarity Forever by Audrey R. Hollis

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Photo by Reet Talreja on Unsplash

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“Just because things hadn’t gone the way I had planned didn’t necessarily mean they had gone wrong.”

― Ann Patchett

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Photo by Daniel Angele on Unsplash

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In my roles as a writer and as a person, I read a lot. Some books I purchase, but many I access through my local library. How great is that?*

So I just spent a non-zero amount of time writing a little AppleScript to automagically run a search in any of the four area library systems that share e-book resources. 

Was it necessary? No. I could click through my library portal and into each separate library system for every book I want to check, one stodgy button at a time. Ho hum.

Does this script save time and my wrists and open up new worlds of possibilities?

Yes.

Was it fun to make?

Also yes:)

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I know, it’s a store, not a library. But she’s having so much fun! Photo by Ying Ge on Unsplash

* I love books, and I’m lucky enough to live in a society that supports public libraries. In fact, I made a modest donation to my local library the other day, and hope it helps bring just a little more literacy and knowledge and enjoyment to my city.

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I’ve loved coffee ice cream since before I drank coffee, but it’s one of those flavors that doesn’t appeal to everyone. We don’t buy a lot of ice cream and when we do, something like vanilla is more flexible.*

I’m still experimenting with our borrowed Kitchenaid ice cream maker and coffee sounded good. I modified Mark Bittman’s egg-free recipe again, and it worked for me. Perfect for a hot and sticky summer day!

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Coffee Ice Cream
Makes ~1 quart

Ingredients

  • 1 1/2 C. milk (2% worked)
  • 1 C. heavy cream (35%)
  • 1/2 C. coffee
  • 1/2 C. sugar
  • 2 T. cornstarch 
  • 1/4 t. salt
  • 1/2 t. vanilla extract

Instructions

1. Stir the cornstarch with 2 T. of the milk make a smooth slurry.

2. Put the remaining milk, cream, coffee, sugar, and salt in a medium saucepan and whisk to combine. Cook over medium-low heat, stirring occasionally, until the mixture nearly comes to a simmer. Whisk in the cornstarch slurry and vanilla and continue to stir until the mixture thickens a bit, 2 or 3 minutes.

3. Strain the mixture into a bowl. Cover and refrigerate until completely cool, at least 2 hours and preferably overnight. Transfer to an ice cream maker and churn according to the manufacturer’s directions.

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* Alone, with pie, with grape juice, with orange concentrate and chocolate shavings, with caramel, with peanut butter and chocolate, with bananas and pecans, with pomegranate seeds, with lemon curd, with… you get the idea.

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Photo by Mae Mu on Unsplash

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My father is going through old boxes of photographs and other memorabilia and sent me a story, one of my first, called “The Devil’s Crutch.” I couldn’t write or (as you’ll see) grasp the intricacies of grammar, geography, or complete sentences, but I dictated it to my mother. 

First we have the story from when I was, what, maybe three years old? I‘ve changed since then (I can even hold a pen all by myself!), but I tried to understand at least a little of what might have been going through my head that day. Then for fun, I turned it into a drabble.

(My father seemed particularly taken by the word “smitchey.” I no longer know what it means but I kept it.)

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The Devil’s Crutch

Once upon a time there was a old, old house up in the south pole. There in the house there is a little room in the playroom and in the room there was a lot of dust. In the room there was a lot of dolls. The dolls didn’t have dust on them because a little smitchey girl had been playing with them. The house was haunted. And this couple moved in the haunted house and every night a ghost came out at twelve o’clock and every night when the ghost came out the couple woke up and saw the ghost and the ghost disappeared whenever the couple saw the ghost. The ghost disappeared. One night the father and the mother was sleeping on the sofa and the devil’s came instead of the ghost. And the owner of the crutch came to the house with the crutch and the owner of the crutch was the devil.

The End

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Once there was a haunted old house way up in the South Pole. It had a playroom of dusty dolls, a grandfather clock and a crutch like bleached bone. 

A family with a smitchey little girl arrived. Every midnight the towering clock cried out. Even when the mother stopped the pendulum, and the father hid the key.

The girl saw a little ghost waving from inside the clock.

She slept huddled under the playroom table. The dolls said it was safer that way.

One night the clock stayed silent and the ghost hid.

And the owner came for his crutch. 

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Photo by Sandy Millar on Unsplash

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