The Lighthouse

the lighthouse

21 February 2015

Getting bloggy with it

On many occasions in the past while I've thought to myself: "Oh, I should blog that." but then, of course, I don't.  I'm really good with the brilliant ideas and less brilliant with the execution of them.

I've decided to focus more on my own writing instead of writing prompts. They work wonderfully to get the rusty machine moving again, but I have so little time to give to writing that I've been able to only do the prompts. There are two tentatively begun stories I'm going to pursue plus an idea for a children's book I'd like to tackle.  Wish me luck!  (Or send me glue to keep me in my seat. Either one.)


It is Murphy's Law in a library that a patron will not approach the counter until they see you sit down.  They will not come in out of the cold unless they know you've been up at the counter for a while, waiting for someone to need your assistance and have just sat down at your desk to work on that pesky ILLO you can't seem to track down. That's when they'll come. Oh, that Murphy, he's such a card!


I despise the term 'hubby'.  Despise it.  It makes me cringe every single time I hear it or read it.  Men seldom get the encouragement and affirmation they need in this crazy world, let's not diminish them even more with cutsie, dismissive language!


My word, it is cold.  I don't just mean 'It's winter, so of course it's not warm', but full-on, hard-core, they'll-find-me--stuck-to-my-front-door-in-the-spring cold.


I've given up wasting time for Lent, by which I mean I've given up being on facebook and other such temptations.  It's going great so far... I've only climbed the walls once!


I gave in. I've been reading Jane Austen fan fiction.  Jane, you see, wrote only so many books, and one can only read them again and again so many times in one calendar year, so what's a poor girl to do?  
She reads badly written Jane Austen knock-offs, apparently.
To be fair, some of them have been not only interesting, but well-written.  Some of them, though, like the one I tried this morning, have Lizzy 'cackling'.  Cackling!  Would Jane Austen ever have one of her character cackle? I ask you!  The author blurb of this farce informs us that she has been a teacher of the English language for years and years. I can't help wondering if in all those years she has escaped learning what the word 'cackle' means, or noticing that only evil step-mothers do it?
The author is also preoccupied with 'chin lines'.  Every other page she describes someone's chin line.  It's stubborn or pensive or is being caressed. Have you ever come across that phrase before?


Here are a few recent CTKS:
Busy making paper crowns and rings of power, Five was testing out one particular ring creation. Taking it off, he showed it to his mom for her appreciation. When she duly admired it, he said, "It's for you, mom, you can have it."  She praised him for his generosity, to which he replied, "That's ok... it wasn't working for me, anyway."

Asked by an adult what he wanted to be when he grew up, Five replied, "Myself, of course. What do  you suppose?"

08 February 2015

The month that was : January

Month in review: January

It's no good resolving to do a thing and then not being accountable for doing the thing.  I've resolved to spend more time being creative this year, particularly reading more, writing with more focus, and doing the crafty things that bring me contentment. As for accountability, I think my successes and failures displayed here gives me very little room to hide.  I know this is of no interest to readers; it is for my own motivation.

14 books read
8 Lighthouse posts
5 articles written elsewhere
1 nearly-finished baby blanket
0 time given to a percolating story idea

Mr. Jellyfish

Five Sentence Fiction from Lillie McFerrin Writes.
This week's prompt word is 'villainous'.

I first had visions of villains in black masks leaning over damsels tied to railway tracks.  But then I experienced a jellyfish in human form which felt much more villainous, and tried to put into words what the encounter was like. I tried it as a story but it remained fragments that I've assembled into a sort-of-poem.

He floats along on currents of impulse,
No hint of intent or purpose.
Though he seems so benign, approachable,
His words sting where they land like a tentacle.
When I try to describe him
I know there's something he's hiding
'Cuz he's shifty and shapeless -
It's hopeless.
He tries to draw me in
With his charm and a grin
But it's nothing, it's empty -
I'm prey.
I try to be small, not moving at all
'Till he decides I'm no fun and moves on.