The reason I am playing at being a writer is because I am too damn scared to grow my hair long and be the musician I am at heart. Just saying.
I am a Writer; I am a Writer; I am a Writer; I am a Writer; I am a Writer; I am a Writer; I am a Writer; I am a Writer; I am a Writer; I am a Writer. I am a Writer!
To be, or not to be: that is the ques-
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and, by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the
For in that sleep of death what dreams may
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s con-
The pangs of disprized love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
ls sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d.
Write as if your parents are dead.
Alcoholism remains a horrible disease that causes broken families and broken lives in every culture. Secrets are kept by every family, but alcohol is the worst drug because it is the most socially acceptable drug.
The house was filled with the debris of life, smelling of cigarettes and whisky and a dog. I played violin in an orchestra and played baseball every chance I got. Reading was the escape that kept my life important. Drunken nights of mother were the norm and I knew to keep my head down even in daylight.
Mom would drag me out of bed by my hair and proceed to slap me around and beat me to a pulp while telling me I was worthless and why I would never amount to anything. A 1/5 of Whiskey per night was the norm.
One night, the rage finally tipped my hand and I knocked my mother out cold and went to bed. Fear of consequences was the last thing on his mind.
The next morning, I got up and went out to see if my mother was still out cold in the living room, or if she was dead. Damn! She was not there and must have got up and gone to bed. She got up later that morning, didn’t say anything all day, and never hit me again. If I had known it was going to work I would have hit her when I was much younger. I would become somebody no matter what!
I suppose it’s time to start a novel.
I have been thinking about becoming a Paralegal so that I can get paid more consistently than my Genealogy ability seems to provide. I am very good at doing the research necessary to create a family tree.
Today, I have been doing some research on Freelance writing or writing fer money. The various websites and videos give a fun and interesting picture of the life of a Freelance writer. Writer as job is a new concept for me after a lifetime of working in a factory. I have about 2/3 of my Certificate in Writing to finish over the next several months and then I will be seeking employment, hopefully in a fun way. Wish me luck.
Memoir Writing: Finding Your Story 1.5
Fiction Writing: Craft 1.5
Fiction Writing: The Novel 3.0
Fiction Writing: Character 3.0
My last classes start next week and I will soon see what I want to do now or next or…whatever. I have been told I am a talented writer by several people so far. I used to be a gifted violinist when young and gave it all up for stupid, youthful ideas. The first time I thought I would like to be a writer was upon reading A Movable Feast by Ernest Hemingway at age 24. Ernie wrote a memoir about his days in Paris after the Great War aka World War I. I have read and re-read this book several times and I am just starting it again. I just read the memoir Glass Castles and I would like to write more than memoir allows. It seems that only a memoir is coming out of me at this time, but after the harangue of classes I will then take a good look at writing as a profession.
No one seems to think my ability to do family trees/genealogy should be rewarded so I will no longer expect that someday I will be paid for this kind of work. I was once a gifted musician and now I’m better than that at research and research jobs.
I am kind of scared at the idea of being a pro writer, but that is all I have left after all of my I wants and I needs are exhausted. I am looking forward to having my Certificate in Writing in my hot little hand.
I am 1/3 done with my Certificate in Writing from the University of Washington and my problem is this: Do I keep as a writer and come what may or do I choose to delve deeper into intellectual subjects? My mind is not really on my writing or on being a writer, but my intellectual curiosity especially on Historical subjects seems to know no bounds.