Awaking from Longest Sleep

I awoke a brief time ago to my true self. Whatever chains that hindered me fall upon the Earth. They lay decoupled and remiss in wear and use. What purposes shall they now render? What good is that which hath lost its use to mortal kind? Is it to be cast aside, forever lost in a whirlwind of change and remediation? Is our world to forget the transient nature of its existence?

We so humble few, so deject and lost of this fair mortal coil, where have we gone astray? Where did our lives fade from their true enigmatic purpose in this World? Are we sheep so lost we may never find our pastures?

I walk alone on the soils of my brethren, coasting across faded shores which have been ignored and abandoned so long ago. Land long since abandoned, remiss for so many an age.

Where are you my people? Where is the love in these lost columns? Hath man no need for your shimmer, your piercing majesty? Are we to see these planes of conception and experience as they are, as they will us to be, or are we the lost bands of travelers roaming from place to place, never to find our home--neither here on this fertile soil, nor across the vast ocean of stars shining out across a distant night sky?

Academic Notation

by Robin Layne

            I woke up this morning to the phone ringing. Someone I barely knew from college was begging me to help with homework—or go out for a beer, or karaoke, or whatever. Who was this guy? Certain he had evil on his mind, I tried to brush him off. Just then, the phone beeped, telling me someone else was calling. Another near-stranger, a neighbor who barely had done more than exchange hellos, gushed, “Oh, Robin, you’re home! I can’t wait to get together with you and talk!”

            “Who are you,” I said, “and what have you done to my neighbor?”

            She giggled as if it were the funniest joke I’d ever heard.

            “Why do you want to get together with me?” I said. “You never did before.”

            “I just found out about . . . you know . . . your grades.”

            “What do you know about my grades?”

            “Everybody knows. You’re an A minus. Close to the best. What’s your grade point?”

            “You mean from PSU? I don’t know. 3.73 or something. And they didn’t give me an honors rope even though they gave one to the girl sitting next to me at the graduation, who had a lower GPA than me. And when I tried to find out what was going on, all my requests were ignored.”

            “That’s a crime!” the young woman cried out. “I’m gathering some other friends right now and we’ll march on the school and protest!”

            “That won’t be neces—”

            A knock on the door interrupted my protest of the protest. I excused myself and went to answer it. A man stood beaming at me with his hand behind his back. “Mon cheri,” he said in what to me sounded like really clumsy French. “Please. Let me kiss your hand.”

            “What?” I said. “You gotta meet the guy I put on hold!”

            He tried to grab my hand, but I pulled it beyond his reach. “Is this about my grades?” I said.

            “Oui, oui.”

            “Cut the fake French. What are you holding behind your back?”

            He handed me the dozen red roses. “I know you love red roses,” the stranger said. “I asked around.”

            “Listen,” I said. “Would you do me a favor? Help me market some of my writing?”

            The stranger nodded.

            “Yes!” I cried out. I had it made!

The Genesis of a Writer

by Robin Layne

            I’m not sure there was one moment in my life when I realized I would be a writer. I think it was close to a destiny I always knew. Stories were important to me from the beginning. I loved the picture books my mother read to me. I acted out fairytales for family members and friends, like “The Three Bears” and “Cinderella.” In kindergarten, our class made a book of pictures by each pupil; accompanying the drawings were short pieces of writing we had dictated to the teacher.

            In first and second grade, we wrote stories and illustrated them on big-ruled sheets of paper. Our teachers gave us really creative prompts, and I think I got into more detail than the other kids, careful to include a logical beginning. In second grade I stayed in recesses to make my first picture book.

            I was teased a lot by my schoolmates, and it cut me deeply. My family was unsympathetic to my complaints about it. I told myself that when I grew up I would be a famous artist and writer. Then those who had hated me would read about me in the newspapers and be story. I would show them I was better than a misfit crybaby, and better than all of them.

            In third grade, I used to go visit my second grade teacher. I told her I was going to be an author. She pinched my cheeks and said, “Write children’s books.”

            Sorry, Mrs. Palermo. My interests are broader, and I don’t pander to your expectations. I write what inspiration leads me to, not what one set age group dictates.

            When I was still a child, it would take me hours to get to sleep, so I would make up novels in my head. Now I find that I can’t carry whole scenes in my memory for long without writing them down.

            Although I still do a little art for my own pleasure, most of my art is to help me picture the characters in my stories or to design possible covers for the books. The “famous artist” part of my ambition has pretty much fallen by the wayside, leaving me more time to write. I’m driven to imagine things, get them into words, and share them with others. Fame is slow to come by and not a need anymore. I’m famous to God. But I would like to produce published books. And I want to make a living on my writing!

            I get the impression that most people think writing like mine is play and that I should spend my time doing more “important” things. Writing is enjoyable for me, but it also requires a lot of time and effort. Most of the markets out there pay nothing, and another large percentage pay a only a handful of dollars, I suppose for the purpose of saying you’re “paid.” Some writers (I don’t think I know any of them) make their living writing articles, but the really creative stuff doesn’t provide a living except to the rare superstar author. What are our values?

            I write because I love stories. I write because the Lord I love is the Word. God made me in His image. And He is the Creator. So I am a creator, too.

The Mysterious Case of Public v Private Blogging

We've been having the public verse private debate and as a straightforward, albeit possibly confusing, solution was the creation of two blogs:

Public: http://imagoinklings.blogspot.com

Private: http://imagoinklingsprivate.blogspot.com

I hope this does not cause unnecessary confusion. Please leave your thoughts.

Tentative Title: The Life of a Hacker Troll

Tentative Title: The Life of a Hacker Troll

By Christopher Brown

Have you ever had one of those afternoons when the world came to a blistering halt, and your thoughts centered on the pitifulness of your existence?

Welcome to the story of my life.

I'm a troll.

I know what you all must be thinking—“Well, there are worse things than being an Internet troll... unless the person is a network administrator, then it's just awesome sauce!“

No, I'm not an Internet troll—at least, no more than the average Internet user. No, I'm a real troll. You know the kind you read about in fairy tales, fantasy novels, or Internet yaoi fanfics of World of Warcraft. [Don't ask me where that last part came from... I was on 4Chan last night. I am still reeling from the experience. I used up my last bottle of mind-bleach last week when some genius posted a nude photograph of the Queen of England holding the Union Jack while banging a horse. Who comes up with this stuff? Seriously! I guess that's the advantage of being a magical creature, we actually have real mind-bleach!]

[Now, where was I...? Right!]

I'm a troll. Well, a quarter-troll to be exact. My mother, apparently, used makeup for years to cover her green complexion. Dad eventually found out, but being a total nerd, he thought it was the most awesome thing ever!

To make a long-story (one that involves a lot of D&D references, most of which I am unfamiliar with) brief, let's just say that a geek/nerd/otaku found his fantasy dream girl in a half-troll Zelda fan from Montana; they've been making sweet music together while kicking dragon ass ever since. And, as I should mention it, the dragon ass was real!

As for me... I'm a quarter-troll hacker who lives somewhere in the US. I won't say exactly, because then I would be giving away too much information and ruin the mystery and suspense of my story.

To be honest, I'm just lazy, like where I live, and don't want to move again... I'm a member of Anonymous [the group commonly associated with tea-bagging the church of Scientology, terrorizing third-world dictatorships, and our continued alliance with Occupy Wall Street (and the Occupy movement in general)]. As a result of that fruitful association and its sometimes annoying downsides, I have to keep my physical location a secret to avoid every Federal, state, and local agency swooping down on my little “residence” and having their merry old way with me. Worst of all, if they actually found out I was a troll, and not the kind that likes to watch grown men and women descend into stuttering, muttering, imbeciles¹, running about , . I figured no one would believe an author telling eir audience that e was a troll (or any magical creature for that matter), but indicating your hacker prowess and membership to the body “threatening” the elites' “national security” would wind me up on ever tracker database in existence. Do you know how much magical energy it takes to wipe every database on Earth of your identity? It takes FOREVER!

[To my editors (respectfully): Before you pull out that red ink pen, holstered in your front shirt pocket like some 1950's western hero, and start flooding my copy with “helpful suggestions” like a pedantic high school freshman English teacher, who believes e is the last vanguard of English rhetorical law—the only thing standing between the downfall of civilization and moral propriety—NEWSFLASH! Linguistics of the Enlightenment was falsified in the 19^th and 20^th centuries! Get with the times! As it pertains to 'eir', 'em', 'e', 'eirs' and 'emself ', do yourself, my readers, and I a huge personal favor and search Google (or the search engine of your choice) for the “Spivak pronoun”. You'll amaze yourself at what you will find. I did.]

1To my readers: When you read words like “stupid”, “dumb”, “moronic”, and “imbecile” in my book, attribute their use to Neil Postman's Crazy Talk, Stupid Talk: How We Defeat Ourselves by the Way We Talk and What to Do About It, Alfred Korzybski's Science and Sanity: An Introduction to Non-Aristotelian Systems and General Semantics, S. I. Hayakawa's Language in Thought and Action, Wendell Johnson's People in Quandaries: The Semantics of Personal Adjustment and his Living With Change: The Semantics of Coping, and others of their like and kind. I use these words not to indicate the physical intelligence capacity of the individual (for I believe true intelligence is nay impossible to detect—for we know so little of the human mind—irrespective of what scientists would like you to believe), but instead I use these to indicate the self-defeating, irrational, or otherwise destructive thought patterns these individuals are committing. I am not implying anything beyond this.

Prompts for November 3, 2012

Prompts for November 3, 2012

Essay (Non-Fiction):
1. What does it mean to be a “writer in community”? What is a “community”? How is “community” relent to the “solitary life of an artist”? Does an artist or their work/working process necessarily have to be “solitary”? What are some means of improving the “community of the artist” and helping to bring “the solitary life of an artist” into a “community”?
2. What does it mean to be “an artist within a 'culture'”? Do each “cultures” relegate certain forms or social restrictions/codes of appearance/codes of action and acceptable form upon an artist? What are your “cultures” and what are the rules associated with them? How do these “cultures” limit your freedom of expression, and how do they enhance it? If they are limiting, how might you work to break out of that creative hindrance? If they are liberating, how might you share that freedom of expression, or helpful mode of inspiration or creative insight with another person/”culture”/the community at large?
   
3. What does it mean to be an “artist” to you? What are your modes of expression, and how do they help you become a “better person” through “bettering” your artistry?

Getting Ideas:

1. Write a short-story involving one of your characters. Use this as an opportunity to tell your reading something new about this character, something you won't necessarily be using in your work. It can be a serious event, action/adventure oriented, or a funny moment in the life of the character. The short-story should tell us something we don't know about the character, and help us to see more of the true nature of this person.
   
2. What are the most important values to your character(s), and do any of these values represent aspects of yourself or people you know or have encountered, or are they merely aspects created for a fictional work and have no relationship to yourself or people you know i.e. do they represent something within all of us, or are they a clear perversion/diversion of the scope of human capacities of emotion?
   
   Following from http://writingprompts.tumblr.com/

Essay (Fiction):

I. You find yourself in front of seven identical doors. A voice from above tells you:

“These seven doors lead to seven places:

Narnia, Neverland, Wonderland, Hogwarts, Camelot, Middle Earth, and Westeros.”

Which door do you go through?

Why that door? What happens?

II. Fairy Tale Therapy:

Think of a fairy tale character who experiences something traumatic. Years later, have that character discuss the traumatic events of their fairy tale with their therapist, explaining how it changed their life and perception of reality.

III. What if... Shakespeare lived now... and was in the army...

Story (Fiction):

1. Tell this story: “It's not wise to let someone like that know your name.”
2. What would you do differently if you got to do yesterday over again? or What would you do differently if you got to do last week over again?
3. He pointed me toward the opening in the tree. “I'm sure you'll be pleased. It's surprisingly large once you're inside.” Finish this story.
4. She gasped with excitement and shouted over the noise of the helicopter: “The islands in the sky are real!” Finish this story.
5. Retell the story of a Disney movie with one change: The Princess is now a hipster.
6. Tell this story: There were fourteen potions on the shelf. Their labels were all missing. She knew one of them was what she needed. She frantically glanced back over her shoulder. There wasn't enough time to figure out which was which. She grabbed the closest one and chugged it, hoping desperately she'd picked the right potion...
   
   Make sure you establish the situation, introduce a narrator, and organize the story in a way that unfolds naturally while using dialogue and descriptions of actions, thoughts, and feelings to develop experiences and events. Provide a sense of closure at the end.
   
   Common Core: Writing Anchor Standard 3: Write narratives to develop real or imagined experiences or events using effective technique, descriptive details, and clear event sequences.

7. Tell this story: She was sure this was where he had disappeared.
8. Tell this story: As their ship pulled up beside the island, they could clearly see that it was inhabited.

Discussion for Group

So it's NanoWrimo time! And that means there are usually write-ins and events around the city. So the topic is how do we incorporate it. We can discuss this online and in person. But yes I'd like to hear everyones thoughts on this

1. Should we advertise our group through NaNoWriMo forums and other events so that we can have new members? The idea is to continue the group.

Note: If you are advertising it elsewhere, I suggest not posting my address publically online. You may share my email indu.shanmugam@gmail.com, to anyone so that I can connect and give it to them or you may bring a friend. The idea is not to have my address in open.

2. Robin suggested to meet at Ava just for the month of November because there is a Beaverton write-in held there at 10 am on Saturdays. So instead of having our separate group that's open to nanos, we can join them and hopefully invite them to our writing salon after Nano. (This weekend the place is my house though)

3. anything else?

Cheers.

Indu