Belle Avenue Writers
Assorted scribblings from the Belle Avenue Writer's Group, a collection of writers and wannabees that meets once a month in Troy, NY.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
But I'm not dead yet.....
Let me know if you see this update. I'm planning on revitalizing this blog.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
David Corn on Info-Glut
Interesting, given our discussion Sunday night:
http://www.theatlanticwire.com/features/view/feature/David-Corn-What-I-Read-1037
http://www.theatlanticwire.com/features/view/feature/David-Corn-What-I-Read-1037
Monday, April 19, 2010
You're so vain...
Writing is an exercise in vanity. That's not all writing is but the initial premise of all writing-- that someone would find the words you craft interesting and worth their time-- that premise begins with a flash of vanity. Perhaps all writing comes from the "Look at me" gene innate to the human condition.
I think most writers are more than a little uncomfortable with the vain conceit. We don't like thinking ourselves as worthy. I often wonder if the furniture maker suffers the same? Or the potter? The sculptor? The musician? (Painters of course do but I have found, as a general rule, painters are simply bat-shit crazy.)
I think most writers are more than a little uncomfortable with the vain conceit. We don't like thinking ourselves as worthy. I often wonder if the furniture maker suffers the same? Or the potter? The sculptor? The musician? (Painters of course do but I have found, as a general rule, painters are simply bat-shit crazy.)
Monday, March 8, 2010
Great Opening Passages
http://flavorwire.com/75066/first-impressions-our-30-favorite-opening-lines-in-literature
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
This is so true
Are many books longer than they need to be?
http://crookedtimber.org/2010/02/09/towards-a-world-of-smaller-books/
http://crookedtimber.org/2010/02/09/towards-a-world-of-smaller-books/
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Exquisite Corpse 3
Two Weeks Ago
The cold was to the bone
I didn't like being alone.
My office was drab
And the paint kind of sad.
If I coulda, I woulda flown.
My feet were propped up.
I held a newspaper folded up.
The news was old.
My coffee was cold.
Politicians, they're all corrupt.
The cold was to the bone
I didn't like being alone.
My office was drab
And the paint kind of sad.
If I coulda, I woulda flown.
My feet were propped up.
I held a newspaper folded up.
The news was old.
My coffee was cold.
Politicians, they're all corrupt.
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