- Live Out Loud Adventures
- A writer’s journey into programming
- My journey to 10K readers on Medium in 2018
- You are here
Writing is a lifestyle, a way of life. You cannot separate yourself from writing. You are always a writer. You never shut off.
Live Out Loud Adventures
If you are honest with your writing — else you can never become a writer — you surf in the ocean of books and writing. Else you would be smashed out on the shore. You were fine yesterday. First, he lets you think that everything is meaningless but then he explains the purpose of human life. Words stutter in your meaninglessness. Great writers first bury you down. Then they dig you from the dead.
A writer’s journey into programming
And you let them do that. R ather than ignoring or suppressing your emotions, you dissolve them into your writing and create meaning. Then, you do. You feel you suck every time you read your work. You edit.
You take writing courses and workshops and let people tell you that you suck and why do you suck right in your face. And you have to be jolly about it. They tell you why it would take you many years. You accept. They say that humiliation is good for you. The criticism makes you feel that you should give up. It would never happen for you. But you go on.
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You start understanding the importance of criticism. You tell yourself some truths. And then you lie. The practice of scrutinizing each word, each sentence, each dialogue, each blink of an eye save your life. Sleep is necessary to revitalize your brain. I am the most energetic in the mornings. Let us call this time your writing window. While showering, making my breakfast, and eating it, I listen to the same music every day. This Sufi music helps me collect my thoughts, and it places me in the right mood. Try being mindful with meditation or music. I do not check my emails till pm.
No distractions to the thought process and the creative flow. My parents want me to call in the morning. But our conversations are not always the most blossoming ones, so I never call in the morning to avoid any disruptions. Only and only writing. For me, morning means writing. If I think of anything else, I feel as if I am committing a crime. Nail down in your head that you are not supposed to do anything else during this time. I know, I know. Your creative horses are not in your control. But give some thought to what you want to write the previous night.
You would get some clarity. I always think of the articles I would like to work on the next day. And if my fingers are playing some other tune, I let them, for as long as they want to. And then I go back to the list of the articles.
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Some creative time and some controlled creative time. This management helps in reining the horses a little bit. I sit alone as sometimes I start reading out loud or make faces or stare at the wall or talk to myself or cry or laugh. I am the most comfortable alone. People around you would understand. Maya Angelou booked a hotel room on a monthly basis and spent all her mornings writing in that hotel room. No hard and fast rules exist.
My journey to 10K readers on Medium in 2018
Back then, neither word meant what it does today. Hence the chuckling, amidst which a realization fell on me like a bolt.
test.licitamos.cl/48.php This story is really all about the crowd — the others, the bit characters and how incredibly wrong they get it while still being right. The plot would fit on the back of an airmail sta mp. As with some of his other works, Wells chooses to describe and judge his main character to you through the eyes of everyone else in the story. A mysterious man wrapped from head to toe arrives at a small town inn, and never comes out of his room. And what do they guess? The story continues- the mystery guest becomes ever more combative and erratic.
Windows open and close by themselves, the local prior is robbed, nosy landlords appear to eject themselves from the second-floor guest room. The crowd continues to bumble and guess wrong- yet somehow, they manage to flush out the IM, brilliant scientist or no. Wells is not faithful to any particular individual in the crowd- your PoV jumps from one stubbornly inane opinion to another, sometimes for the length of one line and never to return.
Here the veil of humor drops away, and I must say the story of his experiments are not appropriate for all audiences. An attempt at betrayal leads to another rampage from the IM, who without clothes always has the advantage or seems to. In the end, the IM reappears, which is to say, he dies. Without these untrustworthy narrators, without the gaggle of wrong-footed yokels to stare and puzzle and go off on tangents when they theorize, the tale loses a vital something.
They drink, they argue, and most of all they get it comically, horrendously wrong. Through their beloved bigotry and hackneyed catch-phrases I learned a lot about the world, the problems facing the heroes. One tavern scene I chronicled in The Ring and the Flag had so much going on, I visited it again on the same night in Fencing Reputation. But they get it right in the end. More than that; I realized from reading The Invisible Man that Wells was really double-casting the entire process of reading a great adventure.
And the crowd? You WANT the reader to be just like them- not catching the whole thread, but very curious and grimly determined to find out more.
You are here
And in the end, both crowds inside and out get it right. So was my anxiety level about this significant life change. To reduce my stress, I tried to concentrate on a string of daily activities. I spent the entire New Year Eve morning on the dismantlement of Christmas decorations for their annual storage in a small, already crowded closet under a stairway. As he arranged one container box upon another in the bulging space, I heard my husband observe:. Two sharp prongs from the old serving fork are sticking out the side of the bag. Be careful.
Now the fork made known my secret haste. I felt a twinge of guilt to improve the situation, but more importantly, the great Florida outdoors was calling me. I needed to go for my daily exercise walk. My neighborhood hikes over old brick streets provided grand opportunities to experience a kind of time-travel back to the mystical places my father talked about. As his voice transported me, I disappeared into another era, and met relatives whose DNA created my features and blood ran through me.
The tales let me live through his s and 40s wartime escapades along with accounts from his and 60s medical practice in Melbourne, Florida where I grew up. That winter day I felt like hearing something different, so I purposely chose a more contemporary, upbeat storyline period from my old home town. As I walked the first two blocks, I listened to stories of engaging patients. I got to meet the famous architect Henry Hornbostel who designed the campus that is now Carnegie Mellon University and several iconic New York City bridges. He apparently wintered in Melbourne Beach where he chose my father as his doctor.
Like with so many other patients, they developed a friendship. Next, on the tape, my dad switched briefly to a story about the Space Age that dawned near our home and his physician role to Werner von Braun among others. This was a trip of mixed emotions.
My family in Czechoslovakia had vanished during the war. Miraculously, all four Marik family members — Vala, husband Jaroslav, and sons Jiri and Pavel — survived. To hide what they had, my grandparents gave their silver and jewelry to Vala and Jaroslav. Uncle Jaroslav made a map based on the tree locations in the orchard beside his sawmill in their Bohemian village of Neveklov. Between two trees he buried the valuables alongside a fine bottle of brandy to open when the war ended. Soon, the Nazi forces kicked out all the residents of Neveklov and occupied their home, using it as a garrison hospital.
Legend has it that the Nazis used the area to practice for their invasion of Belgium. After six years of occupation, when the war finally ended for the Czechs in May , the family returned to their home. The property had been severely trashed, and the orchard mostly cut down for firewood. The map had been rendered useless.
Overtime, Jaroslav and his sons dug there and finally recovered the silver collection, but they never found the brandy. As my father said later when telling the story, the brandy was never meant to be found as there could not be a celebration with the lost relatives. At the end of this particular story, my father described how he smuggled the silver out when my parents left Prague by train for Vienna on their way home to America. My dad followed on with descriptions of the communist government that had taken over in a coup and its impact on the Marik family and others he knew.
One of these friends was his Charles University professor of chemistry, Dr.