WAS IS NOT A VERB

Greetings and Salutations loyal readers of the blog,

Today I will be paying homage to one member of my critique group. She will know who she is, but I will keep her name out of it for now. Among the many things I hear during our working sessions is, “Was is not a verb.” Because I don’t edit while I ‘m writing, I didn’t know how bad my use of was is. This past week I opened a short story I wrote some time ago. The story in question is 7,000 words over 22 pages. Was occurs 72 times. That’s 1% of all the words in the story. waswaswaswaswaswas. when you line them up they aren’t impressive are they? They are no more impressive when you sprinkle them throughout a piece. In fact they take a good story and water it down to the point that nothing sticks in the colander of your brain after you’ve read it.

To all the people I’ve asked to read those stories, professional and personal, I apologize for my laziness. I believe that the story is first and foremost the most important component of writing. That said, it is a grave injustice to seed a good story with poor word choices. I’d like to think I know better and yet after doing one simple word search I have to admit the evidence shows otherwise. Improvement is something I strive for every time I sit down to write. It would seem I have plenty of room for growth.

I pledge to do a better job in the future selecting words. There is no shortage of words to choose from. Leaving me with no defense. Slothfulness is my sin.

If you write, take heed of my dilemma and try not to fall into the trap of using the easy choice. Aim higher than what comes too easily. Language is the most important tool in the writer’s tool kit. Treat it with respect, oil it, sharpen it, and keep it close to hand. A well used tool fits comfortably in the hand  of the craftsman who utilizes it often.

I’ll leave you with this quotation.

“Words are sacred.  They deserve respect.  If you get the right ones in the right order you can nudge the world.” Tom Stoppared

Write On,

Eerie Dwarf

Meet Anna Conda

Greetings and Salutations, welcome back to the Swamp loyal readers,

I promised last week we would have a special guest today.  One of our more resplendent residents and one who is very protective of her privacy, please welcome G. Anna Conda.

The crowd pushes back from the dais one woman screams and faints on the spot. 

Sorry about that Ms. Conda.

“Please Eerie, you must call me Anna.  After all, we’ve been friends for how many years now?”  Her tongue flicks, probably tasting the fear from the crowd.

More than I wish to count Anna.  Again I do apologize for the less than enthusiastic response.

“It’s fine.  Even though I shed regularly, I’ve developed  a thick skin when it comes to the gasps and screams when the general public sees me for the first time.”

What is it, do you think, that causes that kind of reaction?

“Well I am a predator and I’m very good at what I do, but mostly I think it’s the no legs or arms thing that gets to them.  I’m not warm and furry, although I do like to cuddle.  My hugs are world renown, sadly no one who has experienced one of my hugs and has survived to talk about it.”

So what are you up to theses days?

“It’s not polite to ask a lady her weight but I weigh in a little over 500 pounds and I’m 27 feet tall.”

You mean long.

“If you like.  How long are you then?”

I see your point.  Your size is certainly intimidating.

“No one screams and faints when an elephant walks into the room.”

True.  So tell me, what are doing with yourself, between meals that is.

“I’ve starred in several movies and of course the folks over National Geographic and BBC Nature keep me busy as well.   Although the documentaries don’t pay as well as Hollywood.”

Is there any chance we’ll be seeing more of you around here?  I mean I for one like to see your face around the place?

“I don’t know about that.  Aside from The Swamp Thing not many of your neighbors like having me lurking about.”

Do you think you could hold my muse down while we finish the next chapter in Transformation?

“I’m happy to help out where I can, but to be honest one muse is bad enough.  When you get two or more in one place you’re just begging for trouble.  Quite frankly Eerie, the dwarves’ muses scare me.  So I don’t think I can help you out.  Besides as it turns out I have quite a flare for color and I’m doing a little painting in my free time.”

Anything we can see?

“Not yet but I’ll let you know.  C. Rock Adile said he knows someone who owns a gallery.  And he knows someone at the royal court who could hang my work at the Palace.  Maybe even get me  a private showing.”

I hope he doesn’t disappoint you.  You should know that he tends to be…  To be blunt he’s a blowhard.

“I’m not a vindictive serpent, but he hopes he doesn’t disappoint me too.  I have a way of squeezing the truth out of folks.”

I’m quite aware.  Our time is about up Anna but if I may ask one more question.

“EERIE, EERIE, come quick.”

What is it Mischievous?

“The zombies have knocked down the fence and they’re heading toward the Impenetrable Forrest.”

“You seem to have an emergency, so I’ll just take my leave.  Thanks for inviting me, Eerie.”

But Anna I wanted to know what the G stands for.  I say into the now empty space where only seconds ago the largest snake in the world sat staring at me.

“Come on Eerie the zombies are escaping and you know gathering them up is like herding cats.”

I’m coming.  Say hello our readers Mischievous.

“Hey everyone, nice to see you.  What happened to the that one?”  He points to the lady who fell on her face at the site of Anna.

She fainted that’s all.  It’s time to go.  I hope I see you all back here next week.  In the mean time I’ll leave you with this quotation.

Don’t judge each day by the harvest you reap but by the seeds you plant - Robert Louis Stevenson.

Write On,

Eerie

 

Being Accountable

Greetings and Salutations loyal readers of the blog,

I’ve been gone for too long.  Wicked and Dreamer have kept up the fight in my absence, but it’s time I pulled my head out of my butt and got back to work.  When last we chatted I was left with the muses and a smoking hookah.  Needless to say, that did not go well for me.  Mischievous Raven to the rescue, my friend whom I have a way of maligning at times, because of his mischievous nature, stepped in.  He dragged me away and kept me out harms way until my head cleared.  I’m eternally grateful to Mischievous.

After the smoke cleared, and that is no euphemism, I was lazy about getting back the grindstone that is a weekly blog post.  So let me tell you here and now I’ve missed you.  Sometimes my post here is the only creative writing I get to do in a week.  My word that I would do a post every week is the only thing that compels me to even do that much when I get in that mood.  I have fallen hard on that promise.  I am sorry for that.  It is easy to get apathetic about such things, and easier to make excuses as to why, IE.  I’m just so busy or I couldn’t think of anything to write, or how about this beauty, I forgot it was Friday.

So here and now I pledge to do better.  I know I can because I have done it in the past.  There are those special circumstances that may keep me from bringing you the Swamp News once in while.  We’ll address them as they arise, in the mean time I’m renewing my pledge to be here every week.

So with out back peddling too much I’ll fill you in on what we learned about the flowers that The Swamp Thing was growing. They were harmless and beautiful and everything was brightening up around the murky waters I call home until Swamp Thing introduced a special fertilizer the zombie horde provided her.  The flowers grew bigger, faster and brighter, but (there is always a but) they mutated into something that when ingested gave the ingestee a euphoric feeling.

I don’t know who tried ingesting them in the first place, but before you could say Jerry Garcia, the whole swamp was baking them into brownies, smoking them in pipes or just chewing the flower peddles straight.  Thankfully the Werewolf Monks figured out what was going on and rectified the problem.  There are some very smart shifters in the monastery, and we are lucky to have them looking out for us down here in The Swamp.

The flowers are gone now except for those Dreamer raises without the help of the zombie fertilizer.  Mostly because Dreamer would have nothing to do with the brain eaters.  Swamp Thing is back to her less than happy-go-lucky ways.  C.Rock Adile is as annoying as ever.  The muses are grumpy again and hanging out at The Swamp Shack more than ever.  The zombie infestation is on the rise causing me a little more work than I’d like, but it pays the bills.  As for my friend Mischievous, nothing seems to get him down. He by the way is visiting relatives in Great Britain and from the cards he sending me he’s having a blast.

He should be returning soon.  In the mean time I will hold down the fort.  Next week I’m leaving the Swamp and heading into higher ground to spend time with some friends in the red rock country of Sedona.  My muse has promised to tag along and he and I are going to hammer out some plot points in the new novel.  Working title is” Transformation.”   I’ll see you all then.  As is my custom I’ll leave with a quotation.

“ It is not the death or dying which is tragic, but rather to have existed without fully participating in life–that is the deepest personal tragedy.” Edward Abbey

Thanks again to the other Dwarves who have kept you entertained in my absence.

Write On,

Eerie Dwarf