by Anonymous Aging Writer
Old Age is when you discover that all your life you’ve been bound by constraints that don’t really exist.
And no, it’s never too late to let yourself live!
Old Age is when you discover that all your life you’ve been bound by constraints that don’t really exist.
And no, it’s never too late to let yourself live!
NOTE FROM LB: I often get inquiries about the creative process and these days all too often do my best not to respond to them because I find the situation so complicated that I end up tripping all over the words I’m trying to use.
Last weekend, however, I ran across the following never-before-published blog post. I wrote it with the best of intentions, but after it was finished, a quick read left me dismayed.
The piece simply didn’t work for me. There were three reasons I felt this way. LB the Editor still feels this way, but LB the Writer still resents the rejection, so I’m publishing this here and now and rationalizing it by saying, “Hey, have a look, kids. Here’s how the creative process really works…for yours truly anyway.”
(NOTE FROM LB: What’s that you say? You thought that we writers were actually, erm, writing all night? Oh, you poor darlings….)
I know. Drabble isn’t about writing per se, but we at TVWriter™ sure as hell relate to this daily strip from last Saturday!
Sunday night’s Academy Award ceremony was, as far as I’m concerned, just one more step on the road to ruin that all showbiz award shows now are skidding along on.
Any number of websites – including this one – can name the winners and losers in most categories, including Asshole Actor of the Year Will Smith, so all I’m going to do now is list the screenplay winners and nominees.
Found this on Gawker.Com. Good stuff. If you’re a writer, think of it as “Why WRITE Fiction in a Bad World?”
And, yes, for all practical purposes there’s no reason for all of who write to be crying and feeling guilty because let’s face it. There’s nothing all that special about our planet’s current circumstances. Hasn’t it always been this way?
n 1932, Samuel Beckett paid a visit to the Paris apartment of Walter Lowenfels, an American poet and member of the Communist Party. Sunk in a corner of the living room, looking like “a forest ranger in a Western,” Beckett listened forbearingly as Lowenfels lurched into passionate speech about the need for anonymity in the arts and the terrible material conditions of society. Increasingly frustrated by the silence of his guest, Lowenfels suddenly exclaimed: “You sit there saying nothing while the world is going to pieces. What do you want? What do you want to do?” To which Beckett offered the languid response: “Walter, all I want to do is sit on my ass and fart and think of Dante.”