I received an honourable mention for a short story:
https://www.dreamerswriting.com/2022-place-and-home-contest-results/
Free to read!
I’m on a list!
March Break Recommendations from All Lit Up: https://alllitup.ca/Lists/March-Break-Book-Recommendations
I think I will write a story about the typesetting info pages at the back of books.
Then I will write a story of only one syllable words and if that word doesn’t exist in English, I’ll have to take it from another language. This will be my excuse to buy translation dictionaries and a whole new bookshelf on which they will sleep.
Took a break from course prep (see question above) to rock my Katamari Damacy mask to my local library and my indie bookstore to grab new things to read:
I will be well-read.
As for well-written: One of my courses I am trying to teach like a story. I write down what I’m going to say and I weave in language. For now, that’s the best I can do.
I did! I’m as surprised as you. I read fifty-five books. When did that happen? I was pretty sure I spent all of 2021 sulking in a haze of self-pity.
And librarything already has graphs I can steal totally not steal but use appropriately because they have a share button!
Look at that! All those “horror” books are V.C. Andrews, a stack of which I got for free earlier in the year.
Hahahahah! Literature. How dose the Dewey Decimal System not have a section for “trashy incest escapism?”
I rated books:
I read a book that librarything categorized as being written by a ghost? Zombie? Pigeon?
(I clicked on it: the book was written by a bunch of science journalists, so I guess not a person, but persons. I learned from said book that you can get colder than absolute zero by some sort of bizarro integer overflow style physics mumbo-jumbo which is why I am in pure math because when things like that happen in pure math it doesn’t hurt my brain as much.)
I read no Stefan Zweig books this year, so I could not ask Netgalley for interviews with the author, as I have in years past.
Also, I am super sick of this WordPress Theme, but a quick glance through other options seem like I’ll be spending forever searching for one that isn’t just a photo portfolio. This is a rarely-updated writing and book blog. There are no photos.
Here are books. More than just that, the books I read in 2021.
I passed along all my V.C. Andrews books, so I likely won’t read any this year. Maybe I’ll move onto the Christopher Pike’s I grab every time I go to the thrift store.
Or maybe I’ll not read junk. Who knows?
My microfiction Breathe has been published here!
So I was still a professional author in 2021. Hooray!
2021 reading stats to come.
I would love there to be good news to share.
The best I can come up with is I have the nugget of a story idea: six lines. Hopefully it will be enough to get me through.
I am tired of parenting. It is hard. You know what else is hard? Sleeping. I am tired of not sleeping and of parenting.
No new ideas have sparked from micro fiction yet.
So I decided to write a flash fiction every day for September. Maybe one of those flash fictions will resist ending and spiral outwards into something meaningful. I’ll try to post the “best” one each Saturday, but the quotes are there for good reason. Don’t except literature. Expect meghan bickering with herself.
Here I am, back from teaching a full, rather than accelerated like I usually do, summer course. Ready to read. Ready to write. Ready to be published!
Also, ready to be filled with dread, writer’s block, imposter syndrome, and sweat. Actually, I guess I’m not filled with sweat as much as sweat is leaking out of me. Instead of sweat, I would like ideas to leak out of me. Usually, after teaching, I am overflowed with story ideas. But now, not even a drip or a drizzle or drop. I am storied out lately.
And so, do I force it? Just write whatever in the hopes that something sparks? Or do I wait for an idea? Or do I take some of my half formed ideas and squish them together?
I read a bunch of crime novels. Then I read pedagogy books. Then I read silly mystery novels. Then literature.
But now I don’t know what to write. Or how. Or even if.