poet, storyteller, educator
Watched the news today to see this story about two pitbulls set on fire in Dallas.
Let me repeat that…two pitbulls were set on fire! Witness said they looked like balls of fire.
Don’t know who is responsible for this but I hope they die. Seriously. No hyperbole. They need to be put to death.
I’m trying to get into journaling, like REALLY get into it. But I already blog and write so do I really need to journal?
Anyway, I thought I would use one of the journaling questions I saw on this website. And since people don’t really know me, aside from my blog, myspace, facebook and twitter feeds (LOL), I thought I could answer this question here, as an exercise. At the very least, I hope it gives me a story idea or something
Question: When do I feel greatest happiness in my life?
Answer: This is easy. It’s small things, really. Big things too but small things make smile and just say, “Dear Lord, thank you. I’m so lucky.”
A good meal with good friends and good conversation. That is probably what heaven is like, I think–eating what you want and spending time with people you like. I enjoy that so much, it’s my one money sucking venture. Some people travel, or shop, or go to the movies all the time. I eat and hang out.
Some other things that make me happy: Gossip. Oh yes, so bad to say but at least I can admit it. Gossip about famous people. Juicy, juicy gossip.
My other happiness is watching Spanish soap operas or a season of my favorite TV show in one sitting, like over a weekend. LOVE IT! Mostly because it’s the writer in me who wants to be a better storyteller and scriptwriter. So I watch these things and study them because I want to write for them one day. I’d be cool, I think, to be in the writers room and talk plot all day. Exhausting yes, but fun.
If Oprah can have them, darn it so can I!
Okay so I’ve taken some pictures of some of my favorite things. Here we go!
I have been feelin‘ this St. Ives product. It’s awesome. Oatmeal plus Shea butter equals soft smooth skin. I promise. Smells great and lathers wonderfully. I don’t usually endorse a product but I really like this.
Dear St. Ives Company — please make check payable to…
New sheets. And not just any new sheets but jersey sheets. It’s like a t-shirt for your mattress. I know, I know, Oprah called dibs on this one but really, Oprah is cuddling in some 10 million thread-count sheets that feel just like clouds. She’s moved past the jersey. Luckily I, nor my cat Diva have moved on. Here she is playing under them.
My comforter…well comforters in general. They are awesome things and are named appropriately, as modeled by Diva.
As finally my bed. My bed rocks. Spent all day Saturday in it. Will probably spend next Saturday in it again. Really if I could just live on it like an island, I’d be happy.
but I kinda don’t care.
Well sorta, but not really. One shouldn’t be scared to say the truth but that how things go, I guess.
I don’t have any, ANY, sympathy for the newspaper industry. There. I said it. Doesn’t make me less of a journalist or a bad reporter. Just one who is fed up with just about everything.
Blame it on the I-told-you-so-now-what-do-you-want-me-to-do attitude or my so-what thoughts I’ve been having lately but what’s happening to the newspaper industry now is not the economy’s fault. Not by a long shot.
I blame every editor, higher up, and every person with any sort of decision making power. I blame all others that never listened to reporters like me who at one time loved and cared about this business. Those reporters that could not see themselves doing anything else who are now eyeing P.R. gigs like a 15 oz Prime Rib.
Blogging, is like, so 2002. Myspace? So 2003. Facebook, was last year. And Twitter? If you blink, it’ll be over. These are fads that are still around, true but newspapers are just now jumping on them. Now. Like right now, right now.
It’s too late. Much too late to go down that road. Now it’s time to go back to basics in a new digital world. Some papers have embraced that…out of necessity. The Christian Science Monitor when straight web page. Ann Arbor is the latest paper to go down the road to online only.
The two biggest budget suckers for a newspaper are people and paper. People are needed but paper, I’m sorry but it’s optional. When it comes down to it, I will cut paper to save jobs. Seriously, a jobless journalist is bad for the economy and democracy.
We’ve should have gone down this road along time ago. And really, we should have taken the cue from the Democratic and Republican National Conventions when bloggers got press credentials. PRESS CREDENTIALS. That meant some dude with an Internet connection, a blogger account and a computer (that was probably better than my work computer) could get the same credentials it took me four (okay six) years of college and years of working in the industry to get. Seriously? Yeah, seriously.
And that continues. Pres. Obama plans to meet with bloggers this week. BLOGGERS, not reporters. I mean, hello, we need more signs?
Picking up on the hints hasn’t been newspapering’s think. But could the writing be any bigger on the wall. Change or be changed–with a big ol‘ lock on the front door.
So yeah, no sympathy here. I barely care enough for an “I told you so”. I’m done trying to yell at a brick wall that won’t move. Can’t save those that don’t want to save themselves.
You drank a little too much green beer on St. Patrick’s Day and can’t remember the night. A friend calls to check up on you and fills you in on what happened—and why she has your pants.
(From Writer’s Digest –www.writersdigest.com)
So I wrote on a prompt as an excerise for my critique group in Shreveport. Here it is. Hope you enjoy:
Prompt: A 20-something man sits in a taxi in front of his parents’ house, trying to find the strength to tell them that he (fill in the blank).
Answer:
“Can you drive one more time around the block?”
Adam’s voice was hoarse and he could feel the soreness scratch the inside of his throat. And if it wasn’t for the massive hangover that felt like a drill on his brain, he’d care. He’d care oh so much more.
“Alright kid. It’s your funeral.”
The bald driver slid the car into drive and took off.
“Okay, okay. What do I tell my parents?”
“I say tell them the truth. You only live once right?”
Adam shot the cabbie a dirty look. “Please, I’m trying to concentrate. I have to be delicate. My mom alone would kill me if she knew what I’d done.”
The cab driver turned the second corner and Adam’s anxiety crept into the first stages of panic.
“How about if I start like this? Mom. Dad. Great news! I’m still alive,” Adam said
“I wouldn’t start off that way.”
“Oh yeah? And how would you start it.”
“Not like that.”
“Some help you are.”
“Hey, I just drive the cab.”
The sunshine yellow Crown Vic rounded the third corner and Adam knew he had to think fast – lightening fast.
May be he can tell them he was abducted by aliens and when he woke up he was in the middle of the desert, dangerously close to Vegas.
Better yet, he thought about approaching his explanation from the saintly angle. There I was mom, minding my own business, driving the car back home from the library…
Or even better, he would tell his father, the former CIA operative, that a nasty gang of Russian spies came to the house and demanded he give up his scholarship money. It really was, after all, a matter of national security that he remained penniless.
But Adam knew none of those would work. There really wasn’t any explanation on land, air, or sea that would justify his current state or how the events of the weekend transpired.
The bald yet unhelpful cabbie parked the car in front of Adam’s house again. After a couple of seconds, he turned around and glared at Adam.
“Listen kid, just tell them the truth. You drove to Vegas, got into a high stakes Poker game, lost everything and your shirt, and you had to take a cab back home. At least you didn’t come back married.”
Adam chuckled.
“You’re right. When you put it that way, it doesn’t sound that bad.”
Just as he was opening the car door, the driver stopped him.
“Hey kid!”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t forget to tell your parents that it’s $1,000 plus tip.”
Why would I do this to myself? I’m applying to go to grad school, in a topic that’s not going to garner me instant money or fame upon graduation. I’m about to spend THOUSANDS of dollars to read and write like a wreck loose (not that I don’t already). I’m about to be broke in a recession.
Why, dear God, am I punishing myself?
Because I know that this is what I want to do. Because my whole life I’ve been the safe person doing non-risky things so I can pay bills. Because I like to write and really want to make that a full time occupation–minus the weekend cops shifts or the ideas that need to be pulled of in one way or another. Because I envision a life for myself that’s different. Because at any given point there are enough stories in my head to make me explode. Because it makes me smile.
Because I have something to say.
Because I can.
How I wish THAT could be my application essay. Geez.
The fragment is my favorite thing. I know it’s wrong and really back grammar but I think used effectively, it’s wonderful.
I was critiquing a fellow writer’s chapter out of his novel this morning. We’re both part of an online critique group. One of the MANY discussions we have had is about the fragment. This particular writer wanted to know when are fragments effective and when they are not.
I suggest that using fragments effectively is art. You can’t use them all the time, and it can’t be just come random thought. But if the fragment continues the prose’s stream of consciousness, I say go for it. It’s about style and the prose. And even the writer’s style.
But sometimes, those fragments back fire on you. That’s why, I suspect, that grammar teachers ask people to avoid fragments. That rule has just stuck for years now, to my disappointment.
Fragments are awesome people, just be careful how you use them
The hardest part isn’t the writing. It’s not plotting or character development.
It’s having too many stories to write.
Story of my life.
Icess Fernandez Rojas 