122/365 – Are writers joiners?

writers-group-shotApparently, the need exists for a professional association for writers here in Madison.  Last evening, eight of us demonstrated that.

The working title is “Professional Writers of Dane County, Wis.,” but I jumped all over that with ninja feet right away.  I think we came up with something based on “professional,” “Madison,” and “writers,” but I can’t remember what it was.  I didn’t really care, as long as it didn’t have *snore-yawn* Dane County in it.

I pushed the guild concept, as opposed to the social club angle, and got enthusiastic support from the game writers and programmers, who are familiar with guilds.  I suppose “union” might also have resonated, the point being to set professional standards, share high level contacts and referrals, and not be a wannabe hangout.

Our purpose? To foster the profession of writing.  Nice.

25/365 – Coversations in the wee hours

Here’s to the the novelists who can write about what we never talk about, not even in blogs, those secrets of the heart and special intimacies that do not belong in the media stream, those fears and doubts which plague us all, but that we seldom admit to.

And here’s to private journals, where we can talk about the most important things in our lives, the turning points and shared adventures that are really no one else’s business, yet infuse our day-to-day with renewed joy.  This blog will never be a confessional or a tell-all, yet I hope you get the idea of how my life is going anyway.

Unfortunately, writers are a gloomy bunch given to whining about the difficulty of getting published, the pain of rejection, the obtuseness of critics, etc. They sit at their laptops and write a few sentences about pale reflections and then check their e-mail and Google themselves,” writes Garrison Keiler, who should know.  He continued:  “A deep-down aversion to a-r-t is one big reason half of America stays away from fiction. They’re afraid they’ll come across a sentence like, ‘She looked out the window and saw the reflection of her own pale face against the drifted snow.’ Something girlish and moody like that.”

She thought I looked French.

She thought I looked French.