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Philadelphia Row is a term used, not only in Philadelphia neighborhoods, but elsewhere to refer to orderly rows of regularized housing.  
But there is nothing orderly or regular about any of the goings on in a Philadelphia Row.


READ SOME FICTION

Writing

11/9/2018

2 Comments

 
     A few weeks ago, I met someone who said he was swooning over my words.  Swooning!  I got tingly in my middle and thought perhaps the words I string together are not gibberish.  Maybe somewhere in the morass of my thoughts is something important.  Something meaningful that just needs to be sorted through.
     Today, I received an email with a request to join my email notifications and updates.  I used to do these emails from mail chimp.  The templates were groovy and I could string even more words together to send out to the handful of people I decided wanted my messages as well as the few strangers who sent me their addresses through this site.  I haven't done the emails in years. 
     The fact is, it's a big deal to get the thoughts I have in my head to come through my fingers recently.  I blame whatever i can - my job, my meds, my home.  The common factor there is MY.  I am the only one responsible for keeping my words in my head instead of letting them flow from my fingers.  
     I'm participating in Nanowrimo this month.  But, the fact is, I've only signed up and announced my November novel.  I wrote day one and two.  I did not even reach the word count goal for day one.  I wrote on an old project, blaming it for not caring for my Nano.  I started four blog entries that were little more than three words each and then poured a cup of coffee waiting for the WiFi signal to fail me. 
     I need to write.  I need to honor the people who actually read my words.  But, I feel small now.  I feel the impact of what i have to say is either little in the way of importance or nothing at all. 
     I have been reading a book about a novelist who feels guilt about not writing his fiction because the non-fiction of his life has gotten in the way.  I do not have that.  I am a lump on my sofa.  Maybe I am a lump of the sofa.  Maybe i am an ugly growth on this, once lovely and comfortable, piece of furniture.
     I'm going to write today.  I am going to get some words from thoughts strung together so someone other than I may read them.  I am not going to compose a welcome email to the new name that found it's way through the world wide web.  I am not going to distract from the word count.  (I never stress over word count and I usually don't outline, but i have a total outline and just need to pull it together for the numbers.)
     I think that's all, i'm just going to write.  And maybe later today, I will update the fiction page here so it makes more sense, and add the play I've wanted to add for a while.  -- when i need a distraction again.
2 Comments
Clyde
11/11/2018 02:23:24 pm

When I read your writing I feel like throwing up. A tense tight feeling grips my mid-section and I hold my breath, the same way I would just before jumping off a diving board into a pool of water that I don't consider a good experience. I've always hated cool swimming pools, why can't they turn the heat up so it's as warm as a bubble bath?

I could be wrong, I've been wrong before, but the importance of your writing for me is based on my belief that what you write is honest. It's difficult to talk to let alone find writing that is as honest as the moment between the diving board and the water. I hate those points in life, a point where you've committed and you can't turn back.

When I read your writing I question who I am. I question my beliefs, in many things, and I question if it's really worth pushing harder, in the other direction, not taking that leap downward into the water, but a leap up, to what, I don't know, but when I read your writing it stirs that part of me, that part that wants to know. That part of me that dosen't know, dosen't know if examining my life and my self closer will be a good experience or not.

Having hemophilia has made me cautious. I could jump into water, and the cold would not feel good, and the impact could hurt me, I worry about that impact a lot. I think, I imagine, when you write you take that leap, and because I see that, or think I see that, for me the results of reading your writing helps me to envision also jumping, and enjoying it.

I don't know what direction I want to go with my life. But I do know that when I read your writing and get that sick feeling, and then I go to work and continue my day, and I think and wonder about some of the things you said, I feel better. I feel like a different person. I feel like I've been able to process some of the feelings I've kept from others. I feel like a sun-lit room with no walls that the Indian summer wind is blowing leaves through.

I cringe at my own writing. Thank you for helping me see that writing is not just about me, it's about others too, and it's like taking that jump; a good and bad experience at the same time.

Reply
Esther Buck link
12/7/2018 06:44:43 am

Clyde, thank you. i don't really know what to say. your words are beautiful. i had not seen your comment. i'm not sure where i have to look on my editor page for alerts to new words in response to mine. i'm glad i came across this though.

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    When Sevy realizes the pharmaceuticals keeping their bodies young are weened from those deemed to have exhausted their usefulness, he believes he must delve into the purpose of this synthesized society believing it is not much different than the life he lived on earth. 

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    Esther Elizabeth Buck 

    i'm halfway through my life with the stifled stories stirring.  i should have done it earlier, but i am on the
     write path finally.

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