Self-Help
It was Wednesday, October 28th, 2009, when Zach, self-help guru extraordinaire, suggested that I reflect on my blogging abilities, even though he should have known better than to insult his audience with things that we should apparently know, but need his advice to REALLY understand. So be it. (I understand my humbled place in this hierarchy.)
His advice on Blogging, with a capital B, reminds us that some professional writers (certainly NOT Zach) loathe it, regarding it as a cheapening of their art. Others adore it, (that would be ME) and do it (no insinuation of anything sexual here) for the sheer love of the instant form. Some accept it as a necessary evil (666 not 69, 69, 69, but I digress) in a platform development often key to securing a book deal. (This is where I plug my book: Magnetic Repulsion, coming out soon to a bookstore near you!) Others do it (again, nothing sexual here, so stop checking) for the joy of broadcasting themselves, (where you can join my other 1,041 Twitter followers and follow me @phawkenson. Proud to self-acclaim my Twitter rank at 4th in the state of WI!) for better or worse, (for richer – if you buy my book, or poorer – if you don’t) to anyone, anywhere, on any subject, especially free verse poetry, which is my favorite. Feel free to check out my blog, Expressive Domain: www.phawkenson.edublogs.org where I am blatantly proclaiming a fair share of quality posts, and only a few posts on the subject of stars or other stellar offerings.
My secret formula? My willingness to grovel and beg for an understanding robotic code that allows me to post my poetry and comments on the FIRST attempt at Poetic Asides, and if you think that is an easy feat, you haven’t tried it. I could ramble on about my favorite bits of advice from WD, but I am reminded of my 500 word limit. So be it.
I will skip then to No. 11 in the Top 20 Tips from WD: Avoid the Blog, baby.
To this I reply: “NEVER! I have my adoring audience to think about.”
My key to coming up with new material is: never plagiarize. Never. Never. Never. Cheater. Cheater. Cheater.
That said, lest I froth in hypocrisy, I will not write any more, but if I did, it would be to give you my advice: There is nothing in life for you to be paranoid about. You don’t even know my mother. You have been saved from her dangling, wagging finger of disapproval of your writing skills.
So be it. See you in the blogs.
(I bid $5.00 for the solid post. It would look nice covered with a doily and a potted ivy.)
Time Warp
I am an expert in remembering the little details that don’t amount to a hill of beans. Keep in mind the fact that I have never cared much for beans. Especially refried beans. Nasty stuff. It looks like someone ate it already, if you know what I mean.
Back to what I was talking about: hills. There are rolling hills, the kind that makes your stomach surge with that up and down, about to hurl chunks kind of feeling. Dad’s laughter would ring out with a John Wayne type of laugh when he would drive our woody station wagon up and down the dusty trails of the Wisconsin barrens where the wild blueberries grew. That’s down Highway C, just out of Washburn. Never mind the fact that Dad sort of looked a bit like The Duke, who Dad said once worked for Fox Film Corporation for a measly seventy five dollars a week. Just try paying my Dad only seventy five dollars a week and think you’d still be sitting tall in the saddle! Dad had a way of lassoing his belt into a loop that he could hold in two hands, and let me tell you, if you were so foolish as to stick your finger into that hole, he could snap it shut before you could pull your finger back out. Now that was some mighty fast rope’n.
Rope, of course, is thicker and stronger than similarly constructed line, cord, string, or twine. I have lots of fun tying knots into this or that. Did you know that the earliest forms of rope dates back to prehistoric times when natural fibers were roughly twisted together? Then Egyptians, too, dating as far back as 3,500 B.C., even developed tools to help them make rope out of water reeds.
There were probably a few seaweed ropes made by Polynesians along the reefs. So you see, a reefer wasn’t really a modern idea, but when my Dad’s boy Wayne lost his battle with lung cancer, it was still not enough to convince Dad to stop smoking. Go figure. You’d think he had more sense.
Sense and Sensibility, that’s what my Mother always says I have. Miss Jane Austin published that in 1881, but it still fits me today. Not just because I once took a scissor to my sister’s eyebrows like Willoughby when he cut a lock of Marianne’s hair, but more because Mom says I am the epitome of subtle irony. Yes, I have ironed a few shirts in my time. Of course now, most younger kids don’t have a clue what I’m talking about because all their fabrics are wash and wear.
Where was I? Oh, yeah. Beans. Did I ever tell you about the time my Grandpa fed beans to our Springer Spaniel? That was a good one.
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