What I'm receiving from this exercise is the difference between the story that is being told and how the story is told. My novels, most recently CRAY CRAY NAYSHUN, tell stories. I focus on the actions of the characters and—show don't tell—their motivations. A novel composed of stunning sentences would be a different beast, intriguing to be sure. Laboring in obscurity I am suddenly feeling like a hermit who's been discovered in his redwood encircled shack. Dreaming of being discovered he feels overwhelmed by being seen.
The following makes so much sense to me even though I've never articulated it in my mind: "One more thing about a list: when it includes more than three things, the subtext is that it could go on and on. When we move into the four-or-more series, we are in the realm of the irrational, the emotional, the inexplicable". I'll be conscious, going forward in my own writing, about when to us three items lists or four +. Thank you!
Excellent as usual. By the way your second Stunning Sentences book arrived yesterday. I am enjoying it immensely. Thank you for all your endeavours. These essays, too, would probably fit well into a book format.
CRAY CRAY NAYSHUN is available at Amazon>books>"John Omaha" Or if you send me your mailing address I send you a copy for free. John@johnomaha.com And yes I can stay in the redwood-encircled shack buy I was writing about being seen. Commenting for a couple of years on Substack and suddenly being discovered by you. I love my shack, but it has been very rewarding that I have received "likes" from you.
Thank you so much Nina Schuyler for your "like." It means a great deal to me and will keep me coming back and will help me to author more and encourages me to believe I might be an author.
Maybe a bit late; hope okay to try left- branching exercise. Wurlitzer is title.
The ancient Wurlitzer brought to existence in WW2 is still a technological, heirloom (an R2D2 look-a-like) but with hand crafted hardwood finish and glass tubes that heated to a warm glow to sit somewhere snug in a corner. Where is this corner connection now?
When once, as a teen, thinking, I knew it all, 3/4 century ago, there sat shaped a short --long waves AM-FM radio, with magnanimous style, and could tune in to worldwide music from furthest stations: KDKA- Pittsburgh, WBZ-WBZA Boston, WINS -NYC .
One DJ--Woo-Woo Ginsburg-Albany, NY, spun on frequency, discs with a frenzied bass beat that blew through two speakers--sounds of the good ‘ol days rock and roll.
Chubby Checker’s “ twist” like we did last summer, bebop‘s and hops, shouts and summer camp dances, trampled under splendor in the grass blades, now gone.
But the Wurlitzer’s dial moves slowly with a squeak. Short wave channels few dots and dashes., Morse codes, and Europe’s voice of America, with ham operators, calling cards that lay quiet on the deck. Where voices veer no longer off the stratosphere and reach deaf ears.
Now under the covers, my memories fade. Lost to the TV tubes pixel eyes that diminish into night dramas game shows.. only gray matter needed is broken memories of distant foreign lands and sounds of dizzy Gillespie’s, jazz band, rock ‘n’ roll, shuttled, starship, airplanes, Doors, disco, hip-hop jumps that keep a loft, the night music of ages, silent in a corner, cozy machine, a loft in my antique mind.
Brilliant! Just discovered your newsletter, looking forward to learning more. I'm also super excited about your story collection - I've been writing climate stories as well. Just pre-ordered. Can't wait for it to arrive!
I love your analysis of the list, I definitely feel the tension building. Here's my try, thanks for the prompt!
Standing with the tips of her new shoes on the dusty doormat—its welcome ignored by otherwise nosy neighbors—and breathing in the stale scent of dirt and cobwebs and rusted metal and peeling pastel paint and the remnants of a dried-out wreath drained of last season’s joy—the young social worker knocked on the door.
With eyes half-closed—I didn’t want to know, even though I did—and my feet and knees lassoed within the angel-hair tangle of nylon cord and broken chair legs and shattered utensils and half-eaten meals scattered across nearly every level surface and now exploding in a deluge of fungal reinvention and everywhere everywhere the king tide of rainwater drowning Brett’s cabin and transforming what was left of him into a living breathing mushroom cloud—I waded slowly into the bedroom where not so very long ago we’d spent every night making scalding, life-altering love.
Phrases, tortured and self-satisfied ideas, images like boats unmoored by a storm—was this writer insane or merely a genius—desperate metaphors, the porcelain of his page over-flowing with an authorial bulimia, Winston fought to craft an escape clause.
Probably way too late for you to see this one, but here you go and thank you for the prompt: Meanwhile, sitting on the sofa while her husband’s index finger hovers over the keys of the remote—oh, the patience it takes not to grab it from him and hit the “guide” button—noting his damp brow, his half-shaved chin, the droop of his neck, the coarse gray hairs shooting from the waxy depths of his dark ear canal—Wilma wonders how much longer this can go on.
What I'm receiving from this exercise is the difference between the story that is being told and how the story is told. My novels, most recently CRAY CRAY NAYSHUN, tell stories. I focus on the actions of the characters and—show don't tell—their motivations. A novel composed of stunning sentences would be a different beast, intriguing to be sure. Laboring in obscurity I am suddenly feeling like a hermit who's been discovered in his redwood encircled shack. Dreaming of being discovered he feels overwhelmed by being seen.
Murder or suicide or dismemberment or perhaps poison or slyly even the quiet extermination of electrocution, how would Wilson dispose of his nemesis?
I loved this! So useful to unpack the structure of a sentence to uncover why it works.
The following makes so much sense to me even though I've never articulated it in my mind: "One more thing about a list: when it includes more than three things, the subtext is that it could go on and on. When we move into the four-or-more series, we are in the realm of the irrational, the emotional, the inexplicable". I'll be conscious, going forward in my own writing, about when to us three items lists or four +. Thank you!
Excellent as usual. By the way your second Stunning Sentences book arrived yesterday. I am enjoying it immensely. Thank you for all your endeavours. These essays, too, would probably fit well into a book format.
CRAY CRAY NAYSHUN is available at Amazon>books>"John Omaha" Or if you send me your mailing address I send you a copy for free. John@johnomaha.com And yes I can stay in the redwood-encircled shack buy I was writing about being seen. Commenting for a couple of years on Substack and suddenly being discovered by you. I love my shack, but it has been very rewarding that I have received "likes" from you.
Thank you so much Nina Schuyler for your "like." It means a great deal to me and will keep me coming back and will help me to author more and encourages me to believe I might be an author.
Maybe a bit late; hope okay to try left- branching exercise. Wurlitzer is title.
The ancient Wurlitzer brought to existence in WW2 is still a technological, heirloom (an R2D2 look-a-like) but with hand crafted hardwood finish and glass tubes that heated to a warm glow to sit somewhere snug in a corner. Where is this corner connection now?
When once, as a teen, thinking, I knew it all, 3/4 century ago, there sat shaped a short --long waves AM-FM radio, with magnanimous style, and could tune in to worldwide music from furthest stations: KDKA- Pittsburgh, WBZ-WBZA Boston, WINS -NYC .
One DJ--Woo-Woo Ginsburg-Albany, NY, spun on frequency, discs with a frenzied bass beat that blew through two speakers--sounds of the good ‘ol days rock and roll.
Chubby Checker’s “ twist” like we did last summer, bebop‘s and hops, shouts and summer camp dances, trampled under splendor in the grass blades, now gone.
But the Wurlitzer’s dial moves slowly with a squeak. Short wave channels few dots and dashes., Morse codes, and Europe’s voice of America, with ham operators, calling cards that lay quiet on the deck. Where voices veer no longer off the stratosphere and reach deaf ears.
Now under the covers, my memories fade. Lost to the TV tubes pixel eyes that diminish into night dramas game shows.. only gray matter needed is broken memories of distant foreign lands and sounds of dizzy Gillespie’s, jazz band, rock ‘n’ roll, shuttled, starship, airplanes, Doors, disco, hip-hop jumps that keep a loft, the night music of ages, silent in a corner, cozy machine, a loft in my antique mind.
Brilliant! Just discovered your newsletter, looking forward to learning more. I'm also super excited about your story collection - I've been writing climate stories as well. Just pre-ordered. Can't wait for it to arrive!
Hi Nina,
Congratulations on yet another publication. Your productivity inspires.
I tried to pre-order your short story collection, but the country choices cover only the U.S. Can I pre-order elsewhere?
Best. Judith
Ok. I'm in.
I love your analysis of the list, I definitely feel the tension building. Here's my try, thanks for the prompt!
Standing with the tips of her new shoes on the dusty doormat—its welcome ignored by otherwise nosy neighbors—and breathing in the stale scent of dirt and cobwebs and rusted metal and peeling pastel paint and the remnants of a dried-out wreath drained of last season’s joy—the young social worker knocked on the door.
With eyes half-closed—I didn’t want to know, even though I did—and my feet and knees lassoed within the angel-hair tangle of nylon cord and broken chair legs and shattered utensils and half-eaten meals scattered across nearly every level surface and now exploding in a deluge of fungal reinvention and everywhere everywhere the king tide of rainwater drowning Brett’s cabin and transforming what was left of him into a living breathing mushroom cloud—I waded slowly into the bedroom where not so very long ago we’d spent every night making scalding, life-altering love.
Phrases, tortured and self-satisfied ideas, images like boats unmoored by a storm—was this writer insane or merely a genius—desperate metaphors, the porcelain of his page over-flowing with an authorial bulimia, Winston fought to craft an escape clause.
Probably way too late for you to see this one, but here you go and thank you for the prompt: Meanwhile, sitting on the sofa while her husband’s index finger hovers over the keys of the remote—oh, the patience it takes not to grab it from him and hit the “guide” button—noting his damp brow, his half-shaved chin, the droop of his neck, the coarse gray hairs shooting from the waxy depths of his dark ear canal—Wilma wonders how much longer this can go on.
Thank you for your "like."