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Tihmmnmmish's Cuddle-Friendly Fireside Threadcast

Now please, save the petulant clamorous freneticism for a bit later, since I must must must remove these sensitive digits from this stickily lovely place; for I have pulled out a length of prose I have not seen in some time and I think it could be presentable to at least a few if I took to the polishing of a few knobs and trimmed a few stray ends. Plus, the day continues to beautify out there. Blue skies, white snows, and greens and browns of evergreens and grounds where snow is not. Ah!
 
curled and cuddled... the story's less important than the sounds of the telling... remove said sticky digits and do your do... i'm here listening for the sounds of stories as i am warmed through & through...
 
take care what you say please, for if I understand correctly, you can get some measure of pleasure from stories that may not be stories that all the rest of the world recognizes as stories, and as anyone in the world will tell you, all stories are legally required to contain certain components. If this is indeed what you are saying, then you should certainly stay here, and I may have to protect you.
 
By the way I took the liberty to peek into your prose. Yes, it's very petulant. (Poetically so!)
I think my original suspicion is true (as they most always are): you are playing the role of the sweet innocent somebody, but you really do know what you are doing. You use it as a way to gain power. True power. Don't you?
 
*exaggerated sigh* well... i suppose i'll have to stay... those things that don't look so much like stories are most definitely stories - they're dressed up for Halloween... they came late... or early - not sure and don't care - they sound like stories to me and i do so enjoy story sounds. sounds. sounds resonate. freshly picked tomato eaten near the vine, taste the sun in each bite... it tells a story too. juices, sun, vines, dirt... sounds of stories...

*humming deep and soft*

see, it's a story... *back to humming*
 
sweet and innocent? never... the somebody, though... i can play her - happily... hungrily. i gain no power - i only gain what's given... there's a sound there, a story there - somewhere close... i can hear it peaking...

then again... no, not then again... watch the fire - it talks in greens, like fish... telling a story.
 
Does the author own the story or does the story own him? I mean after he makes a character he lifts her from the flat page makes her into something substantial and when she is not actually in that scene she goes about her business in other parts of the book.
 
the author owns the story but the story owns the spaces between the lines - the spaces less defined... sometimes these spaces make the best story sounds.
 
Well now. Dangerous ideas pitched here. All of which I concur. But, we must keep our voices down. The story police force might hear. Or someone may tattle. They'll come after us. For we don't comply. And they don't like noncompliance.

But I do love the knowing that little stories are all around us, only little to us because we stand too far away. But on that tomato, that one tomato, is a whole world. And inside! A water world. A world of juice. All those seeds.

And yes Annie, I do also love thinking about characters, how they are already real and only waiting to be called to service in pages. And of course that leads to whether we are mere characters in someone else's story. Or stories. But I've forgotten that love of thought, until you just reminded me. I thank you.

Okay, must go out. I'll keep an eye out for the smell of story policepersons. We may suffer tortures if they get their hands on us. Stay near.
 
Here's the kicker with the beautiful story-in-a-tomato: what do you do when you are surrounded by tomatoes, all of them beautiful, and all promising their natural goodness, and in each are the loveliest stories, not to mention their stems and the vines... and... but you know you can only pick one, or one at a time. But you can't choose, because you want all of them, but then you're greedy, and then you don't pick even one because you're so overwhelmed with all the possibilities. Or you pick one, and before that one is enjoyed to the max, you're picking another, and another, and before you know it you're sitting in a puddle of tomato juices. This is the problem, or just one problem, of many problems.
 
But you must be joyful that you haven't got blossom end rot and if your joy means juice puddle stains on your underwear so be it, because the tomato has then fulfilled it's mission
 
UnderYourSpell said:
But you must be joyful that you haven't got blossom end rot and if your joy means juice puddle stains on your underwear so be it, because the tomato has then fulfilled it's mission
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Now that's just beautiful. Beautiful. Thanks. :heart:
 
Rude?
I saw no rudeness. I thought it was lovely. Would you please show me your rude parts?
These re-virginized eyes do not feel they were deflowered. They sparkle with the joy of complete innocent naivete. They do.
 
yes, rude parts. I recall pages and indexes and fucking but see no rudeness in that
unless these virgin eyes should peer closer...
 
*Makes note to self not to be facetious especially when discussing my rude parts due to my dirty mind going into overdrive*
 
and something else I love, and it happens so seldom, like a miracle: when you notice what appears to be a typo and you cringe but then realize it spells a word that could work as well as the intended one
quite cool
 
An idle thought that strayed near just a few minutes ago: back in the days before I learned to ignore textbook criticism of my prose rambles, topmost of the no-nos list was that I Overwrote, some even calling it Purple. Like this post is turning out to possibly and very darkly be. Even when I exerted efforts that caused interior perspiration, and produced what I thought was lean prose, it was still considered Overwritten. So I think it's just an inborn deficiency in the brain. I've since resigned and ceased worrying about it (some of the time).

But then, here comes the wise and perversely genius known here as Wicked Eve, and she repeatedly reports (sometimes as complaint and other times as compliment) that my poems are always lean. And there too, I've tried to satisfy her and give her the meatiness she so seems to crave, and even if I think what I've served is meaty she will often say it is still right lean.

So my prose will likely always end up Overwritten and my poetry will likely always end up Lean.

But you'd think there would be no divide. You'd think that a person who tended to overwrite their prose would have no problem with padding their poems with a nice lining of fat and some meatiness. And you'd think that a person who tended towards leanness about their poems could easily apply that and handily carve out prose lean and tight.

Of course this is already a dangerous step even thinking of it, but... seems a bit backwards. Could it be a learning disorder?
 
hmmnmm said:
An idle thought that strayed near just a few minutes ago: back in the days before I learned to ignore textbook criticism of my prose rambles, topmost of the no-nos list was that I Overwrote, some even calling it Purple. Like this post is turning out to possibly and very darkly be. Even when I exerted efforts that caused interior perspiration, and produced what I thought was lean prose, it was still considered Overwritten. So I think it's just an inborn deficiency in the brain. I've since resigned and ceased worrying about it (some of the time).

But then, here comes the wise and perversely genius known here as Wicked Eve, and she repeatedly reports (sometimes as complaint and other times as compliment) that my poems are always lean. And there too, I've tried to satisfy her and give her the meatiness she so seems to crave, and even if I think what I've served is meaty she will often say it is still right lean.

So my prose will likely always end up Overwritten and my poetry will likely always end up Lean.

But you'd think there would be no divide. You'd think that a person who tended to overwrite their prose would have no problem with padding their poems with a nice lining of fat and some meatiness. And you'd think that a person who tended towards leanness about their poems could easily apply that and handily carve out prose lean and tight.

Of course this is already a dangerous step even thinking of it, but... seems a bit backwards. Could it be a learning disorder?
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when i began writing poetry, i saw poetry and prose as two completely different writing forms. with a couple of years of poetry writing under my belt now, i see that my poetry has developed - appears more 'rounded', not stilted or brief as it once was.

i've also noticed that in the small amount of prose i've written since picking up poetry, that i enjoy slipping in poetic turns of phrase.

it's as if the two genres are crossing over, blending a little. i don't think it's a bad thing at all, just growth. :)

perhaps you just need to give yourself time and plenty of practice to allow your own poetry 'voice' to develop. :)

keep doing what feels right for you, and keep enjoying the journey :)

:rose:
 
I wonder if we write different things with different sides of the brain ...... not being scholarly enough to know if this is true or not I wait upon the more cerebral in our midst to tell me I am talking shit
 
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