True Life and Fiction

Photo credit: www.greenewave.com W ell, this doesn't happen often. It's 3:30 AM and I'm sitting here wide awake with my head and throat on fire. Sleep completely alludes me. It's these damn allergies, I suppose. I mowed the lawn today and the pollen count must have been at record highs. This kind of thing usually does not bother me. But I guess that this is just one of the many 'perks' of getting older. Every year, I discover new allergies and ailments I never knew I had. Maybe it's because I'm getting old, and my body is saying, "Keep moving, you don't have time for sleep." I don't know. I feel an ever-increasing fear as each year passes that I'm running out of time. I fear I will die before I can complete all my story ideas. Some of these stories pull on my heart and mind as if to cry out, in that strength one finds when their life depends on it, and dominate my mind. Others visit me in my dreams, bringing me through a lo

Ohh, I'm so excited. My newly purchased typewriter just arrived. I'm proud to announce the newest marvelous machine to my collection--The Remington Remette. Here it is. The diminutive and sporty Remette. Just like those tiny little sports cars of yesteryear, this machine is stripped to the bones. If you want a platen knob on the left side, or even a warning bell for when your typing reaches the end of the pages, you'll have to purchase the 'deluxe' model. As you can see in the picture above, the little typewriter worked great. This little bit was typed before cleaning. The only thing I'd done at this point was replace the ribbon. Here's a typecast sample of the machine's handiwork: This was the only advertisement I could find for the little Remette typewriter. Funny how typewriter companies put so much into advertising around Christmas. Most folks buying a typewriter during the depression would purchase them on some kind

Literary crimes committed and forgiven in the poetical world. I’m a fan of poetry, often finding myself lost in the meter and cryptic meaning of words on paper. I sometimes feel as if the artist poured these words directly from their heart onto the page and, in my reading, I drink these words into my soul, warming my body to its very core. See what I did there? I just invoked emotion in my words. One might also notice how I then had to analyze the words I’d just impressed into the nether. That’s me, I can’t help it. I so enjoy poetry but sometimes have difficulty processing the feeling when the words and phrases do not match my critical sense. All writers are guilty of this—myself included. But poets often receive special reprieve from their crimes. Readers—myself included—often do not see the crime committed because of the power of the words made into poem. Let me provide some examples: First, is a poem by Emily Dickinson called “Her Breast is Fit for Pearls.” Her br

Dadblasted Internet Explorers and navigators. I am angered and foiled by such dark wizardry. But alas, I've finally figured out how to access my blog by simply using chrome instead of Internet Explorer. Rumor has it that the folks at Google have not kept up with all the new versions of explorer, so I was getting error messages when trying to access my blog. Now I'm in, so let the blogging begin! I've got so much to get caught up on. The Spring garden is being planted on weekends; the battle continues in my writing world as I struggle to write the next great novel that, at best, is a long shot, or smut that gives immediate response to my efforts, satisfaction, and resources to buy vintage typewriters. Speaking of typewriters, I'm in the market for something new. I'm leaning toward an old Corona 3 or 4. Or, maybe I'd like an Olympia SF model such as a socialite or splendid model. Oh, the options are endless. Daleville Dan is getting ready for another app