George Angus, Tumblemoose Writer

What I Learned From Children

george — Sat, 06 Feb 2010 17:30:53 +0000

Hey folks. A little deviation from the normal fare today. My good Bubba Robert Hruzek over at Middle Zone Musings does a monthly “What I learned from…” series and I thought I’d partake this month. With a six year old daughter and exposure through my sub teaching to an entire elementary school full of children, I figure I’ve learned quite a bit.

What I Learned:

Nothing is sweeter than a spontaneous “I love you” from your child.
The best teachers of patience are children.
Even the most problematic children at school have their shining moments.
I’ve discovered I’m a great out loud reader to kids.
Being choosy about which battles to fight makes for a happy and calm household.
Structure and routine make for less harried mornings.
Children always seem to know much more than they are generally given credit for.
There’s an “e” at the end of love because no word in the English language can end with a “v”.
It’s the simple things that count.
My child’s politeness is directly related to mine.
Life is not fair – sometimes that’s just the way it is.
A kiss on a boo-boo really does make it feel better.

I’m certain this is a partial list. It seems that Maddy teaches me something new most every day. When I spend a day teaching the 4th graders, I suspect I’ve learned quite a bit by the time the last bell rings.

Thanks for sponsoring this exercise, Robert. It’s nice to have the reminder.

Man, I Hate Telling People I’m a Writer

george — Fri, 05 Feb 2010 06:59:56 +0000

Image from: http://www.pbase.com/kourosh/image/71701705

I remember the first few times I was asked what I “did” after I went to full time writing. I was all nervous and the words stuck on my tongue as I strangled out, “I’m a writer”. It generally led to pleasant conversation and I was amazed by how much I had in common with people’s relations, acquaintances and friends. Kinda thought it was cool, I did. I also felt proud as could be calling myself a writer.

Fast forward a while. Now, I cringe (visibly, I’m sure) when someone pops the question. I cringe ’cause sure as all get out, the first thing outta their mouth is gonna be something like, “Really! My sister’s best friend’s fiance has a cousin who is writing a novel!” Me: “Really? That’s great. Hey, how about those Lakers?” Yeah, well it rarely works and I get to hear the third hand synopsis and isn’t that wonderful and I knew he/she was destined to be a writer and blabbity-blabbity-blabbity.

Or worse yet: “I’m a writer too! I’m getting ready to publish my work on Kindle. Yup, that’s right. I finally broke down and bought Adobe Pagemaker so I can upload it.” Me: “Hmm. Really? What word processing program do you use, because both Word and OpenOffice have a one button save as a .pdf function.” “Oh, I use Works.” Me: “Oh.”

Nathan Bransford had a post today about it being a great time to be an author. Gee, do ya think? You can’t swing a dead cat without hitting one these days. (Disclaimer: No cats were harmed in the making of this blog post.)

Far be it for me to squelch the bright eyed enthusiasm that often accompanies these awkward conversations. But sometimes it’s all too much for my soul to bear. Someone at the library severely damaged the 2007 edition of the Short Stories Writer’s Market. When they came in to pay for it they asked if they could take the book because they “really need it. I’m a writer and this is important for me to have.” I just smiled – “Absolutely” Inner me goes, “What the frak! Are you daft?!! The contacts in there are almost four bloody years old!!!! I wear my underwear longer than most of those people stay at their jobs!”

Man, I’ve got a headache.

So, I’ve decided I’m not a writer anymore. No-sirree-Bob-a-rooskie. “I is the accordian player for a Polka band that plays weekends at the VFW. You should come see us sometime.”

Heh. That’ll learn ‘em.

A Vandalous New Blog Of The Week

george — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 16:12:08 +0000

The NBOTW this time is actually an off-shoot of the site owner’s main blog. I fell in love right away over there. I mean, how can you not love a self proclaimed “idiot”? Oh wait, the quote is about a wife proclaiming idiocy. No matter. He still just cracks me up with his fresh and lively content.

On this site, he is a word vandal. Not too many of those critters around, me thinks. And with good reason. When you go aand visit there, you’ll find that Derek waxes poetic about a great variety of topics. It seems that his primary occupation is to get folks to think – a herculean task these days to be sure.

Here are his postings in January. Prolific somehow seems inadequate.

So, I think that Derek Haines has a site that is certainly worthy of the NBOTW. I encourage all of you to skedaddle on over The Word Vandal and have a look-see. When you’re done there, go over to his main site and get muy entertained.

Cheers, Derek. Thanks for puttin’ it all out there.

Lookin’ Like a Fool With Your Writing On The Ground

george — Sat, 30 Jan 2010 19:04:38 +0000

Unless you’ve been living in a cave, you know what I’m referring to. Poking fun at those backward-hat-wearin’-pants-around-their-bum-knuckleheads was awesome to watch. So, my question for my fellow scribes is this: Are you wearing your writing down around you bum? What I mean is, are you trying so hard to make your writing cool that you make it look ridiculous?

One of the biggest mistakes that new writers make is trying to imitate what is currently “cool” in the writing world. Yes, there was room for the teenage vampire “writers” to jump on board the Meyer bandwagon. ‘Tis the way of the world and I get that. Thank God that era is starting to fade. I’m not talking genre as much as I am voice and style. The surest recipe for lookin’ like a fool is to try and copy or imitate another writer’s voice.

You need to remember that your voice is yours. It is what makes you unique and is a major factor in your success as a writer. If you try to write like King or Brown or Meyer the only thing you will succeed at is lookin’ like a fool. Writing in your own voice is your big chance to pull up your pants and walk tall. When you are a success, it will be because you did things in your own unique and special way.

Take the time to examine your motivation and your writing heroes. We all have heroes and it’s important to recognize which traits you admire in them and want to emulate. Now examine the writing you’ve done. Look at it with a critical eye. Ask yourself, “Is this MY voice? MY style? Or is my writing on the ground?”

After closer examination, if your writing is on the ground don’t just toss it away – get a belt. Resolve to keep your writing off the ground and get into your own style. The results will be impressive and you will feel great about your writing all over again.

What say you? Is your writing your own?

Flash Fiction The Good Knight

george — Sun, 24 Jan 2010 06:47:20 +0000

Image C Mat Kowalski

Note: Before we get into The Good Knight, I wanted to let the loyal “Orb” fans know that for the time being I won’t be publishing any more installments. The story seems to have taken on some life, and at a minimum it is developing into a short story or perhaps a novel. Given future publication considerations, it is best to not put any more out there. With that said, if you want a copy when it is complete, please email me at george@tumblemoose.com and I will make sure you get the complete story. Thanks for your patience.

The Good Knight

The brave Highlander stood atop the crag surrounded by the early day’s mist. O glorious morning! For victory over the enemies of Scotland was nigh! The regent of regents did not hold thoughts of earlier victories in his breast; for those battles which God had made his brave league victorious were but the just and divine recourse, what was due and righteous for the English invaders holding his great and proud country hostage.

Though he had refused the attempted coronation by his loyal nobles, he knew purple flowed in his veins. But how could a mere round of gold draw him nearer to his land?! How, even in as worthy and holy a cause as this could he rise to take what only God bequeaths and arrogant men insist?! Was he not but a man? Had not the beloved of his soul perished under the governor’s loathsome and cowardly sword, would he not have been among the many people living to toil day after day? Alas! Would he not have drawn arms to ensnare his country’s sovereignty? On this matter his beating heart was clear. As tears streamed his cheek, staining tears of sorrow on his plaid, resolution stiffened in his mind and breast. The vile, English scourge would be obliged today to submit the rightly sum for the taking of sweet Heather, and therefore of all the innocence and beauty they foully murdered.

From the midst of the rocky crags below, a single trumpet sounded the call to arms, the call for the brave legion to rise! Rise! Prepare the armor, helmets and shields! Prepare for the victory that is righteous and surely to be made from God in heaven!

The harkening trumpet, sweet music falling upon the willing and eager ears of Sir Robert stirs his lingering and noble soul to sure footed descension from the rocky place. Victory awaits! His true countrymen rise as the good knight approaches. With swords raised, shouts of, “Robert! Our Savior! Our Sovereign! To our death may we fight for you!”

“What you pledge to me, let almighty God hear as a pledge to Scotland! To Scotland!” A voice as one filled the high ground. “To Scotland!”

Plaids of every measure adorned the vast sea of soldiers. Earl, Lord and Knight side by side with all able bodied men from far and near, for the tales of Sir Robert’s victories traveled by messenger and whisper of the wind so that no corner of abode, no treetop, no bellowing river was deaf to the God-sent accomplishments.

Riding his charge along the front line of his faithful, the good knight’s helmet reflected the sunlight of the day that would surely be grand and historic. A day to spawn song and joy that would ring from citadel to peasant farm. The appearance of his league of brave Scots affected Sir Robert and caused him great agitation, for his emotions were great on this glorious day!

With a final trumpeting and no further ceremony, general and soldiers set forth to The Cheviots, once well peopled and benevolent to all who would enter. Now at the hour of battle, the south end swelled with those unfortunate to swear their allegiance to the egregious King Edward. Heralds and banners made the horizon sway and billow under their weight and stature. Upon sight of this specter, brave Robert did not waver, nor did the fire burning within his breast fade, as this was to be a battle for his country, yet his only mistress he had known since the brutal taking of his one true love, the other part of his soul which had swelled with his only offspring.

As the Scots amassed and spread far and away across the forlorn amber fields of The Cheviots a single, bannered herald rode to meet the good and Knightly Robert. “Rebel! Hear me now, for my voice is that of my leige, my lord, my master. His Majesty Edward, Rightful King of all of Britain commands you to lay down your sword at this very spot! Upon the laying down your weapons of treason, good Sir Knight, all who would swear their allegiance to the rightful King of England shall be spared the pointed swords and daggers of an army that even now awaits to defeat you!’

The arrogance of such words drew an anger from a well deep within Sir Robert. His eyes sent a look to bore through the young messenger and a countenance of such anger, courage and righteousness the English soldier had not been witness to in his young life shook him to his very existence. The regent for all of Scotland countered, “Young Herald! Your King has made the most grievous of errors this day if he is to believe that even one Scotsman here will lay down their sword while they still have a life in them to lift it against the harsh and murderous invaders of our sovereign land! At days end, all Scots will breathe air that is clear and free of English oppression!

Pale and stricken as if by sword, the Herald withdrew to bring the response back to whence he came.

With a mighty blast from the trumpet, the Scots raised swords and lunged into battle as a lioness lunges to defend her young. Bloody and long, the battle raged.

Sir Robert was to not see the glorious and virtuous result of his brave brethren. The wayward and dismal arrow struck him in the neck, in a manner no surgeon could suffer.

Heather comes to him and he fears his heart will burst with joy. An aura of the purest light draws soft edges to his betrothed, his one, his only. Her slender arms open to receive, even as his open to embrace.