Mickey's Murky Meanderings

Mickey's Murky Meanderings

See my new Voki, if I can ever get the dern thing posted. Where is it???

Critics of all sorts

Critics of all sorts.
Everyone’s a critic. My husband’s family had a fix for this: He who criticizes does. Sort of like Put your money where your mouth is. But, sometimes the only thing critics do is be critical. Don’t get me wrong. My novel, The Junk Lottery, is all the better for some specific and detailed criticism (the comment, “I liked that scene/chapter/book,” or the opposite, doesn’t work for me) from insightful readers who participate in the story as opposed to searching for errors. You know what I mean? A sentence doesn’t always have to be complete. A character can use poor grammar in her speech. And if there is a bleepity bleep error that squeezes through the cracks, so what. The author may be human, not a Rule Robot.
I can’t ignore the fact that there are errors in the Junk Lottery or the ache in my heart when I think about that.

A word about words

I confess to being a novice blogger. This is the first blog I’ve written. Worse yet, I have only just begun to read blogs. EJ Angel’s blew me out of the water. It is an act too hard to follow, so I won’t try. Neither will I attempt to be a Daily Koz or a Wonkette, the DC gossip, who shows a photo of the flag hanging upside down, half mast. “The half mast being for the Veterans, the upside down for “the Panicked, Gtown Republican Hill Staffers desperately sending their resumes to lobbying organizations, think tanks, and consulting firms.” (Thought I may have a photo or two of my pets, both two legged and four legged.) In fact, I won’t get into gossip at all, unless I become exceedingly incensed over an accidental exposure to something Paris Hilton.

This blog will be like a conversation in my living room with my favorite people: my eighteen-year-old grand daughter; a conservative, Christian friend; another who claims to be an atheist; my Jewish writer friend; a gay guy I adore; my son’s Black house-mate; my Cuban son-in-law; my liberal neighbor and another who blabs everything she hears. You get the idea? I love them all and do not want to offend them. The only one not invited into my living room, is the highly critical person who takes everything out of context to the detriment of the subject/object of discussion. You got it? Nothing insensitive, hurtful, or unfit. The world according to me.

Another thing, this blog will never be perfect. Words may be misspelled, grammar may be garbage, thoughts may be toppled, reasoning may be unreasonable. Hey! I’m learning, and I’m not going to be all uptight about it. Deal with it.

One final word about words. I notice there is blog jargon. Blogroll is one word I learned today. So visit my blog and add a word or so to help me build a blog dictionary.

Misery is a sinus infection

Misery is a sinus infection. But there are benefits to being out of comission for a while. Yesterday I pulled off my book shelf something I haven't read for a long time: Jorge Luis Borges Collected Fictions. When I first read this author I moaned and groaned. Some fellow moaners and groaners, upon reading this posting, will roll their disbelieving eyes, maybe even scream and yell. Back then were were forced to read: an assignment for a writing workshop. And we were assigned some of his more shall we say imaginative stories. Kind of out there.

The Garden of Forking Paths, if I remember correctly, was urreal. At the top of Death and the Compas, I had scribbled "I feel like I have accomplished a great feat by finishing and understanding this story." I also had underlined words and squeezed in their meaning: a dictionary (English and Spanish at least) and reference books at hand were a requirement for Reading Borges.) As I recall, in the end I decided I would read him again.

I have found the foreward to his Brodie's Report very incouraging for writers, which I have the audacity to call myself. Let me quote: "Incredible as it may seem, there are certain punctilious men and women who act as a sort of 'trivia police.' They will note for example, Martin Fierro would have talked about a bag of bones, not a sack, and they will ctiticize (perhaps unfairly, perhaps not) the golden-pink coat of a certain horse famous in our literature." Borges did not let that stop him from being free to be Borges, so why should I let the ever present critics stop me from being Mickey Getty.

My favorite book, the one I am reading in my photo, The Junk Lottery, written by me. And by no means in the same league with Borges, though my writing can not but grow because of him

Mickey's Murky Meanderings

Swarming into this murky blogosphere after holding my nose and plunging feet first, I find myself groping along, breast-stroking, frog-kicking in these unclear waters, looking for thoughts that have somehow lost themselves. Should I be surprised? Not really. That is exactly what happens when I plunge into the keyboard with the resolution for a scene I've imagined.