Returning from My UBS (Unexplained Blogging Silence)

Hello. It’s been a while. I’ve no good reason for my long absence—not one I can easily articulate anyway. But let me tell you a story…

Eons ago at a motel in California, my five-year-old self left two very tired parents in their room and set off to explore. My parents’ exhaustion now seems understandable to me. Who wouldn’t frazzle while traveling cross-country with two contrary teenagers and one youngster who ceaselessly asked questions?

So I was on my own on a clear, sunny afternoon. I surveyed the area—a playground for motel guests, a neighborhood of houses in the distance, more families checking in to their rooms, the symmetry of the motel exterior, the sameness of every room altered only by the numbers on the doors. Nothing remotely interesting to me. In fact, the afternoon was looking so bleak I wish I hadn’t left my parents. And then a flash caught my eye.

I looked skyward, only to be blinded by glaring sun. After focusing, I saw it: an oblong, silver metal vehicle encircled by slender, perpendicular cylinders each ending in a colored light. What was it? I looked around to see who else had noticed, but no one was looking up.

The vehicle came closer to the motel and glided slowly overhead. I HAD to share this with somebody! I raced back to the motel room, threw open the door, and burst in with my news. But before I got the whole story out, I realized that the people listening to me were NOT my parents. I was in the wrong room—so embarrassed I never wanted to leave my parents again (assuming I’d be able to find them). By the time I got back to them, my humiliation far outweighed my cosmic experience and I couldn’t wait to get on the road again. I was ready to leave this dismal place in the dust.

Of course, between my UFO tale and my accidental exuberance with strangers, my parents enjoyed a good laugh at my expense. But I know what I saw.

Years on, my UFO encounter well behind me and never mentioned again, I was trying to verify something I was editing. A newspaper article led me to a book chronicling unexplained occurrences. I found more than I’d anticipated.

Several pages of one chapter were devoted to the same shiny, colorful vehicle I saw on my first family vacation. The descriptions matched mine, the vicinity was the same, the time of year synced as well.

Hmmm. Other people saw it? You mean I wasn’t suffering from heatstroke or an overactive imagination? Cool. I could reshuffle my brain a bit and recategorize this memory without shame.

Fast-forward to April 2013—a month during which I should have had LOTS to write on Lull. A month celebrating poetry, honoring trees, raising awareness about animal cruelty. Yet I remained strangely silent. Honestly, I don’t know why. Lacking a better excuse, I offer this: That shiny hovercraft with colored lights came back for me.

Yup. I was abducted by aliens.

[Photos by N J. Jackson (palms at top) and NASA.]

Down with Reality(?)

Three different people have written to me this past week to say they “just finished” or are “enthralled by” a novel. Each time, I grinned—because I know exactly how they feel.

Remember those old Calgon bath salts commercials? When her world became too chaotic, the woman would cry, “Calgon, take me away!” and end up relaxing in a tub of bubbles.

Well-written fiction, too, can whisk you away from your woes or push you to delve deeper into them. Good writing introduces you to characters and environments that jog your perspective, surprise you with insights, equip you with new coping mechanisms. It expands your world, allows you to luxuriate in thoughtful, exquisite phrasing.

If you’re recovering from an injury, fighting to hang on to your job, or just struggling with each day’s dreary headlines, pick up a book. I guarantee it’s better than Calgon.

“To acquire the habit of reading is to construct for yourself a refuge from almost all the miseries of life.” 

—Somerset Maugham

[Art by John White Alexander.]

BOOKreMARKS: Anthologies, Part 2

 Well, well, well.

Had no intention of revisiting yesterday’s rant, but a recent discovery requires a correction and a mea culpa from me. Apparently, when I searched for clues regarding the authorship of a story in the anthology I mentioned (but didn’t name, thank goodness), I searched at the wrong end of the book.

Last night, before I started reading a new section of the dog anthology, I skimmed the table of contents and right there in front of me was the clue I’d earlier missed. Each work of fiction was clearly labeled “A Story.”

Duh.

Now the editors of said dog anthology have returned to their elevated position on my admiration meter. I’m sorry I doubted them—I hate it when my heroes fall.

But my rant still holds. Other anthologies have erred (honest) on this subject and stirred my ire.

Whew! Glad that’s off my chest. Thanks for listening.

[The anthology cover pictured is not one I’ve read, so I have no idea where it stands on the subject of mixing fact with fiction.]

Oh. One more thing. The title of the Norman Rockwell magazine-cover art used in yesterday’s post is hardly legible. The work is called “Fact and Fiction,” hence its inclusion.

BOOKreMARKS: Anthologies Tap Pet Peeves I Didn’t Know I Had

I’ve read a fair number of anthologies this past year. Some have been great reading, others just so-so. Yet regardless of the quality of writing, I’ve learned that a single editorial omission can really tick me off.

The other night, while reading an anthology of dog stories, I stumbled on the very first page of one selection. The writer of the story, a woman, opened her contribution with a reference to her “wife.” Assuming that this was a true narrative as the others before it had been, I made the short leap of faith that the author was a lesbian. But soon, little clues were dropped to indicate that the narrator was a man.

I stopped reading and looked again at the short bio included in the back of the anthology. (Bios, I’ve learned, are a critical element of anthologies for me. They give insights about the writers and context for the story; they help me decide whether I want to read more of a writer’s work. I give a thumbs-down to anthologies that are bio-less. Also, I find it frustrating when anthologies that contain a mix of contemporary authors and those from previous centuries omit birth/death dates in the bios.) It gave me nothing.

Next, I put the book aside and searched the Internet for an explanation. Had the wrong author been cited with the story? Had a simple editorial mistake sent me on this hunt?

No, as it turned out. The story was, indeed, written by the woman whose name was published beneath the title in my anthology. The story had also been published previously in a journal or two, but (and it’s a BIG BUT) the story was FICTION! That is to say—because I think our society is often confused about the differences between FICTION and NONFICTION (Isn’t that right, James Frey, Mike Daisey, Jayson Blair?)—this story was NOT TRUE. It was a fabrication. The incident described in the story did not really happen; the people of the story were characters conjured in the author’s imagination.

The good news: I could finally stop puzzling over the story and just read it for its entertainment value.

The bad news: The editors of the anthology fell a notch or two on my admiration meter. Certainly this wasn’t the first anthology I’d read that mixed fact with fiction. I simply expected more of these particular editors.

For the record, I don’t oppose combining fact and fiction. I just want a heads-up about it. I want it clearly labeled—especially in a thematic anthology that may be read for reasons other than entertainment. Maybe it’s a book of surgeons’ life-and-death experiences, or mountain-climbers’ biggest challenges, or, as in the case of the anthology that got me kvetching in the first place, a book about the human-canine relationship. Readers should know whether they’re reading fact or fiction before they: 1) Try to replicate a situation described in the story; 2) Use information from the story to resolve a real-life problem; 3) Retell part of the story at a cocktail party; 4) Assume connections between the story and its author; and 5) Use parts of the story for educational purposes.

Oh dear. How I’ve gone on about this. I’ll stop now.

There is a silver lining in all this, though: I regard my reading as further instruction toward editorial mastery. I hope to one day curate my own animal-related anthology and when I do, I’ll have a long list of Dos and Don’ts to follow. I’m grateful to the editors who have pioneered the way before me.

NaNoWriMo, NaBloPoMo—MeNoDoTho

If you’re wondering why some of the blogs you visit are strangely behind in posts, it may be because the blogger at the helm is participating in National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo). Every November, countless writers start or work on a novel. Their goal: 50,000 words in 30 days. As Haiku Farm blogger says, “50,000 words. One of them is bound to be good.”

Or not.

Other bloggers are taking the NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month) challenge by posting something every day.

I’m doing neither. My “Thirty days and nights of literary abandon!” (as the NaNoWriMo slogan goes) are being spent reading. The time traveling I spoke of earlier this week has landed me squarely in WWI England and 1880s Paris, peeking into the fictional and nonfictional lives of Mary Crawley (we finally watched Downton Abbey), Katherine Mansfield, and Charles Ephrussi.

I’ve no good excuse for my absence from Lull. But I’ll make it up to you. So keep checking in. Or just sign up for Lull to come to you by way of e-mail.

Scouting for Good Reads

You may have noticed the recent flurry of activity on my book lists. Attribute it to: 1) My intermittent panic that I’m failing to make a dent in my reading wish list—never mind the ongoing short-listed award books cranked out month after month, and 2) My last trip to the library—when I meant only to pick up a book my husband had on-hold, but also came away with a handful of titles I noticed in passing. I’m like the freelancer who takes every job because there’s no guarantee another will come along. I scooped up the books before someone else did or before the library decommissioned them (the more likely scenario).

Which is to say that I’ve been reading on a schedule. But now that I’ve finished the library books, I can return to my own inventory and read at leisure.

Last night, I started a book that held little appeal for me during its prepublishing blitz: The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. Even after it started winning accolades and awards, it didn’t make it onto my Top 10 list. (Confession: I tend to avoid books and films about injustice. They upset me too much. I know … I’m a wuss.)

Then last year I read a short memoir* by Rebecca Skloot in an anthology of dog tales. I admired her sensibilities and her writing style and was eager to read more of her work, so I took to Googling. It didn’t take long to make the connection as to why I thought I knew her name: Her debut book, Immortal Life, was the one I’d been avoiding. Immortal Life rocketed to my Top 10 list—I couldn’t not read it now.

This is how my reading wish list has evolved of late. Rather than getting recommendations from others or following the bestseller and awards lists, I sample short stories in anthologies and journals. If an author impresses me, I’ll scout out more of his/her writing.

This method is not foolproof. Some authors write better in short form than in long form; some are better at fiction than nonfiction. The theme of the anthology also influences my choices. (The essays of two of my favorite writers in one anthology were duds. Had I not already been familiar with them, I might not have discovered their better works based on that particular anthology.) However, in the long run, the method is a scavenger hunt of my own making that has no downside. All discoveries are serendipitous. There’s no shame or guilt in disliking the book recommended by a friend or reviewer.

As for Immortal Life, I simply had to wait for it to become available at my local library. Soon after I added it to my wish list, though, it arrived at my door; a friend had mailed it to me. How’s that for serendipity? It felt like Christmas. And now a little surge of that feeling will hit me each time I pick up that book.

To good friends and good reads, my abiding gratitude.

* The short memoir was about Skloot’s dog, Bonny, who was viciously attacked by a pack of wild dogs in New York City. If you’re on Facebook (which I’m not), you should be able to read the entire drama there, taken from Skloot’s blog. (If you find it, can you copy it into a file and send it to me?) If the Facebook series is anything like the short piece I read, it will provoke your ideas and convictions on legislation, dog training, and the value of any life. Note for dogsters: You may also enjoy reading Skloot’s article on memorializing her other dog, Sereno.

[Pics are HeLa cells, all originating from Henrietta Lacks.]

Boost Your Ego Today: Analyze Your Writing

I finally got around to visiting the I Write Like Web site—the analysis program that tells you which celebrated author your writing most resembles.

I tested two different Lull posts, a few grafs from a eulogy, and a story I started last year. The results? The eulogy came up as Cory Doctorow, the Lull posts as Anne Rice and H. P. Lovecraft, and the story as David Foster Wallace.

Huh?

I thought, perhaps, there was a set loop of writers the program used for every sample, so I tried to trick it. I entered my “Anne Rice” write-alike again, but got the same answer.

To be clear, I read a couple of Anne Rice’s novels about 20 years ago; I’ve never read any Lovecraft or Doctorow, though I’d heard of them, and I’ve read more about David Foster Wallace than I’ve read his work. So how could I imitate their style without studying it? I was a little perplexed as to how the I Write Like algorithm worked.

I Googled for info and discovered that Margaret Atwood had tried her hand at the analysis, too, only to find that she writes like Stephen King! Who knew? Certainly not Atwood fans, I’d bet.

I found another algorithm online—one that purports to be blatantly truthful and accurate—and tried it with the same samples, but the results were no ego boost. Twice I was told I write like a “daily mail journalist” and the other two samples were tagged as being written by “someone about to go on a killing spree.”

Well, forget about the ego boost. But give both Web sites a spin just for kicks. The results might make you smile.

Count Down (Up?) to 500: Lull Hits Another Milestone

ull started two years ago with a whisper into the void—and has spluttered and splurched forward until this week, when I’ll be writing the 500th post.

Five hundred is not a hugely impressive number—it’s not infinite like pi and doesn’t come close to our national debt. But it’s substantial enough that I believe something special should occur alongside the 500th entry of Lull.

Maybe we should all eat pie. Mmmmm…

[Here are my top 10 favorite pies: pecan, lemon, coconut cream, chocolate, strawberry-rhubarb, rhubarb cream, blueberry, peach, pumpkin, custard.]

Time to Tweak My Book Lists

The lists I keep on Lull tell an abridged story. My reading extends beyond the books and magazines listed.

The only publications I post have been read cover to cover. However, some magazines have but a few articles that engage me, so they don’t get listed. Likewise, some anthologies contain but a few stories that interest me, so the book title fails to get listed.

This method is flawed. I’m going to start posting the shorter works I’ve read. Here’s why:
1. To list only books excludes other writing genres that deserve just as much recognition.
2. Listing the shorter works helps me keep track of authors—to read more of their short-form writing, or to look into their other genres, or to avoid them in the future.
3. Some Lull readers don’t have time for books. Short works fit better into their hectic lifestyles.

A few books have become permanent fixtures on the Current Reading Lineup and they’re really starting to bug me. I started all of them, but for one reason or another, they no longer hold my interest. I intend to finish them some day—just not now. I think I’ll keep a tab running on Books Not Completed. This, too, may change at some point. I may not be able to face a list of “failures” every day.

Perhaps you never look at the book lists (in which case, my apologies for this post). That’s okay. I realize I provide no recommendations or reviews or summaries. But you can find those all over the Web. My lists are merely ideas for you, and an inkling of where my head is at month to month. I’ll keep the lists going if only for my benefit.

“We read to know we are not alone.”
—C. S. Lewis

May whatever you’re reading now bring you pleasure, or wisdom, or both.

[Pictured is the outer wall of the library parking garage in Kansas City, MO. Photo by Jonathan Moreau.]

The Third Act of the American Sentence

Years ago you could count me among the folks who idolized Hemingway. But I was equally in awe of Faulkner and confused about what writing how-to gods Strunk and White would say about my taste in literature.

Adam Haslett addresses my concerns nicely in “The Art of Good Writing,” in which he posits: “If the history of the American sentence were a John Ford movie, its second act would conclude with the young Ernest Hemingway walking into a saloon, finding an etiolated Henry James slumped at the bar in a haze of indecision, and shooting him dead.” I would add, While lawmakers Strunk and White nodded their approval.

Thankfully, the American sentence is now in its third act and Haslett recommends Stanley Fish’s new book—How to Write a Sentence and How to Read One—to people interested in a more comprehensive look at composition (i.e., giving weight to the rhythms and sounds and emotional impact of stringing words together).

Sorry, Strunk and White: Short isn’t always best.

[Photo from The Great Train Robbery.]

A CLASSic MYSTERY FOR BIBLIOPHILES

Looking for a light read? Jincy Willett delivers laughs and wit with a whodunit in The Writing Class.

The book was published a few years ago, so you may have read it already. If not, you’ll appreciate the (intentionally) bad writing in it as much as the inspired writing. What’s more, it’s a short read—making it perfect for the beach or a trip.

Why Are You Here?

I’m not asking you to justify your existence (though I’d be interested to hear how Mr. Slimy thinks he’s contributed anything positive to our planet). I want to know why you read Lull.

Now, a few of you out there have known me in a previous life and come to Lull periodically for an update on my world. Others have been strong-armed by my sister into reading Lull.

But what about the rest of you? What makes you return to Lull (if you do)?

We must have something in common. What is it? Dogs? Books? Nature? Writing? Loss?

What do you look forward to on Lull? Quotes? Art/Photos? Stranger in a Strange Land posts? Notes on books I’ve read?

Lull is at a crossroads. I know what it does for me, but I’d like it to do something for you, too. I’d like to provide more of whatever is your favorite thing about Lull. (Unless, of course, you have some kind of schadenfreude obsession. I’ll not go looking for adversity to write about.)

Please use the comments section below or send me an e-mail to let me know what you’ve come to expect from Lull. And then I’ll do my best to oblige!

[Art by Arthur Rackham.]

My Newest Space-Saving Idea

Several shelves of a cabinet in my dining nook are stacked with boxes of postcards, note cards, holiday cards, and stationery—some dating back to 1982. Heck, some dating back to 1973. Half of it, maybe more than that, is no longer the type of card I would choose today to send to someone. But all of it tells a story or opens a memory about a time and place in my life. The cache has been hauled from apartment to apartment, state to state.

But no longer. Space has become more valuable than memory touchstones. And so begins my “Write-and-Release Program.”

Similar to my Read-and-Release Program, this one has more benefits:

1. I use the cards to correspond with friends and family, increasing the frequency of my communications. (This is usually a good thing, right? It may shock some recipients because I wrote so rarely before.)

2. Recipients may use the cards as bookmarks or coasters if they find the cards appealing; if not, I hope recipients recycle them.

3. The poor old U.S. Post Office gets some much-needed business.

4. I open up some prime real estate in a cabinet.

I started the Write-and-Release Program last week and already realize that I need to keep track of to whom I’ve written and when. Other than that, there are no downsides (for me).

Let me know if you’re low on stationery or bookmarks. I’ll send you some blanks.

Now it’s time to sharpen the nibs…

[Art by Vermeer.]

Angel at His Feet

In her upcoming book, If You Ask Me (And Of Course You Won’t), actor and animal activist Betty White describes her good friend John Steinbeck’s method of writing: “standing up at a drafting table—in long-hand, his white bull terrier, Angel, lying across his feet.” (My own feet hurt just thinking about writing this way.)

The Bull Terrier was Steinbeck’s dream dog. He wrote of wanting one long before he wrote about his travels with Charley, his standard French Poodle:

“I have owned all kinds of dogs, but there’s one I’ve always wanted but never had. I wonder if he still exists? There used to be a white, English Bull Terrier. He was stocky, but quick. His muzzle was pointed and his eyes triangular, so his expression was that of cynical laughter. He was friendly and not quarrelsome but forced into a fight he was very good at it. He had a fine, decent sense of himself and was never craven. He was a thoughtful, inward dog, and yet had enormous curiosity. He was heavy of bone and shoulder. He had a fine arch to his neck. His ears were sometimes cropped, but his tail never. He was a good dog for a walk. An excellent dog to sleep beside a man’s bed. He showed a delicacy of sentiment. I have always wanted one of him.”
—From “Random Thoughts on Random Dogs,” in the Saturday Review

Years later he got his wish, for Angel was Steinbeck’s last dog—the one who shared his final hours of life.

[Pic by James Richey.]

Something for You to Read While I’m Not Writing

I have lots to tell you but no time to write these days. (I feel like this magpie must just by posting this little bit.) Too busy prepping for the Big Sale, planning the next trip south, and trying to write a eulogy for my grandmother. In a moment of muddled thinking, I offered to lead the service. Basically because I hated funerals presided over by ministers who don’t know squat about the deceased. I’ve made remarks at funerals before, written comments for memorials, but passing myself off as a “funeral officiate” is new to me. And weird because of my relationship with the deceased.

I also have a surprise for you, which I’m frantically trying to complete while doing everything else before Wednesday. So bear with me. I’ll probably have to keep apologizing to you for the next month.

For now, here are the comments I made at the funeral of my favorite landlord—and the lessons I’m still barely making a grade on:

“If you can’t be a good example, then be a horrible warning.”

The Mr. Sandin I knew would have taken great delight in being described as a “horrible warning.” However, truth be told, he was also a good example.

He generously supported a number of charities, he had a lifetime membership to the Art Institute, he had a smile and a wave for any child within his line of vision, he was financially shrewd, compassionate to animals and above all, and in spite of his edgy sense of humor, he was kind.

Mr. Sandin—more often called Carl or Colonel by others—was a creature of habit. Every morning he put on his khaki trousers, a Brooks Brothers shirt, a matching tie and suitcoat, and grabbed his hat to take the bus downtown. For the past two years, the destination was Marshall Field’s on State Street for lunch. And almost without exception, the lunch he chose was the same every day. In the afternoon, he came home to lounge with his cat.

At a glance, Mr. Sandin was dapper. Look closer, though, and you might notice his belt buckle—a brass skull—something so seemingly out of character for such a charming elderly gentleman that you’d have to ask about it. The skull was his failproof conversation-starter. And if you were lucky and he had the time, you’d get to hear one of his stories.

He appreciated a crisp pant crease, fine leather and cashmere, and Swiss watches. He loved gadgets and he had scores of them. He was well read, kept up with science and medicine, and knowledgeable about many subjects—from numismatics and investing to photography, politics, and the latest celebrity scandals. He wanted nothing to do with Lake Michigan, had no interest in travelling, and he absolutely refused to drink water no matter how thirsty he was. Milk was his liquid of choice.

For about a year, I saw him at least twice a day to give him his medications and to feed and pill his cat. He was always ecstatic to see me, and always ready for me to leave within 15 minutes of my arrival. Like clockwork, he’d dismiss me. But he’d want me to return over and over again during the day—just for 15 minutes at a time.

One night as I was dispersing his numerous pills, which he loathed taking, he looked toward the heavens and cried, “Ohhhhh, woe is me. Is there anyone more put upon than me?” He shook a little as he exhaled it and it terrified me. I hated being the one making him do what he didn’t want to do, but the alternative was unthinkable. I said something in an effort to console him and I left after he took the pills. The next morning, he said the same thing, and I again offered my condolences for the miserable life he thought he was leading. This became our pattern. And when I’d run out of consolation one night and he cried, “Is there anyone more put upon than me?” before he finished, I blurted out: “Yes! ME! Because I have to deal with YOU!” And he laughed and laughed. I realized that I had been expected to say that a long time before. I was his sparring partner. He liked to test my intellect, to provoke me, tease me, shock me, push me to some edge to see if I could hang on. And when I did, he laughed. And it’s those moments I’ll cherish most.

So what about him was a horrible warning? Here are some things I learned from him, though he had no intention of teaching me and I still haven’t applied much of this to my day-to-day existence:
1. We all need to ask for help at some point in our lives—sooner rather than later.
2. We all need friends. And laughter.
3. We all like to be taken care of. There’s no shame in it.
4. We should do our best to maintain our health and mobility—and our minds.

Mr. Sandin led several lives: the one he told people he lived, the one he desired to live, and the one he did live. I like to think that now, at last Mr. Sandin is living one life—the one he dreamed of—confronting injustice without fear of retribution, living large with no restraints on pleasure, and making decisions that hold no regrets.

Mr. Sandin . . . Colonel . . . I salute you.

[Painting by Rubens Peale.]

WordGazing: Proof of Proofreaders’ Value

Found this ad online this morning while I was browsing for new clients:

HI
I am looking for author to help me with my upcomming book. (Technical and non-friction author preferred.)

Of course, running a spellcheck program could have fixed the poorly spelled upcomming. But what about non-friction?

Technically, this isn’t a misspelling; spellcheck would have ignored it. Yet, if it doesn’t communicate what the writer intended, it’s a typo.

Now I’m left to wonder what the writer intended. Is s/he simply averse to conflict? Or does s/he really REALLY need an editor?

[Photo of 1901 proofreaders by Thomas Lewis.]

Commas and Colons and . . . Oh My!

I’ve spent an unreasonable amount of my morning searching for a bit of advice I came across while reading last week. Usually I try to keep Post-it Notes at hand for ideas I intend to archive or share with someone. But I was not reading in one of my usual spots and left the passage to memory (clearly the wrong course of action), which cleverly catalogued only the visual position of the passage on the page and no other details.


Had I read it in a book? A journal? A magazine? We may never know. 


Fortunately, a friend interrupted my mania with an e-mail reminder that today is a holiday. It’s National Punctuation Day!


Now I realize I don’t mention many popularly recognized dates and events on Lull—mostly because the Web is full of chatter about them. But how can an editor let National Punctuation Day pass without saying something? Without providing a learning/teaching moment?


Before you press “Next Blog” because you think I’m going to go all Miss Thistlebottom* on you, be patient. I don’t care if you can’t tell your commas from your semicolons. But I do care whether misplaced or missing punctuation marks are preventing your writing from being understood.


Consider these two pairs of nearly identical sentences:
     1A) Giselle complained Spencer couldn’t make the project deadline.
     1B) Giselle, complained Spencer, couldn’t make the project deadline.


     2A) Jackson quit suggesting he would sue the company.
     2B) Jackson quit, suggesting he would sue the company.


In Sentence 1A, it’s Giselle who’s complaining; in Sentence 1B, it’s Spencer doing the complaining.


In Sentence 2A, Jackson ceases making suggestions about suing the company. But in Sentence 2B, Jackson resigns and suggests he’ll sue.


In each pair, the addition of a comma or two to Sentence B changes the meaning. This is important—much more important than which style guide you choose to follow. If readers miss your meaning because you didn’t know where to place a comma, you’re at fault. And you need to brush up on your punctuation skills. The National Punctuation Day Web site is a good place to begin.




* A reference to Theodore M. Bernstein’s charming Miss Thistlebottom’s Hobgoblins: The Careful Writer’s Guide to the Taboos, Bugbears and Outmoded Rules of English Usage. 


Note: After making a couple of upgrades recently, graf spacing (among other things) is looking a little wonky on Lull now. I'll get it fixed sooner or later. Bear with me.

How to Handle Writer's Block Turned Inside Out

At the top of the screen of most Blogger blogs, there is a selection called "Next Blog." Choose it and it takes you to another Blogger blog. It is by this vehicle that I've been traveling around the blogosphere and visiting other bloggers. I've noticed a trend of apologies made for not blogging daily. Some folks say that Life has simply prevented them from time on the blog, while others write that they've nothing to write about. Not writer's block really, but writer's emptiness.

I have an entirely different problem that I haven't seen addressed yet. 

Sometimes I don't write because I have SO MUCH to say. Every time I want to share some little gem I've observed or overheard, it starts connecting to a million other topics and ideas and curiosities roaming through my mind and I worry that I won't be able to stop writing. Or that I won't be able to shape my thoughts into a coherent serving for readers. 

I also feel guilty because during a Lull, I feel that my computer time should be spent on either searching for a job or writing a cover letter for one. Intellectually I know this isn't true, but you know how guilt works. (If you don't, I envy you.)

Anyway, I wanted you to know one of the reasons I don't post every day. At some point I might catch up to the folks who believe they have nothing to write about; after all, I've only just begun blogging. But that will be far into the future. For now, I have lots to share and lots to learn about getting this blog to display the aesthetics I envision to accompany my writing. Lots of experimenting ahead.

Oh. The headline for this post is misleading and pure laziness on my part. I don't know how to handle "Writer's Block Turned Inside Out." But I'm working on it.