Tag: blogger

Writer’s Quote Wednesday – Wole Soyinka

This week, my Writer’s Quote inspiration comes from Wole Soyinka:

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Also known as observation or people watching, you’d be surprised how much you learn just watching and listening. I think that not to pay attention to the works of others will only rob us of an important part of the growing process. It’s one thing to be taught something in the organized sense of the word, to be instructed and shown. We know that this is important in the cultivation of our minds, acquiring and using information (information that’s useful that is, can’t give ear to everything, it’s just not wise). However, I think everyone needs an example. For every question, there is someone living the answer. Somewhere someone is doing it right. They are usually not out in the front, not the most outspoken and not always aware of the pivotal role they play in just being themselves. But they exist and when it comes to writing or blogging, or photography or art or music or whatever it is we are seeking a better understanding of how to implement into our lives at this moment, for every craft there is someone who can give you a tangible example of how to get it done. But you gotta pay attention.

About the Author:

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Wole Soyinka is a Nigerian playwright, poet, author, and teacher, and received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1986.

Wole Soyinka was born on July 13, 1934, in Nigeria and educated in England. In 1986, the playwright and political activist became the first African to receive the Nobel Prize for Literature. He dedicated his Nobel acceptance speech to Nelson Mandela. Soyinka has published hundreds of works, including drama, novels, essays and poetry. As a result, colleges all over the world seek him out as a visiting professor.

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And that’s it for this week’s weekly dose of “Writer’s Quote Wednesday”. Hosted by Colleen of Silver Threading.

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#Ronovan Writes #BeWoW Weekly Blog Prompt – Connections

What connects one person to another? What provokes them to inspire, encourage, and to display characteristics of kindness? What makes them care so deeply about the whereabouts and well-being of others as if come from themselves? As if attached at the hip, what makes an individual go out on limbs, what makes them sacrifice?

be-wow-bloggerIn “A Child is Born” a great photographic look on life inside the womb, Lennart Nilson and Lars Hamberger begin their work with love:

“Love is an incredibly strong, enduring force and has been since time immemorial. The pattern is recognized in every culture in our world: two people are mutually attracted and feel the irresistible urge to unite.”

41PF7EZB94LWhen a baby first emerges from his mother’s womb, he is looking for Love. It is the reason he comes out crying. Once safely enveloped in the serenity of his mother’s womb, he emerges into this strange place and must instantly reconnect with love. So he cries, and she cries for it. And in their innocence this love connection is worn like a sacred garment until we reach the age where we are taught to hate. This teaching may take many forms, but we are taught it and eventually we lose our innocence, we lose the ability to love. Maybe we saw something that disturbed us; maybe we were traumatized by an experience. Whatever the reason, when we reach a certain age, a world that is absent of Love eventually teaches us how not to Love, and we thus spend the rest of our lives in search of this connection.

I seek to re-connect with people through love. Despite the stigmatizing of this word, the carelessness in which it is handled, and the abuse it has endured, Love is not just a word. It is not just here for our convenience when we need something or when we think it will be of benefit to us. Love is not just a four letter word we use to justify our wrong, but Love is action. It is not just spoken, it is seen. We see it when people forgive each other. We see it when a homeless man is fed. We see it when a wrong person is corrected. We see it when a hug is distributed. Not only do we see it, we hear it. The beautiful thing about love and how it connects one person to another is that it surpasses language barriers, and culture clashes. If I travel to China and I see that an elderly man has fallen while walking down the street, I will move to assist him so that he stands back on his feet. I have no knowledge of Chinese, but I do know the language of love. Likewise, for many of you good people out there, if you saw that I was in distress, you will move to give encouragement when you see that it is needed. So love is also an interpreter. It has the ability to discern motives and acts as a guide. In this way, we build a bridge of cohesion that makes room for further understanding of one another as individuals. Because there is an absence of Love in the world, it has caused us to disconnect and forget how to treat one another and how to build positive relationships.

So for this week’s Positive #BeWoW Post, I am re-connecting through love. Continuously seeking to better understand what it is, how to distribute it, and how to accept it.

Blankets vs. Sheets

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“Something on my skin”. That’s my phrase for when I need something to cover me. Not necessarily that I am cold, I just need “something on my skin”. You know, a sheet, a blanket, a comforter, a shawl. Let not my body be exposed to the elements, but encase me in the protection of covering. A heavy blanket is a gigantic hug of therapy stretching its body wide and waiting for me to curl into the center of its longing. I cuddle myself against the warmth of cotton fabric and it accepts my gift, I have chosen it over the others. I dim the lights for a good read or a good movie while throw overs and shawls stand by with stale faces. Their bodies wrinkled with disgust on top the linen closet shelf, or creasing with agony inside bureaus. Word in the closet is that I only visit when I need something and the hangers are too cold at night. But the biggest wars are fought between sheets and blankets. The latter being my favorite pick while the first a last resort. The bigger and fluffier the better, so sheets attempt to stick to itself after washing, hoping for an imbalance of electric charges to create the static electricity it needs to stick around–literally. Like hands holding onto feet for dear life, the layers of my sheets hope too for some chunk of substance, some thickness, but I am not deceived.

“Sorry guys, not this time. But I will need you to guard the corners of my bed, it is after all what you were made for, can you do that?”

Nothing. That’s what I get, silence. This means on the next wash day they’ll command the machine to leave them just dingy enough to get on my nerves. That’s OK though. This is why I prefer blankets over sheets anyway. They are so much more peaceful, and warm too.

Technical Glitch

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A post came through earlier about Movie Night Friday. Please disregard that post; it was supposed to be for tomorrow (obviously). I have rescheduled it to post tomorrow. My apologies for the inconvenience, but if you click on the one that posted today you will not find it. I have removed it.

Thank you for your patience.

– EC

Writer’s Quote Wednesday – The War of Art

My choice for Writer’s Quote Wednesday this week is from Steven Pressfiled’s The War of Art:

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Writers. People who second guess whether or not they have what it takes, and yet are still bold enough to go on. This quote reminds me of what it’s like to be nervous. We’ve all experienced it and we are all familiar with that feeling. Your heart beat races, your palms become sweaty and your body gets all jitterbug on you. Truth is you are scared to death of whatever it is you are about to do. It does not mean you have no confidence, it just means you are not so dependent on yourself that you forget about the big picture and you can’t stop thinking about the possibilities. You know that you can do it; you just don’t know whether or not it will succeed. But still you push forth and you show up at that place or do that thing. It is the war of art. You battle yourself until finally, you put pen to paper and you write. Writers. Sometimes fearful. Sometimes doubtful. Sometimes afraid. But always humble in confidence, and yet courageous in character.

About The Author: (from Wikipedia)

Steven Pressfield (September 1943— ) is an American author of historical fiction and non-fiction, and screenplays.

He was born in Port of Spain, Trinidad, in 1943, while his father was stationed there, in the Navy. He graduated from Duke University in 1965 and in 1966 joined the Marine Corps. In the years following, he worked as an advertising copywriter, schoolteacher, tractor-trailer driver, bartender, oilfield roustabout, attendant in a mental hospital, fruit-picker in Washington state, and screenwriter. His struggles to make a living as an author, including the period when he was homeless and living out of the back of his car, are detailed in his book The War of Art.

His first book, The Legend of Bagger Vance, was published in 1995, and made into a film of the same name, starring Will Smith, Charlize Theron, and Matt Damon, and directed by Robert Redford.

His second novel, Gates of Fire, is about the Spartans and the battle at Thermopylae. It is taught at the U.S. Military Academy, the United States Naval Academy, and the Marine Corps Basic School at Quantico.

In 2012, he launched the publishing house Black Irish Books with his agent Shawn Coyne.

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And that’s it for Writer’s Quote Wednesday. Click the pick to join the fun.

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Butterfly, My First Writing Love

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Where do I trace the birth of this longing? I have not photographic memory as many do, nor do I remember the exact moment I said, “I want to be a writer”. And as I ponder this history of mine, the thunder growls and the winds roar. The skies darken this very moment and hover around this building; leaning its body against my windowsill and making my living room look like evening time. I like it like this really. To hear the thunder roar in the midst of the quiet and the skies darken. It has a calming effect on me. The appearance of lightening is a chance to see pure light, and the sound of horns is a reminder of great power. But I digress. Really I just think they must be excited, just as anxious to discover this mystery. A collection of horns and quarter notes gather from beyond the clouds and deep inside the galaxy, shouting melodiously. The floor beneath me pulsates and sends shivers up my spine. Meanwhile, raindrops tap dance against the roof. Perhaps the scream of heaven is prompting me to remember. I do remember the first time I had the material to organize my writing. I do remember my first journal. I do remember my first writing love.

I was just about to turn fifteen, and though by then I’ve been writing for some time, I had not the care of keeping things organized. I wrote at will and on whatever pieces of paper I could find. But the close of eighth grade presented me an opportunity to confide in that pretty pink booklet with the blue sparkling butterfly on the front. I purchased it in Cincinnati Ohio during our eighth grade school trip. I spotted it at Claire’s, a store at the mall, over in the corner and it was a unique version of many of the journals I had seen in Chicago or anywhere. Somehow I didn’t think I would find it anywhere else in the world. As my peers busied themselves in appropriate teenage endeavors, my pupils danced in delight. Immediately upon seeing it I had to take it home. And I must say it dressed up well for our first date. The pink was fluffy and soft; my fingers found comfort when they slept on top the cotton. The butterfly on top shone bright like the dye was squeezed from fresh blueberries, and to top it off there were little diamonds imbedded in its wings. It wasn’t a diary so there was no lock and key. Nor did I use it as such, but it holds some of my early poems. In fact, I pretty much just used it for poetry, and maybe a journal entry or two here and there. When it opened, the euphoria of opportunity greeted me with the smell of fresh ink, and elegantly curved lines. It wouldn’t be long after this that I would begin my collection of journals and notebooks, but none of them would compare to the first. Butterfly was that first real writing love. The rest were merely copies. And as you can see, I still have it, though it is obviously not as beautiful as it once was. I think I’ll give it to my daughter one day. Maybe. OK well, let me just flip through it first.