Dec 24 2008
A Gift From TheWritersBag.com: A Forum for Your Writing
I’ve been thinking about a gift I could give you to thank you for being a reader of this blog. I’ve thought about what you might want and it occurred to me that perhaps the best gift would be to provide you with a forum where you could publish your work and let others read it and maybe even get feedback from other writers who would like to offer positive suggestions.
So that’s what I’m doing. Actually, I announced this in a quiet way in a recent post a few days ago when I wrote …
If you have a piece of writing you want others to read, I invite you to submit it as a comment to this post. People around the world who follow this blog – individuals who, like you, are interested in writing – can then read what you have written.
I, too, will read what everyone submits, and will feature some of the submissions that I find to be particularly interesting or notable in one of my regular blog posts in the coming week or two. I plan to make this a regular feature at TheWritersBag.com.
This is your chance to be published and have your work read by thousands of people. I hope you’ll take advantage of it.
So there it is. The challenge and the opportunity.
Show off your work. Put something you’ve written out there for all to see. Simply submit it as a comment to this post. In the coming week or two, as I mentioned, I will include a few of the more interesting or notable submissions in a blog post. That way, even those who don’t read the comments will see and read the selections.
Don’t be afraid. Don’t be shy. Let the rest of us see what you’ve written.
Aging Gracefully?
To all those male doctors who tout aging with grace, I say, Bah Humbug. I have no doubt that some women are able to achieve this phenomenon but they have a personal trainer, dietician and plastic surgeon on speed dial. To most of us, aging stinks.
Are you aware that menopause is actually three phases? No? Well neither was I. That is just the beginning of things I am finding out the hard way.
Phase one is when the hot flashes start. This is when you leave a full shopping cart sitting in Wal-Mart, sprint out to your mini van, dive in the back and rip off your shirt before you die of a heat stroke. This is when, your once firm jaw, starts to rival a bulldog’s profile. This is when your butt begins to slide toward the backs of your knees. Now, deep craters frame your eyes and the backs of your arms begin to wave in the breeze. Grace, who is she?
Phase two is the actual, menopause stage. This stage lasts two or six or ten years. Hurrah ~. This is the time of, night sweats, continuing hot flashes and memory loss. You forget your keys, where your car is parked and possibly your husband’s name. You have mood swings. Big mood swings. You go from dancing around like a mad puppet and calling your sister at two a.m. to tell her an elephant joke, to sitting in a corner with a bag over your head. You are happy. You are depressed. You cry, a lot . . . over nothing. I like the dancing part better.
The last phase is called Post-Menopause. The definition of post, to me, is that post means after. As in, After you have dealt with all the aggravation and can get on with your life. Not True .
Post refers to the wooden object you feel like banging your head against during this time. Post means, after your skin has sagged so far, that your legs look like you are wearing wrinkled support hose. Post means, after you have lost your eyesight, hearing and teeth. Post means, after you have given up on curing the night sweats and learn to sleep naked regardless if your husband cries himself to sleep. Post means, that whatever has been happening for the past ten or so years will continue for the rest of your natural born days. Post is a word that lies
I have given this aging thing a great deal of thought. After determining that the odds of my winning the lottery are slim to none, I have to pursue other means of fighting age. The simplest way, to me, is just to refuse to get older. Peter Pan did it. Jack Benny did it. I can do it.
Logically, if you refuse to accept something, totally ignore it, then it will simply not exist. Right?
I couldn’t have said it better myself.
And I too refuse to age, although my body screams it ain’t so.
Dear Mr. Osborne,
I have been harboring a dream to be a writer. However, I am not nearly good enough to be one.
One blog reader thinks that my writing lacks originality and is smeared with bad grammar. He also thinks that I write to impress - he could sense my struggle in writing my blog.
Deep in soul searching to entirely discard this dream of mine, I found this entry.
I will let you be the judge of it. Here’s the last entry I wrote on my blog:
“Shell, will I find love again?” Suria demanded an answer from yours truly. Her piercing brown eyes looked straight at me, a sure sign of trouble, if I were to answer this one thoughtlessly.
Her favourite bowl of tom yam noodle remained untouched in front of her. She twirled the teaspoon around the coffee cup without purpose.
“Of course you will, don’t be silly.” I cordially dismissed her question after taking more minutes than it is allowed to answer one’s question.
Basil buzzed with activity at lunch hour. Patrons were eating and laughing but the ambience at our usual corner table was somber. Torn and maimed from the war of love, hope was fast leaving every inch of her body.
“How do you know? You are afraid yourself!” She retorted back in frustration. Her cheeks flushed with annoyance she could hardly concealed.
Silence reigned over us. My wit was defied by the honesty of her question.
Her anger was so palpable I could almost touch it in the air. Sparkles in her eyes were no longer the colour of midnight stars - post her bitter divorce.
I heaved a long sigh. My gaze fell onto the woolen shawl around her lithe figure. Suria has always been a beauty; she has an uncanny ability to look nice in whatever she wears; she has the softest voice and sweetest disposition. To me, she is a quintessential Malay lady. Men worship the ground she walks on until today - and that is to put it mildly.
“I don’t know, girl…but you will find love again someday.” I tried to reason with her. When it comes to love, I can’t even convince myself let alone some else.
“If that’s the case, when is someday?”
Wasn’t she just so relentless?
“When you are not looking. That’s when!” My voice went an octave higher (told you I was a born cynic,duh!).
“Is that how you found Jefree?”
Yes Suria, that’s how I found him. The man of few words but all these years of knowing him, he has never given up on me and my idiosyncrasies.
“Yes, I did. When I thought all men are scumback, backstabbing, useless creatures of the universe, he walked into my life and criticised my reading choice!” Sorry, couldn’t help myself there.
“It’s painful, you know?” The look on her face forlorn, as grey as December sky.
“I know Suria…and I’m sorry.” I wish I could uplift her pain with a wave of magical wand - if I had any.
But that was a year ago. Last Christmas eve, Daliya’s lithe fingers were the colours of the summer red with henna before she walked into the mosque for the solemnization of her marriage. She did find love again when she wasn’t looking for it.
A thousand time goodnights, folks.
Elviza, keep writing. What you submitted shows that you have promise. Remember, even the world’s most popular writers are frequently criticized. The fact that you follow this blog tells me you’re sincerely working on improving your skills and that’s what we all need to do, no matter where we are in terms of our writing talent. Every successful writer out there has survived heaps of criticism and has overcome it. It comes with the territory. It’s a matter of continuing the process of improvement. If you stop, it’s over. Don’t stop!