Tag Archives: Writing

The Ultimate Austen

If I had a lot of free time on my hands, and fewer brain cells, and some more money, I would start a new blog/project.  I would make it my goal to read and review every Jane Austen knock-off book out there. 

I would have to first master my deep-felt moral opposition to this genre.

And then, after cataloguing and analyzing the mounds and mounds of these works, I would write my own Jane Austen knock-off/sequel/diary/whatever.  And it would be the perfect storm of Jane Austen knock-off.

It would, however, take me a really long time to get to this point, as you cannot take one step in a bookstore without seeing three of these books.  I find it morbidly fascinating.  I would be reading for quite a while.

Have I written about this before?  I know I’ve thought about it, but I couldn’t find an actual post.

So, any sponsors for this venture?

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thinking about writing

At the age of six, as my fingers first found how to shape the alphabet, I decided to become a person of letters…I am still studying verbs and the mystery of how they connect nouns.  I am more suspicious of adjectives than at any other time in all my born days.  I have forgotten the meaning of twenty or thirty of my poems written thirty or forty years ago…I should like to think that as I go on writing there will be sentences truly alive, with verbs quivering, with nouns giving color and echoes.  It could be, in the grace of God, I shall live to be eighty-nine, as did Hokusai, and speaking my farewell to earthly scenes, I might paraphrase:  “If God had let me live five years longer I should have been a writer.”         –Carl Sandburg

The other day Nikki mentioned in a post how she wants to write a novel, and it got me thinking about writing.  I always wrote, and always wanted to be a writer.  And I still do, I think..

I think I want to be the Laura Ingalls Wilder or Maud Hart Lovelace or Louisa May Alcott or L.M. Montgomery of my generation–you know, write that enduring semi-autobiographical series of books that just lives on.  Ha.  You can’t say I don’t dream big.

But.  For a while that love of writing went away.  It was so easy for one teacher’s careless words to completely crush me.  As an almost-teacher myself, I am constantly vigilant to not hurt my own students in the same way.

I have written a little bit in the last year.  Last year, I started doing nanowrimo, and ended up with a few pages of short story.  And more recently, I’ve finished up a short-ish story reimagining my life and putting my friends at our 10 year high school reunion.  Whitney’s read it.  I’m pretty enchanted with it.  I kind of want to share it, but at the same time, there are people who I don’t want to read it..Nobody that reads this blog, but other people we know..Still, it’s fun, and pretty funny, to me at least..I read it when I want to laugh, because I always laugh.  Especially when Jamie Dickens opens his big mouth.  Oh man. 

So.  On writing the great American novel.  Or the great American children’s book series.  I just keep telling myself that there’s plenty of time.  I am only 21 years old; I do not have to write an amazing book or story or poem or anything in the next two years.  I have the rest of my life.  And I think it’s better that way..It takes the pressure off, to remind myself of that.  What about all of you other future writers?  What do you think about all this?

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