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magidThat would be September story reading, not one of the jumble of countries in northern Asia and around the Baltic. Right.
Last night there were ten of us, reading and listening.
Ruth read a short story about the Hope diamond stolen while on Gibraltar by a trained monkey, and how a shark can be fated, perhaps.
Pheromone read the introduction to Stephen King's collection of short stories, Skeleton Crew, about the need to write, and the rewards thereof, which should not be primarily financial.
Majes read the next chapter (fourth, I think) from his novel; this one was much more disturbing than the others; I tend to have a hard time with violence, I think.
Scholargipsy read a short story he'd thought of and written that day (I am so impressed), Tell and Kiss, which you can read the beginning of here, if you wish.
Geeyodi read a poem written during college (yay, Brandeis!), and a piece from Writing Down the Bones about writing, which was interesting (I wish I'd not been so close to crashing by then; perhaps I'll try to find a copy to read the rest).
MissDimple read a part from the beginning of Maria Doria Russell's The Sparrow, a wonderful book, one of the few I know that is science fiction with a serious use of religion.
Oh, and I read a very short piece from Bailey White's Sleeping at the Starlight Motel, about plumbing disasters as an indicator of social class.
Other short bits:
This was the first use of the partly-emptied cloud pillow I snagged from Pheromone. I need to find more foam to fill it back up. I was glad it was useful.
More garlic croutons. People were less hungry, though, since not as many were eaten. Or perhaps it was the evil fruit gels...
I still dislike using the overheat light in the living room for story reading; it's just too flat, a bit too bright, not as mellow. I hope everyone had enough light with the lamps and candles. I did.
Hearing about a proposed trip from Tennessee to buy a car.
Dang. I forgot to put out the apple juice I'd stuck in the fridge to chill.
Talk about writing, about the creative process, inspired both by reading pieces about writing and people's writings being read. I had moments of feeling like a literary salon would be a good idea...
I enjoyed listening, and wish I'd been well-rested, rather than exhausted from being out late the night before (a post about the play upcoming).
It somehow felt too awkward to crochet through story reading, a function of feeling I had to be available to do whatever hostly things, not of potential rudeness to anyone reading. I should get over that; it would've been the perfect time to crochet, which keeps my hands but not my mind busy.
Last night there were ten of us, reading and listening.
Ruth read a short story about the Hope diamond stolen while on Gibraltar by a trained monkey, and how a shark can be fated, perhaps.
Pheromone read the introduction to Stephen King's collection of short stories, Skeleton Crew, about the need to write, and the rewards thereof, which should not be primarily financial.
Majes read the next chapter (fourth, I think) from his novel; this one was much more disturbing than the others; I tend to have a hard time with violence, I think.
Scholargipsy read a short story he'd thought of and written that day (I am so impressed), Tell and Kiss, which you can read the beginning of here, if you wish.
Geeyodi read a poem written during college (yay, Brandeis!), and a piece from Writing Down the Bones about writing, which was interesting (I wish I'd not been so close to crashing by then; perhaps I'll try to find a copy to read the rest).
MissDimple read a part from the beginning of Maria Doria Russell's The Sparrow, a wonderful book, one of the few I know that is science fiction with a serious use of religion.
Oh, and I read a very short piece from Bailey White's Sleeping at the Starlight Motel, about plumbing disasters as an indicator of social class.
Other short bits:
This was the first use of the partly-emptied cloud pillow I snagged from Pheromone. I need to find more foam to fill it back up. I was glad it was useful.
More garlic croutons. People were less hungry, though, since not as many were eaten. Or perhaps it was the evil fruit gels...
I still dislike using the overheat light in the living room for story reading; it's just too flat, a bit too bright, not as mellow. I hope everyone had enough light with the lamps and candles. I did.
Hearing about a proposed trip from Tennessee to buy a car.
Dang. I forgot to put out the apple juice I'd stuck in the fridge to chill.
Talk about writing, about the creative process, inspired both by reading pieces about writing and people's writings being read. I had moments of feeling like a literary salon would be a good idea...
I enjoyed listening, and wish I'd been well-rested, rather than exhausted from being out late the night before (a post about the play upcoming).
It somehow felt too awkward to crochet through story reading, a function of feeling I had to be available to do whatever hostly things, not of potential rudeness to anyone reading. I should get over that; it would've been the perfect time to crochet, which keeps my hands but not my mind busy.