For those of you who haven't glanced over at the little sidebar to the right or who didn't know me back when I still updated it, allow me to inform you that I used to have another blog. This blog, angel's asylum, was (and is, I suppose) basically all very short stories, a place where I could flex my creative muscles and test out my theories on "episodic literature."
Glancing through it a few weeks ago, I number of thoughts came to mind, which I will list even though I promised myself I would stop with the lists on this blog.
(1) Writing fiction was a lot of fun.
(2) I wouldn't mind starting that up again.
(a) But it's already difficult enough writing this Mondays/Thursdays
(b) And I don't want people feeling like I'm posting all over the place/too much.
(3) I would actually like new readers of this blog to look through and comment on my old one.
(4) I would also like to rewrite a lot of those old posts.
(5) I want to consolidate all of my work under one email, as both blogs are under different addresses.
My solution to this would be to begin a new blog that would connect directly to this one, and slowly (perhaps once a week) repost old material there. Eventually I would run out of older writing and I could actually begin to delve into fiction again (maybe even intersperse newer stuff with the old if I feel so led).
What I'm asking you (the five[?] or so people who read this) is whether or not you would actually read more of what I write, and if you would if you could comment on it. Please get back to me in the comments section and let me know, since it's something I'm thinking about pretty seriously.
To end this off, here's a piece posted on March Twenty-Eighth, Two-thousand Nine. It was an effort to write a short scene using every single character in a text message. It was written to one (1) Renee Roberts.
The branches reached skyward, scratching the cloudy, troubled heavens and failing to leave a mark. Eleanor Ruby Greenway stood at the bus station and sighed; it should be illegal to have to wait more than fifteen minutes for public transportation.
Only a little past three on a Sunday evening and this weekend had already begun its slow, sullen march to its grave, filled with a heavy sense of resignation. Going to the park was sort of a social excursion, right? After all, there were a lot of people there, and she had even spoken to a man selling red balloons; they had been just like the ones the man in the park had sold in Curious George. Except, that of course there was no Man in the Yellow Hat to buy her one, and there had certainly been no antics or adventures.
A strong breeze blew down the street, as if a semi had roared down this quiet, suburban road. Elly clutched her bag closer to herself and shivered.
(b) And I don't want people feeling like I'm posting all over the place/too much.
(3) I would actually like new readers of this blog to look through and comment on my old one.
(4) I would also like to rewrite a lot of those old posts.
(5) I want to consolidate all of my work under one email, as both blogs are under different addresses.
My solution to this would be to begin a new blog that would connect directly to this one, and slowly (perhaps once a week) repost old material there. Eventually I would run out of older writing and I could actually begin to delve into fiction again (maybe even intersperse newer stuff with the old if I feel so led).
What I'm asking you (the five[?] or so people who read this) is whether or not you would actually read more of what I write, and if you would if you could comment on it. Please get back to me in the comments section and let me know, since it's something I'm thinking about pretty seriously.
To end this off, here's a piece posted on March Twenty-Eighth, Two-thousand Nine. It was an effort to write a short scene using every single character in a text message. It was written to one (1) Renee Roberts.
The branches reached skyward, scratching the cloudy, troubled heavens and failing to leave a mark. Eleanor Ruby Greenway stood at the bus station and sighed; it should be illegal to have to wait more than fifteen minutes for public transportation.
Only a little past three on a Sunday evening and this weekend had already begun its slow, sullen march to its grave, filled with a heavy sense of resignation. Going to the park was sort of a social excursion, right? After all, there were a lot of people there, and she had even spoken to a man selling red balloons; they had been just like the ones the man in the park had sold in Curious George. Except, that of course there was no Man in the Yellow Hat to buy her one, and there had certainly been no antics or adventures.
A strong breeze blew down the street, as if a semi had roared down this quiet, suburban road. Elly clutched her bag closer to herself and shivered.
Man, you know what I have been really into lately? This one British show, The IT Crowd. It's some genuinely funny stuff and I quite enjoy it.
ReplyDeleteI like reading what you write.
ReplyDeleteYes, me too.
ReplyDelete