Blogger confronts newspaper editor who plagiarized his work.
You can’t just take whatever you feel like using, folks. Sorry I’m not sorry.
It’s a really weird feeling, preparing yourself to mentor someone who was once a hero to you.
I’ve been spending most of today adjusting myself in preparation of tomorrow, when I’ll be sitting down to visit with and provide advice and assistance to someone I’ve always viewed as a sort of royalty in my lifetime of sport fighting. She has always been effortlessly successful, capable, and strong, and in her presence I always felt like I faded into the background. She trained with me and helped me develop a fighting style that was all my own, all the while never allowing me to come even remotely close to controlling the ring with her. I needed that example of success to give myself direction in that world, and I admired her so much that sometimes I even pretended she was my superhero older sister. Now, it’s my turn to be needed, and on an even more important level.
Normally I might feel a slight nervousness before helping others with things regarding mental and emotional health, just because I know it can be a minefield if you don’t read and consider each person just so - this time, I feel so nervous I’m almost queasy, and it’s because of a different reason entirely. I know that I know my stuff and that it’s rare for me to be completely unable to help someone, and yet I can’t help but feel a real case of nerves in regards to this meetup. I am purposefully reminding myself that worry solves nothing, and that it’s best for me to go in without expectations or prepared words, but the nervousness to see this person (especially since my mother took the liberty of telling her every private detail of my depression experience - thanks, mom, I really appreciate being opened wide in front of someone like that) still exceeds my current capability to calm myself. From what I’ve been told, her problems are similar to those of plenty of other people I’ve helped in the past: anxiety and possible oncoming depression. What’s standing in my way is the idea of her position “above” me.
I don’t usually mind having people referred to me for assistance, because I genuinely like to help others. I think that in this case I just feel overexposed and unsure of how to shake my perspective of this person as someone who is above me in rank (I mean, she technically is… but only in terms of our martial arts rankings/abilities and age, nothing else in life). My memories are standing in the way of who we are now as individuals and it’s a little bit limiting and frustrating for me to attempt to process.
It is and will be a challenge.
I have a certain fondness for consonants.
There’s just something that happens for me sometimes, whether I’m reading a passage or writing one myself, where I stop focusing on the picture the words are meant to convey and instead relish the shape of the sound that is their name-tag. Vowels are important as well, but none of them can be as satisfying as the q in harlequin or as delicious as the tch- in fletching. Words have power to me, but not because I believe what I am told when others say them; I only take the image of the sound to taste and enjoy, not the message. There are two sides to every sentence.
A guest’s performance over mid-morning breakfast was vaguely reminiscent of quick trills from duck’s bills and that strange silver thread found mixed in with laundry lint after a few days’ worth of washes. Cluttered and useless, and strangely attention-getting all the same.
Pointless enjoyment, but enjoyment nonetheless. I wish I was a proper writer.
“
This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It’s like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety. Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length. And sometimes, when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage him with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of the drums, the crash of the cymbals—sounds that say listen to this, it is important.
~ Gary Provost (via creatingaquietmind)
via -woodenships (originally qmsd)
