You Really Mean That, by Dave Smith

Today we present to you another Dave Smith piece.

Dave Smith 1

Soul. Some words have one.

Most people call it connotation, but I like soul; sounds more … intriguing.

Lately I’ve become obsessed you might say (or you might not say) with word souls. It’s all because of a how-to book that crossed my path recently. The author admonished me about using certain words too often, and presented a list of vexatious words which, if over-used, would turn my writing into dung.

One word on her/his list was look.

Okay, got it; I don’t want my writing to be boring, so finding alternatives is always good (except for the word said, which apparently has escaped the most-wanted list.) Said somehow disappears off the page and out of the mind, so a writer can use it with abandon, knowing with certainty it won’t bore the reader. I know that because that’s what they say in those how-to books.

Not so look. It apparently doesn’t disappear.

And yet that word has so many uses.

Look, according to that author, should be replaced as often as possible, because it’s not appropriate to disturb the writing rules. That’s the law. And the word does have numerous alternatives. See for yourself—look it up in your dictionary and your thesaurus. Oh, dang, I mean observe it in your dictionary and thesaurus—or do I?

See? Your mind hesitated on the word observe, didn’t it? Why?

It’s all about soul, my friends. Replacing words to satisfy the rules should be done with caution, me thinks.

Imagine my surprise shock when I read a section of a novel by this author—who is making money trying to improve my writing—in which she/he wrote, “The detective walked out of the building and his gaze shifted to the far end of the street.” Or something like that. The author certainly walks the walk. Technically correct? Yup. Many readers might not even hiccup at it.

Me, I came to a full stop, because like I told you, I’m obsessed. According to Dave, the soul of gaze is wistfulness, longing, mental numbness, and time. One gazes at the stars, or a Thomas Kinkade painting, or an unanswerable question on the DMV driving test. A detective does not walk out of a building and gaze down the street; a detective walks out of a building and looks down the street. He could stare (gaze, if you have to use the word) once he saw something of interest.

I always look for (darn it, I said it again) alternatives when writing, of course, but I believe it is my authorial duty to consider the soul of my replacement, because I mustn’t annoy the astute reader (you), who understands that sweet-sounding yet appropriate French word nuance.

And please, never gaze at me. (Unless you mean it.)


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Fridays With Dale: Creative Word Assassins

Title with image of author

Dale Angel

 


Creative Word Assassins

By Dale Angel

                                                  

The enraged man shouts, ”May you doubt your heritage from your mother!” The other retaliates. ”I hope you get what I passed to your wife!”

 

About a week after he ran off with his secretary, a man called home to tell his wife to sell his Porsche and send him the money. She did and sent him all $15.

 

These old stories still amuse me. Have people’s creativity so diminished that it’s easier to shoot our opponents? That requires no intellectual effort! Are we losing our ability to be creative assassins with the pen or tongue? It can be very effective without drawing blood.

 

I think I prefer elaborate written notes that are so smooth and flowery one has to hunt for the rejection. The word dagger slides in so smooth one doesn’t feel it until later, or can understand what happened until one perceives a $15 check.

 

If one has the skills of the tongue, he can use this weapon without it being lethal…sometimes in a moment of passion, words can deliver a wound, yet the victim continues to breathe for forty more years. At least there is still a chance it can be repaired, but the instant shot is not always that forgiving.

 

Both the pen and the gun still leave you with your conscience. What do you do with that? You can assassinate yourself, wishing you had been more understanding by not drawing your pen so fast. With a gun, rarely is there a second chance to mend relationships, and the more heart felt flowery language used to convey personal feelings the easier it is to accept.

 

Once in a group I heard an attacker being unfair (mean) towards the attackee. The attackee was asked to say prayer. At the end he thanked God, for keeping his foot from kicking the attacker under the table. You don’t forget these live misunderstandings. They have so much more flavor! The entertainment was better than the food. A shot would be so bland and uninteresting. The rest of the evening went well.

 

I’m in desperate need of useful, delightful, scented words to add to my vocabulary if you have some you want to give away.  But…there is something powerful in creative words. I can’t put my finger on it maybe you can.

 

I can’t see well enough to shoot.

Dale Angel

 

 


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Me and Stephen King, by Dave Smith

Today we present to you brush-with-fame memories from Writers Forum member Dave Smith

Pre Orono

Stephen King was born in 1947. I was born in 1947.

He arrived in Portland Maine, and I was off just a few miles, landing at eleven minutes past eleven in Brattleboro, Vermont. I’m not sure what his arrival time was but if you ask him he could most likely tell you; he’s good at those details.

We both grew up in New England. To those of you who didn’t, you wouldn’t understand what that means to a person’s mental awareness. Let’s just say it has something to do with Puritanical tendencies. Being a down-easter (that’s someone from Maine) he had a larger dose than I.

Orono

The main campus of the University of Maine is in Orono, a town not far from Bangor, and it sets on the bank of the Stillwater River. Even though we were born the same year, Steve graduated from high school in 1966, a year after me. He blamed it on having to repeat first grade. Really Steve? Who repeats first grade? He said it was because he was sick. I think it may have been the mental awareness thing, a down-east problem.

I was accepted at the University of Maine in the fall of 1965. They made a big mistake because I was not ready for college life. At least the study part. Beer was more to my liking. Steve was a better student. Probably because he spent an extra year in first grade.

In the fall of 1966 (my third semester) Steve began his studies at Orono. Here’s the important part: Our paths most likely crossed at some point, maybe two or seven points. I spent time in the library; so did Steve. I spent time in the Memorial Union; he most likely did too. I walked across the quad; can’t imagine he didn’t. Maybe he went to a football game and we sat next to each other in the stands. And for sure he knew about Pat’s Pizza, the local downtown joint for pizza, of course…and beer. We would both have been underage but that didn’t usually matter in New England: Everybody drank beer—Schlitz usually.

I wish I had recognized him because we might have been friends, although he majored in English or something like that, and I was in Wildlife Management. And he was a better student. The extra year thing.

The beer didn’t help my grades, and at the end of the fall semester, the University asked me to take some time off to mature. Steve never said goodby when I left Orono. Maybe he didn’t care.

Maturing was too hard, so I joined the Navy, and for the next four years I visited foreign ports. And drank a lot of foreign beer.

Fast forward four years. Mature or not I got married while I was in the Navy. Not wanting to be a lifer (military talk) I wrote a letter and begged the University of Maine to take me back and promised I would be good. For some fool reason they accepted my offer, and Chris and I left sunny California and set out for Orono, arriving in the fall of 1971. Steve, the good student, graduated just before I returned, but he didn’t go far. He was living nearby with his wife, a girl he had met a few years earlier in the stacks of the University library. Wonder if I knew her. Probably.

Steve wrote about a mobile home he lived in during the early 70s. I think it was the same one we looked at to live in before deciding to rent an apartment in Orono. His description was the same as mine but he got paid to write his.

The Kenduskeag Stream canoe race was a popular spring attraction back then and maybe Steve waved to me and my paddling partner and we glided by, or laughed as we tipped over in the rapids. And for sure he and I rubbed shoulders at Pat’s. Everybody went there. Even saw a streaker there once, who, as I think about it, looked a lot like … no, couldn’t be.

Steve published his first book, Carrie, in 1974. I didn’t read it. I was busy studying. This time I did better, and graduated in the fall of ‘74.

Post Orono

We decided to move west, back to California. Steve moved west, too, to Colorado, but then he moved back, and lived in western Maine, near a town called Rangeley, which, by happenstance, I spent a summer at when I was a teenager. What a coincidence.

Steve went on to fame and fortune; I went on.

Probably that damn extra year.


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Fridays With Dale: Lost Laborer

Title with image of author

Dale Angel

 


Lost Laborer

By Dale Angel

                                                  

The early morning work began…until no longer I could see, today is it walnuts, potatoes oranges or stripping olive trees?

Miles and miles of rows and rows…crops were picked by hand while other children went to school as a migrant worker, I labored as a man

Washington was for apples, Idaho was for peas, Arizona was for cotton

California lettuce, sometimes working fields overlooking the awe inspiring sea

At night traveling the highway my bed was earth or straw, always moving.

To Oregon for berries or hops, beans, filberts, hoeing mint, Hood River cherries

Up and down ladders or on my knees I crawled

Melons in Imperial Valley or cutting asparagus for farmers Japanese…drying

grapes between rows for raisins…nectarines…plums…peaches,   pickers for tomatoes and almonds there’s a serious need, taking refuge in childish daydreams

stopping now and then for water …only minutes of reprieve moving up the rows towards

sunset, fruit tramps a title of malice and disrespect which do I perceive?

Days, months, years were spent in labor camps with gypsies, living in the car on river banks or temporary tents

Moving through landscapes that needed no fences…while the world was at war in flames

In the fields orchards or vineyards a reign of peaceful innocence

I lost the little girl laborer who sang in harmony, danced in palaces, slept

In clean beds lived in a house with sheer white curtains…… in her wildest dreams…

Who saw her world as a garden as far as her eyes could see…with a rainbow of colors bouncing off the leaves

 … I’m looking for her…….I want her company

 

 

Dale Angel

 

 


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Fridays With Dale: Failed Relationships

Title with image of author

Dale Angel

 


Failed Relationships

By Dale Angel

                                                  

I have come to realize that my assumptions of relevancy and value and worth may be just that, my own.  When in reality, these assumptions were built on illusions. Any coming together in mind and spirit and heart need be built on mutual respect.

Failed relationships may be siblings, parents, lovers or friends. Expectations can be the worst problems to deal with. You expect others to treat you like you treat them. For whatever reason, when expectations are not met, it causes pain, and then resentment may enter in. I’ve read they travel together.

What to do when one finds him or herself at the short end of a failed relationship? It is common to cry out in distress or be angry. It is especially painful when you have invested years of emotion and the other party feels no obligation or loyalty. Time will help. Tears are healthy. Even anger, if it subsides in due time.

During the mourning process a maturity will appear within…its acceptance. This can be a long journey with every day a mountain to climb. A learning takes place that you will own, you will treasure.

When the sun shines again, there is peace. You find yourself stronger, less willing to take risks. Yet more open to equal positions, not so needy and dependent, more sure of who you are.  You have more to offer and ask for in return.

Failed relationships are a growing tool even when you would never have visited that place on your own. You can benefit from the disaster. It’s like building a new structure on an old site. You have a completely different building in mind.  It may not be as elaborate, but with more strength and more comfortable.

 

 

 

 

Dale Angel

 

 


Writers Forum is open to submissions for the blog or the newsletter.

Type of Material and Guidelines for e-newsletter and Website Submission: 1.) Your articles on the art or craft of writing. 2.) Essays on subjects of interest to writers. (200 words can be quoted without permission but with attribution.) 3.) Book or author reviews. 4.) Letters to the Editor or Webmaster. 5.) Information on upcoming events, local or not. 6.) Photos of events. 7.) Advertise your classes or private events. 8.) Short fiction 9.) Poetry

Please submit copy to the editor at writersforumeditor@gmail.com . Electronic submissions only. Microsoft Word format, with the .docx file extension, is preferred but any compatible format is acceptable. The staff reserves the right to perform minor copy editing in the interest of the website’s style and space.