Posts Tagged ‘reading’
Posted on September 4, 2012 - by Fikriyyah George
I kinda always knew I was this kind of procrastinator. But then I read about it here and then it really hit me:
I am a perfectionist procrastinator. And the only reason I haven’t started this blog sooner is because I rather get it perfect than just crank out any ‘ol thing. I don’t like to twitter because I don’t like my twitter profile picture; it’s all forehead. And my mouth is open, like the
idiot goofball that I am. I ‘m one of those people that can’t take a picture unless my mouth is open in a goofy smile. What is up with that?
Needless to say I am sensitive about my how I look on video and pictures. Yet when it came to my second reading, I was determined to record it for posterity self consciousness be damned! My camera’s
a piece of crap an entry grade, point and shoot consumer camera that I would love to trade in for a DSLR if I had say an extra couple of hundred bucks on me. And with this less than stellar camera I recorded my second reading. But, guess what? The quality (which I wasn’t expecting to be professional grade) was less than I hoped for. Now the shaky camera angle, the static I could handle, but the skipping? Nope! That I could not deal with.
My friends convinced me to put it up on YouTube anyway, but guess what? The video is over 3mpbs and the max is 2. I’ve never worked with video before, so while I’m scratching my head trying to figure out how to compress this bad boy, I leave you an excerpt.
From the novel “The Eldest, the Wisest, and the Wildest”
Some people have a path. Others wander down that path, others speed through. Still others are on the path and don’t know it. Which one are you gonna be?
My brother was a man who walked a path he felt was his own.
I walk a path of my own.
Only problem is these paths aren’t our own like we think they are.
Drug dealers, other woman.
These paths have been trekked by many before us, and will be trekked by others after us, yet we believe that somhow our paths are our own. Like our ancestors, grand pappies and mommas haven’t made the same mistake…I mean walked the same path.
On the bus Namaste’s skin quivered. She thought it was the over air conditioned bus, but realized that it was actually comfortable, the ac turned on just a tad. Instead it was the memory of her first tryst with Ali that made her body act so.
He came to her apartment late at night. In the darkness of the living room the sounds of nightlife, the belligerent speech of people in various degrees of intoxication from sober to all out plastered, filtered into the room. The voices echoed, in varying tone and intensity. Incessant chatter punctuated by abrupt and hardy laughter.
The apartment above the hullabaloo was quiet inside except for the sound of coils squeaking, furniture trembling under the heaving bodies and heavy breathing. In the darkness the shape of two people entwined were barely visible. Flashes of skin, two dark bodies were illuminated by rays of street light let in by the semi-open blinds.
His large body over mine, my legs in the air held by his hands, my skin naked except for a thin film of sweat.
What he needed that night was not a sex kitten but a simple girl who waited for him by my building door in terry cloth shorts and a cotton tee, with only a headband to overrule my wild, gangly hair. That night, he wanted a simple girl to touch the scar on his face. A simple girl to open her legs so that he’ll be right at home.
My sheets were and still are a soft dense velvety material he’d never felt before. It might be because the sheets were stolen from a Ramada Inn when I was only six years old on a trip to Great Adventures. My mother had told me the sheets were meant to be taken just like the small soaps and shampoos. Only sheets needed a bigger backpack to stuff it in than hotel soap the size of a thimble.
The sheets were unbelievably soft. They were as soft as she was warm inside. Little women were his favorite. He loved all kinds of women, but women who didn’t reach his shoulders were his favorite.
They were her favorite too-big men. Big capable men, the kind who were able to be there for her.
The bus pulled into its stop…
Originally posted 2010-05-18 03:42:06. Republished by Blog Post Promoter
Posted on September 4, 2012 - by Fikriyyah George
If you are passionate about your work, or hobbies you have to be about it. Meaning just one book, one purchase, one blog doesn’t cut it if you want to get the most out of it. To produce quality and keep producing it whether it be art. or a blog, work needs to be put in. Creating requires you study and practice the craft. For writers writing is the practicing, reading other writer’s work is the studying.
I read a lot of blogs, and still find myself stumbling for words and you know why? I’m not reading up. Reading up is reading material that is slightly above your current level. You can’t just read your peers, you have to read who’s better than you.
I personally find blogs are the place to research topics and keep abreast of industry news, but as far as improving writing quality not so much. For that you’re going to need to bust out some college level literary reviews. Fiction novels can serve this purpose as well, as long as it is above your reading level. If you have to read sentences a few times to understand it even better.
If we can’t push ourselves beyond our comfort zones we will have nothing but mediocrity to show for.
Photo from ruminatrix of flickr
Originally posted 2011-05-09 16:46:58. Republished by Blog Post Promoter