Nicole Sharp

Writes

Tag: Writing (page 1 of 3)

Idea 543…

I recently read the essay “One Hundred False Starts” by F. Scott Fitzgerald which was published in The Saturday Evening Post on March 4, 1933. It is an interesting insight to his process. The false starts are snippets he’d written down on pieces of paper that floated around him, on his desk, in his pockets. Bits of paper with bits of a story line written on them. Most of the ideas, he claims, he’ll never run down and make anything out of.

Of course, that had me thinking about my own process. There are big ideas, bull-ish ideas that won’t let go until they are satisfied their story has been properly writ. However, when I need a break from the books, I write short stories. Some ideas come to me quickly, but sometimes I skim through my archive of ideas to find inspiration. And my archive of work, it’s pretty large. I have a whole file on my computer dedicated to documents named “just an idea” “idea22” “Idea on a Sunday evening” “Idea 543”. The file folder is bulging with my random thoughts, my angst, and sometimes it seems just writing for the sake of putting words on paper. I also have note books called “works in progress”, the tactile version of my own one hundred false starts. Bits and pieces of paper with ideas jotted down. Ideas that seemed interesting at the time, that seemed like something worth following through with. Like something worth holding onto. Continue reading

Avast, me hearties…

I’ve been dreaming of ships and stars again. When I have time to dream that is. The dog or the kid wake me up almost every night. Somewhere between 2am and 4 and there seems to be a silent agreement between the two of them as to who gets to wake me up.

I’m not fond of waking up in the middle of the night, but this is just a phase, it will soon end and be replaced by another ‘thing’ that happens every day for a few months. For now, it would seem, this is my sleep schedule.

It’s not all bad.

Sometimes, in my exhausted wakening’s, the ideas of ships and stars linger and I slip into a sweet moment when my tiredness is put on hold and words dance through the veil and I write some fanciful, mindless ramblings down in my notebook in the darkness. Continue reading

Sunday morning thinking…

I’ve been listening a lot to Patton Oswalt lately. He cracks me up and I need the laughter.

He has this bit about how he knows he’s gotten old because he doesn’t hate any music any more. He said, there is music he likes and then there is music he just doesn’t listen to. And that’s where it ends. Then he goes on to say that when he was younger, there was music that he ‘hated’. HATED. He would go on wild rants and raise his blood pressure and talk about who’s selling out and who’s honing their craft and who is bullshit and who’s a genius. Backing up all his claims, of course, with his wonderful Oswalt perceptions.

I was thinking about that this morning and of course one thought began to flow into another. The new whirl of thoughts drifted to my time spent in Colorado. It’s today’s weather that brings on these new thoughts. It’s a cool gray morning, with slow, low clouds. A lot of the trees in the neighborhood have given up their harvest of leaves, others are still working on losing them. I see the light dusting of snow on the mountains beyond my window. Continue reading

Into the madness…

LC-DIG-ppmsca-01697 "SP.M.0911" / Angela de Rosette.

There are clashes and rumblings. The noise is deafening. The silence is threatening. I feel like I’m trapped on Willy Wonka’s boat, toward the end of the tour. Where violent images flash and scream. When everything the man is crumbles and become shadows of goodness that once might have been. The moment when everything is tilted.

And nothing will ever seem as it was once before.

The disruptive noise taunts; a shadow of arid despair sucks the watery blood from life.

The tornado of vocal destruction swirls and whirls inside my self. Each energy receptive nerve flushes the noise outward. Only to become trapped in a different area of this human’s body. And it builds up. Bubbles up. And I whisper the pondering wonder, are we going mad? Am I going mad?

And the noise grows.

Splashes of paint on canvas, a hurried sculpture or two, some spliced pictures pasted together. A poorly thought out poem. A rushed fictional hand job. The guts of artistic endeavors bleed out. Into the world. Into the void. In an effort to silence the mounting racket.

And I can’t figure out if I’m going mad or if it’s the rest of them or if it’s a little of both and if the madness is part of a symbiotic something and if it matters and if anyone can stop it.

Or should it be split open wide? Should it be ripped open wide? Should containment be wadded up into a ball and thrown in the trash?

We’re are all mad here…worked for the Hatter. A little.

Rejection and the Writer

Since my blog is heavy on the daily ins and outs of the writer’s life; you know, the accolades and the challenges I face as a writer. It only seems apropos I talk about one of the stranger elements of this process. The rejection. I have willingly chosen to follow a career path that leads, more often times than not, to rejection. I wanted to talk about that today, but not just the normal run of the mill rejection, but rejection from a literary agent.

The dream of finding a real live literary agent to gush about has been swirling for a few years now. I dream of the day I’m able to gush wildly across my personal inter web spaces, “I have an agent! I have a downright, honest to God, Literary Agent!”

Continue reading

Done and done…

img_20161129_094938-2

Attempt number six is finished my friends. I wrote 51,557 words in a month for National Novel Writing Month. (The challenge being to write 50,000 words in a month which is roughly 1,667 words a day. But when you skip an entire week that number of words a day goes up dramatically. I digress.)

It was a different year this time around. I’m not going to lie, the election effected me so vehemently I played with the idea of giving up writing. I couldn’t bring myself to write anything for about a week. Okay, that’s not entirely true either. I wrote long meanderings about how I was feeling and how I was going to fight. I wrote letters to most of my representatives. And I did write three few short stories. But the writing of this book, this thing that was supposed to be a story for two characters from a previous book…their joy was stolen a bit.

However, that confusion and anger and fear ended up working for good in the story line. Once I committed to finishing this goal I set before myself, it was nice to find solace in a different world for a few moments each day.

So again, I’ve proven to myself what I’m about. Reconnected with my voice and the writer within. And wrote a damn book in a month.

nanowrimo_2016_webbadge_winner

 

Autumn inspiration

cymera_20131023_223234

Each fall I dredge up an old post about autumn and the time I lived in Colorado and re-post it. I can’t help it. This crisp weather that has descended on my little corner of the world catches my breath first thing in the morning. I’ve moved my sweaters from the back of my closet to the front. Every trip outside results in a staccato crunch of leaves under my fee. It all puts me in that reflective fall mood where moments of my past swirl about and meet up with dreams of my future. Continue reading

A little drop of rain…

Pic by Gpa Sharp

Writing about writing and about wanting to write is the lull I find myself right now.

Finished with one story, packed away politely and ready to travel, I’m left with, well, the leftovers. Wanting to DO something, write something, be something. create something, move something.

But I’m a fly stuck in the sticky paper of awaiting something.

Something, anything. Inspiration, a moment, a muse, a knock on my door. I’m stuck here waiting for a rain drop on my head, a lightning bolt of something to jar me from my throne were I sit and write about writing about wanting to write.

What does the farmer’s almanac say about winter this year?

I can’t even focus on writing about writing about wanting to write.

Clicks are all around me to distract me and keep me off-balance.

One good story line, one good character, one good phrase could capture me and hold me tightly. One good word or vision could set me on that road again. Start it all up so I can live the life again. So I can do what I love again.

But company just left, and she was a doozie. There is dust to wipe out, twists and turns to sweep off the floor, and a trail of CIA files, coffee cups and snot filled Kleenex litter my house from her adventures.

So maybe taking a few days to look back on the memories we made, that character and I, and revel in the highs and lows she brought me might not be all that bad.

And hell, who cares if my inspiration at the moment comes from writing about writing about wanting to write?

I feel that old familiar itch just under my skin as it is. Something is brewing, just there on the horizon the clouds are forming. A drop of rain is bound to hit my head and carry me away on another adventure soon enough.

 

Finishing…

endThe End.

Good lord that has an amazing ring to it.

Especially when I’ve been writing a book for several months and have continually written myself into corners time and time again. All the time wondered how the hell I was going to tie everything  together.

The End.

Finally, all the hard work and words have come to fruition and built something solid and strong and just downright wonderful.

The End.

There is a sigh of relief in the words. An excitement. A sense of accomplishment.

The End.

There is something that completes me when I type those words. Something hopeful. As a writer, there is a lot of doubt that comes with the territory. So finding inspiration and holding onto it for 90,000 words fights the demons of doubt on many levels.

The End.

Look, there is still a lot of work to do. I’ve got to edit this thing. I’ve got to get my beta readers reading. I’ve got to make sure I’ve captured the heart of the story. I’ve got to submit to agents again and go through that process of putting my everything out there and waiting to find out if this work, if this time there is something here that someone wants to invest in.

But all of that doesn’t matter in these few minutes.

I just typed two little words. I sit back in my chair and wonder how just typing them can make me feel so alive, complete and accomplished.

The End.

I’m going to just sit here a few more minutes and swim around in this wonderful feeling of completing another book.

Remix…

tuscan countryside

View from the walls of Monteriggioni

I’ve returned back home. My adventures over the past few weeks to California to visit my folks and some old friends, to Italy to see my sister…it’s tightened a belt on the distance between myself and the rest of the world. Made it more accessible, smaller, more manageable.

I’m exhausted and finally came down with the cold I’ve been fighting, but that’s okay. It’s a small price to pay for the amount of rejuvenation I was given. Friends who reinforced my me-ness. Family who reinforced my wholeness. A culture that reinforced my love for learning and language and art. Views that reinforced the beauty of this world we live. I’ll pay one stupid cold any day for such great returns.

I’m sure I’ll have more in-depth thoughts later on my travels, but for now, let’s be honest about what we all want: to see some pretty pictures.

Okay my friends, here you go.

 

Piazzale Michelangelo

View of Florence

P. Michaelangelo

Piazzale Michelangelo

Ponte Vecchio

Ponte Vecchio

Duomo

Santa Maria del Fiore

View from a wall

Tuscan Countryside

Gelato

Gelateria La Carraia

OMG a pink vespa

Pink Vespa on the streets of Florence

lotto

Scratchers Italian style

Clet

Florence Street art by Clet

local gypsy woman

Orsanmichele Florence

Florence Cemetery

Cemetery of Porte Sante

walls of florence

Original walls of Florence

lampost

Base of lamp post along the Arno River

market

Small Italian market

S. M. Novella

Detail in Santa Maria Novella

steps

Tuscan charm

firenze

Detail on the streets of Florence

scooters

Parking near Santa Croce

 

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