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Scooter

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About Scooter

  • Birthday 09/13/1937

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  1. Guess I'll have to get back to you.
  2. That certainly sets the stage for a back story. Without it you'd have to open it somewhere else. or at least I would.
  3. Absolutely! Sometimes short phrases tell the entire story. Papa Hemingway won a six-word-story contest with: For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.
  4. Absolutely, my stories come from mental images that will not go away.
  5. https://wordpress.com/read/feeds/7808603 This may not fit the profile here, but it's the only "quick" link I have to Flash Fiction. Claudia has her hands in everything under the sun--clay, poetry, painting. I enjoy her posts. The New Yorker is partial to this type of artwork.
  6. I was reminded of this on WordPress this morning. What a blessing. My creative well is getting pretty shallow.
  7. Another means of back story or summary, whichever fits is a four-line verse at the beginning or the end, whichever fits the occasion. Sometimes it offers a different slant. I'm not very skilled at this, but I certainly enjoy the efforts of those who are. :-)
  8. Steven, I think you are right about the Brady Bunch story. I hesitated to point out a movie of which I can't recall the name. It was a reflection on a an American bomber wing flying out of England during WWII. Except for ten minutes at the beginning and another ten at the end it was back story.
  9. I like back stories, but only if they turn a good story into a homerun. In my opinion they can often put teeth into a yarn, turn it into a personal experience for the reader. A late writing instructor once told me to write the story that turns me on. Only after I've done my best work should go find an editor. I've tried to follow this advice and I have CDs and flash drives filled with tales that didn't make it. Sometimes I go through these slush with a new attitude and fresh eyes and take another shot at it. Writing the story for an editor is like pounding the street for a newspaper. A sweet dream that became a job.
  10. My paternal grandfather was a primitive artist, some folks said. I was offended by the remark, not realizing the term referred not the quality of his work, but to his use of materials at hand - petrified wood, gnarled wood, deer antlers, earthly things that displayed character and pleased him. I was fourteen when he went about removing the old hitching rail that had stood at the gate of his farm house since he was a boy. He was 72 and the time to replace it with a stone fence and deer antler gate had arrived. I knew nothing of this plan until he asked me to help him move four large petrified stumps that had lain beneath a thorny locust tree near his barn. Missouri winters can be frigid. The winter of 1952 was no exception. Working in the basement, I helped prepare his small batches of cement that, when finished, become two decorative panels. His experienced hand and a metal trowel, brought a sheen to the surface on one panel in which a number of small thunder eggs and agates formed a pattern that pleased him. On the other panel he applied a thin layer of pure cement and when it reached a stage that suited him, he carefully etched the lines of a poem he credited to Shakespeare. Poetry was not one of my stronger suits, so I turned a blind eye to the words this dude had left us a half-millennium before my arrival. Being not in line to inherit Tanglewood Farm, I enlisted in the air force, married a lady I met on the Oregon coast, raised a family and let thirty years slip away without refining my literary knowledge. During the summer 1982 a letter from a distant relative alerted me that Tanglewood Farm had been sold. Another decade passed before I ignored the “Keep Out” sign and trudged the quarter-mile lane. Cattle were grazing where Grandpa’s house had once stood, but his stone fence remained at what was once the entryway. After copied the poem on a slip of paper I hiked back to my car. But before heading back to the west coast, I read the words one more time. And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything. I would not change it. - Shakespeare And there it was the meaning. How could I not have understood Shakespeare’s words? Grandma was a school teacher before she married in 1910. While Grandpa was the artist, she was the wordsmith. But he’d crossed over with an eternal gift, and etched her favorite verse in stone.
  11. What happened after 12 months? I was an associate editor for Ag-pilot International, a crop duster's journal. I was writing fiction, working from home, in the twilight zone, as it were. The subject of my pilot's license was never an issue, so I didn't mention it. Having spent more than a decade as an aircraft maintainer, some of which involved correcting navigation systems problems that occurred after take off, I acquired a feel for airplanes. I guess my background caught up with me.
  12. Do you think social media takes away from writing time? Louis L'Amour always claimed he could write anywhere, anytime. I can't, I need to prepare, to brainstorm, to outline, and to think. Writing is a lonely job whether it's for an income or a hobby. I've had a Facebook account. I'm not a faithful Twitter-er. My favorite social media, if it qualifies as such, is WordPress. It's a place to test reactions to ideas.
  13. I agree with you. When I read something that truly interests me I often Google for information about the author.
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