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Nicholas C. Burbules made that statement in a scholarly paper he wrote on the occupation of editing in a culturally diverse world.

Said another way: when I send in a piece of fiction for publication in a magazine, book, or for that matter … a professor to grade: if said piece of prose is not up to a particular editor’s level, or a particular instructor’s literary range of writing (off setting problems with grammar, punctuation, and correct word usage of course), then isn’t that indeed a form of cultural imperialism? 

Who is really to say what good writing is? Has it to do with the rhetorical subscript set by some unseen source as to what is acceptable. Is it the readership of said piece that accounts for what is quality?

I dare say: “He who rules the present  – rules the past;  and in turn, rules the standards set to rule the present.”  Is an oxymoron at work here?

I suppose there must be some standards by which we live our lives. Ahh … the irony of it all.

Best to all,

G.

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I ask you …. is there really any truth in opinions … or is it all just a fantasy of someone elses ego? If you look back to the time of the great philosophers, Aristotle, and the like,  one  would think that the charge of independent thought without any qualifing evidence  is just a brash outburst of  a small spoiled  child..

Hummmm …. maybe there is some truth in that.

Oddly enough, I just finished a product review on Amazon  which  has to do with a digital download of a book to my Kindle device.  I found the content and information given very good; however, the grammar and structural errors made me wonder if the booklet had been proof-read .

It was very distracting.

I did include that I realized the problems with downloading printed formating to digital sometime has its problems. I’ve had pieces published that either had formating “hick-ups,” or the editors just decided to do it their way. 

*That, of course, is just my opinion. 

best to all,

G.

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Rhetoric is such a foreign language to me. Everything I write is blazoned with my ego. If I even think of writing anything, be it : a blog, e-mail, a meeting notice; nothing, and, I mean nothing appears to  get past my need to not only establish, but “feed” my ego no matter the size of the morsel.

All I can think about is … how can I make this identifiable with my personal stamp without letting on how much I struggled to set it apart from everyone else? How can I project a style that is mine alone, and still … write a worthy essay, poem, short or long fiction that is really worthy of holding an audience?

I ask you, if I write with a slightly “rumpled” style is that a plus or minus for my image? Does my rhetorical become  untethered?.  Maybe the “clip art” is a direct interpretation of my purpose for the blog that week. I like to write on fun things that have value. I enjoy satire … to a point.

I know on my academic blog, George K. Brannen English Scholar’s Fund available through my blogroll, my academic style still contains a certain tone of my ego.

I feel there may be more-than-one person at this keyboard feuding to take control. The Ying and the Yang forever jousting for position. And like that ancient Chinese theorem… neither shall ever dominate the other. Yes, maybe they are my rhetoric, my ego, …. my me.

 

best,

G.

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 Sudden Fiction is like a “quick” draw contest: prompt > draw > fire.. It’s all over in nine hundred and ninety nine words         or less. This ain’t no time to choke there hombre. Like the sun at high noon, your mouth goes dry, and it’s time to show what-your-made-of; after all, isn’t that what people like us like to do … write.

Sudden Fiction projects from my pen using as a mode of creativeness: the objective correlative. or some such. As much as I love and use adverbs, and adjectives to color my long verse; the metaphor fills my needs so much the better in this genre of sun baked dust and cordite.

I’ve always liked this following piece I put together some time ago. It just kind of rolls down-hill and ends on an emotional step.

 

 Dead at High Noon

by: G.K. Brannen

 

Cordite filled the air;

twas in my nostrils, twas in my eyes,

twisted left, twisted right

Cordite filled the air

Poncho was fast,

faster’n I ever seen.

Poncho was quick,

quicker’n I ever been.

The gun jumped this away,

my finger stroked the trigger.

Muh arm numbed right away;

the air got stiller.

The middle of the

street.   Blood-guts “n”

gore. Dog howl, hoot-owl

night-owl        gone.

The breeze reeked of

spent-powder, deadly as

we go. Everth’n that

was      dead at high-noon.

 

Writing “flash or sudden” fiction has just kind of rolled on me like a soft tide. I’m in the process of longer short story writing and, of course, academia writing; thus I need a mental break, and short poetic/non-poetic, rhyme and non-rhyme prose allows that relief to the psyche: bless our craniums anyway.

I’m sure I missed something I wanted to say … it’ll come to me.

best,

G.

 

 

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Writing is such a personal venture; yet it acclaims suffrage on so many levels. I had a visiting author tell me once: “Nobody likes to write, they just like it after it’s done..

Hummmm, I wonder if that’s true?

I, myself, write lots of different stuff > for different reasons> in different genres; and , I agree I do like it when I’m done.

But, sometimes, just banging on these keys: words flying, mental disorder abounding, a locutional discharge at such a rate I’m barely maintaining control.. The stimulus, at times, far outweighing the meaning.

-But not today!

Today, my rationale is: Why write at all?

To look back over my half-century plus and remember the starts and stops of this passion for me along the way; it, my writing, tells a story about me. Not so much an autobiography told in letters and photos; but, a history told in “bread-crumbs” dropped along the way; more like a trail so my path will remain visible as I wonder the greater uncertainties that lie ahead.

Writing is like that – a synonym for life lived. 

I always think of Justin Torres’ novella, We the Animals. In it, his narrator says about life: ” We wanted more. We wanted much more.”

A keyboard to me: that “silver-tongued devil” that feeds my psyche and the lives of so many others.

Have a blessed New Year!!!!!!!!

best,

G.