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My Dream Garden by Uncle Morty Your Uncle Morty dreams every day of the garden he will create when this assignment is done, and he is allowed to return to the Netherworlds. Let’s imagine it together, shall we?
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Literary Grievances by Jarad Johnson 1. Bad writing- I know it's obvious, but when a book has a great plot and is poorly written it really bugs me. Maybe the dialogue is wooden and the characters come off as really bad actors. Or maybe the descriptions are so thin and boring that I can’t picture myself in the setting. I could've been swept away by that book but if I'm too distracted by poor writing it ruins the entire experience
My Dream Garden by Jarad Johnson I’ve been home all week on spring break, and I’ve known that I would be writing this post the whole time, so I’ve had the opportunity to give this some thought. Naturally, I’ve been doing some preparatory work for my garden this year, and as I was doing that, I was thinking about this question. What is my dream garden?
Reflections by Jarad Johnson Part 1: Literary Heroes
“The written word endures.” Neil Postman. Words can make and unmake worlds. Sometimes we forget how powerful they are, but every once in a while, it’s important to remember what people can do with words, from revival to revolution. From time to time here at Sacred Chickens, we like to remember those who use words effect change or call out evil, perhaps inspiring a new generation to do the same. The Writer's Hotel by Julie Carpenter image: Scott Branks del Llano reads at the KGB The Writer’s Hotel, a conference I’ve been to several times, is still accepting submissions for 2019. I highly recommend this experience for writers, both those who have no prior published works, and those trying to reach the next level. There’s a lot to love from the detailed pre-conference readings that allow you to go into your workshop with confidence to the solidarity of the reading nights. My own personal experience was transformative.
My Favorite Genres by Julie Carpenter Jarad asked to talk about my favorite reading genres this week. I have a question. Are garden catalogs a genre? I’m going with yes.
Actually, I love all sorts of books, but I do tend to gravitate to certain sections of the library or bookstore. As I started to think about what kind of books I like, I also started think about why. Why am I drawn to certain stories above others? What does it say about me? I contemplate the questions what and why below. I Can't Finish It! by Sacred Chickens Staff -Julie-
I have a guilty secret. I’m an English literature major and I don’t always finish books. There I said it. Sometimes I just can’t get into a book. Moby Dick and As I Lay Dying fall into this category. The first few chapters are like swimming through jello and....I’m lazy, or weak. Or cowardly. I just don’t go on. I’m willing to admit the entire history of literary criticism is against me here, willing to accept it as a character flaw on my part. But I’m getting old. There’s only so much time for so many books. Sorry Moby Dick, you crazy devil whale...I just don’t have time to swim after you for what must be like, a million pages. The other reason I don’t finish is a bad habit of reading ahead. (Don’t judge me. It’s like a super power. I CAN SEE THE FUTURE!) 1984 was suffocating me. Depressing me. Depriving me of the will to live with its stark, interior feel...so I peeked ahead just to see if it was worth it. Needless to say, I flung the book under the bed, sadly failing my research paper, but relieved of the symptoms it caused. Am I right or wrong? I don’t know. But there you have it. Confessions of an English major. Winter Ghosts by Julie Carpenter I drove through the dark last night and the fog was on the move, like an army of ghosts. It wasn’t a sit down, settling fog, moving in with a steady purpose. It was one of those fogs that swirled itself into a solid cloud that totally obscured the moon soaked farms on either side one minute and broke into solitary wraiths the next, each with a different mournful aspiration, uncertain as to the path down which its hopes might hide. Amusing antics, but I was in no hurry to join their ranks so it was a bit of a harrowing drive. Here’s the road; now it’s gone, a funny joke for the specters of the fog, not so funny for me.
Mourning a Garden by Julie Carpenter My garden now consists of a table full of house plants I saved from the little farm in Fayetteville, TN. By way of confession, I actually bought a few more plants, a pot of primroses and a tiny orchid, regardless that there is no more room for them in this little place. Soon we’ll be forced to wear potted plants as hats. Crow has already attempted to use one as a litter box. |
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