Waiting for Inspiration

Praveen

lromaine — Sun, 10 Feb 2013 18:16:34 GMT

Praveen’s a mind alive. His eyes light with imagination and his entire short body sways when he laughs. His soft voice flows rapidly as he explains a case or proposes an idea.
Praveen likes to play "let’s suppose" and he is eager to talk about the thought work of others. He delights in juxtaposing seemingly divergent things. An information scientist, he naturally loves to observe how people make choices.
When Praveen joined us late for day after Christmas crab feed, he and I stayed up talking shop. He explained the five ways he was training 200 new people to do basic intellectual work, which only humans, not machines, can do. Excited about ways to structure the research. Bringing in stories of other questions and findings people have made about how we learn.
He's a mind alive.

challenge theme

ladytairngire — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 19:40:53 GMT

Okay, so here's what we have to choose from for our poetry challenge themes:

- color
- costumes
- fairy tales
- political poems
- persona poems
- random key words

Vote for your favorite

children's literature contest

ladytairngire — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 00:48:19 GMT

Check out this fun new contest at Kidlit.com! Associate agent Mary Kole of
Andrea Brown Literary Agency is running her first query contest:

Attention, writers: Copy and paste your query as a comment [on the contest page]. Your query has to be for a children’s book (YA, MG or picturebook), it has to be for a manuscript that is FINISHED and could be sent out to an agent, and it must be under 500 words. To be clear, you have to either paste a query letter into the comments field (along with your other blog/Twitter information, per the Contest Rules) or email it to me by October 31st in order to qualify.

If you email your query to me (mary at kidlit dot com), please put “Contest” in the subject line, not “Query” because then it will be filtered into my slush. Once I have all entries, I will pick the most compelling query, dissect what makes it so awesome on the site AND award you the fabulous prize:

A critique of the first 30 pages of your manuscript!

REVIVAL

ladytairngire — Mon, 19 Oct 2009 22:51:07 GMT

So Yay Us! We've got four poets willing to play. That's a start.
Perhaps we can recruit some friends to pop in to vote, so it's not just us voting for each other...

In the meantime, anyone have a challenge suggestion?

I'm thinking we can do this old-school - throw out any ideas you have, we'll vote for our favorite, and then post the time frame, etc.

hello...?...hello?...

ladytairngire — Thu, 15 Oct 2009 14:55:41 GMT

Anyone still reading this?

It seems I only write poetry any more when it's for a challenge, or a dare. I'd like to write more.

Anyone out there interested in a revival? Friendly, themed-poetry challenges for scores, winner takes all? No clunky membership rules, just writing and fun.

Lemme know...

it's been a while

fallenangel0502 — Thu, 05 Mar 2009 21:28:06 GMT

I've been sort of struggling with a definition poem. any suggestions?

Dyke

A long narrow hollow dug out from the ground, used in ancient times to denote boundaries, the reaches of a regime. Used to separate dignitaries in castles from peasants in their kingdoms. Used to separate, to protect from otherness. The hollow may be built to resist encroachments from the sea. To protect us from nature. The hollow may be used to hold. Sometimes water needs to be held for irrigation, to keep the plants from dying off. To keep us from dying off. Sometimes what is held is urine, not water. See slang for urinal. Sometimes the hollow is the small of her back where your hand likes to rest, gentle cavern, gentle touch. Sometimes the hollow is the place you reach for deep inside of her at night. Her hollowness, her cavern will separate you out as the other. It will not protect you from encroachment.

whispers in the dark?

ladytairngire — Sat, 20 Sep 2008 16:29:29 GMT

I'm surprised that people still apply for membership here.

If you're interested in the community, please feel free to post at your own discretion!

If the activity picks up, then we can talk about membership.

open posting

lonely_dorkoid — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 03:20:33 GMT

It has been a couple years since I posted anything on EOL as a member. Those good ol high school days... Well I got pretty rusty, lacked inspiration, and haven't been able to get reinstated as member since. A part of me feels like I've lost something since going to university, but at the same time, I feel that if I still have the need to write, I can bring it back. Here are my latest scribbles.

Confessions on Paper

Standing on the line that I’d like to cross
Out-- the brink of Touch.
This pen hesitates,
Hovers over its statement
As a witness.
If let loose, these words
would lead you straight to me;
They are my shadow.
But I stand in them now, dipped in black,
Open hands dripping.
I look at you, knowing that I am
Trying to caress a weaving,
Careless
Spiral of smoke.
A chase almost as empty
as running after the wind. Only,
my fingertips do brush against the gray,
Even as it melts and fades.
If I had left
any deeper a pause,
this ink might have seeped in
without my needing to write it out
at all.

GONE FISHING

My head is leaned on your shoulder
Riding this bumpy seat and sha-
ky floor
Can you follow the string of my gaze?
Red yarn unraveled,
it snakes under the pant legs of the doors,
then its tossed over sidewalks, rolling
To his front step.
It spills up over the stairs
Searching, feeling
for feelers
Like a soft, blind worm.

And you complain
That you’re fishing for my thoughts.
You know,
The line sways beneath and
The worm shies below
Blankets of green and yellow.

Now I prick a ripple and
dart a glance
at your eyes now following my own…
Casting nets on the dirty ridged floor
of the 116 bus
Trying to tail the worms in your heart,
Fishing for answers
to where and why
they lead you.

Meteor

You leave me, lain,
Ashes brushing away
Like your once fingertips
That hooked through my hair
and swept aside for clearer skies.
Here I subside
The wind hurried, hunched,
dusting, searching,
For solid
the treasured relic
the unknown yet hoped for.
But this is all I am, here,
Smouldering in my own wreckage.
The fire spilt orange
still glistens between
my cracked eyelids like
fierce, unsurrendering tears.
Yet I know I will lose: my veins of gold
continue to abandon me, like rivers sucked dry.
My pulse cools, docile now.
This scorched face stares ahead, at you high above
And as I crumble away
I can only close my eyes
and try to float back up.

well those are it. any constructive criticism is more than welcome :] And thanks EOL for opening up the posts to nonmembers!
</div>

ladytairngire — Mon, 21 Jan 2008 21:12:25 GMT

Dear Readers:

Membership to Evidence0flife is now closed due to lack of activity. Please do not apply for membership at this time.

However, POSTING to Evidence0flife is currently open and un-moderated.

Do you have the will to write?
Write what you will.

Application

ibtrippen — Sun, 20 Jan 2008 05:35:32 GMT

Name: Patrick, pseudonym ibtrippen
Age: 23
How you heard about us: Searched LiveJournal
How long have you been writing?: 6 and 1/2 years
Favorite poets/authors: Robert Pinsky and Oliver Sacks
A description of your writing style: I like stories the explore themes or ideas, but I also write poetry or stories whose only point is to test out a new texhnique.
In writing, what are your strengths?: I have no shortage of inspiration.
What are your weaknesses?: Putting myself in the reader's place. A scene that appears sentimental to me can often appear calous to others.
What are you looking to gain from Evidence0flife?: People who will yell at me when I forget to include a setting or make some other horrendous blunder.
What will you bring to Evidence0flife?: My tendancy to look for the story a piece of prose or verse is trying to tell, and helping that come out.

No Transition

They called him “pigeon.”
Thin legs, tall frame—throw rocks
at him to make him move.
Hit him? I can.
The school mascot on his shirt wasn’t the
mighty Falcon that they wore.
It was old, looked like more common birds.

Years later an old man
in a coffee shop
who does not know of the nickname
takes Pigeon by the shoulder and says,
“Do you see those birds outside?”

“They look for scraps.”

“No.
They are looking for resources,
for usefulness,
just as we look for money and women.
The grey ones, with
blue wings and
white chests
—the common ones—
they will be the most successful
because they cover the most ground.”
A sip of latte.
“That’s how the world works.”

Cowing the Rebels

I needed her to be my friend quickly to get me into her circle. My only problem was that she knew who was in my circle, so I did the obvious: I asked her to buy me a drink. A little flabbergasted, she wasn’t sure what to do. I looked ragged and didn’t always go to bars, so she decided that I was having a bad day. She took pity on me and bought me a drink. That started a conversation in which we found mutual understanding and neutral ground. Later, under different circumstances, I asked her for a pair of reading glasses, saying I’d misplaced mine. She lent them to me, this time wondering if I was really her enemy. After all, enemies don’t ask for favors; that is something friends do. Our friendship was secured with the next favor I asked, what it was does not matter. She tried to recruit me into her circle. No sooner had she lead me to her group’s meeting place than I lead the police there. As her friend, I thought it was right that I visit her in jail at least once after my promotion.

</div>

Story Help - Literature Suggestions?

ladytairngire — Tue, 11 Dec 2007 19:21:35 GMT

What are some of the most tragic-romantic pieces of American literature that you've read?

I'm looking for something (preferably 20th century) that might be found on a the reading list for a general College English course.

Writing Prompt/Challenge - Dead Letters

ladytairngire — Thu, 06 Dec 2007 20:23:19 GMT

Write a letter to someone who will never read it.

Go on, I dare you.

Application

shaiith — Tue, 04 Dec 2007 09:50:23 GMT

Name: Michael
Age: 20
How you heard about us: Google
How long have you been writing?: Six or seven months
Favorite poets/authors: Quite a few.
A description of your writing style: Verse
In writing, what are your strengths?: Hard to say.
What are your weaknesses?: The process?
What are you looking to gain from Evidence0flife?: Motivation.
What will you bring to Evidence0flife?: Whatever help I can offer.

This one is called Yadida, for lack of a better title.

I don’t know why it took me this long to get to the shore
When I moved out here to be closer to the sea; an excuse for this beard
And the reason why I always hide in this coat and hat, perhaps -
Who needs the sea? The rain will do, though we both know the reason
I haven’t been earlier is because of you. Why do you fear the waves so?
The crashing isn’t that loud, lover,
And though it’s been used as a metaphor for eternity
By a lot of men that came before me you and I are both smarter than they;
Or at least more informed, eh? You know it ends and isn’t all that deep
If men can see the bottom and tell me its depth what secrets remain?
Uncharted waters only hold potential
And when does that ever turn into anything?

Maybe I can empathize.
I know you have a limit to you as well, and
It’d be a stretch to say you contain the mysteries of an ocean –
Even though I’m surprised by how much you keep in that skinny body of yours –
But I can’t release this idea that there is something I can’t quite see
In the recesses you’ve made available to me.
Maybe that’s a reasonable explanation for why I’m so scared of you.
Don’t act surprised when you read that, dearest, I think you know it already –
I remember you laying there amongst the hotel bed’s comforter
Designed with flowers, a bed of fake bluebonnet’s for us to share;
White arms left bare by the shirt you’d decided to no longer wear
And knuckles of yours touching my red cheeks,
All the blood in my body busy with blushing
Despite the intimate setting we’d found ourselves in-
A boy braced tight to the sheets, trying hard not to tell you
What it all really feels like as a failing relationship begins.

Did I really just compare you to an ocean?
I make the error of writing in the guise of poetry
About something that really doesn’t mean an awful lot to me.
I grew up among mountains, at more than five thousand feet
And the ocean was never more than a curiosity I’d get to see
In the spring after a long drive through the rain and green trees.
But since we’re still in the realm of analogy let me correct my mistake;
If I compare you to and ocean then you must picture me instead
As a poor little fisher boy growing up outside Seville, listening to a man
Named Ferdinand conscript me to a ship named Victoria, knowing well
The measure of the world, but a few hundred years younger –
Still believing what the sailors said about mermaids was true;
Still adoring all the fearful depth to you.

This is called My Bleeding Hearts

I must be real close to figuring out how to pen a perfect verse--
The kind that moves birds and bees, even stones and trees. I could easily replace
That musician from Thrace and we both know I'd get anxious and live up to his curse
as we fled though I might have a little trouble even motivating myself to action
and something in me doubts I could perform adequately when I try to sing mournfully
To a jaded Persephone--not to mention her abductor.
But this verse I type to you is from the boy in me and
I know you're no Eurydice and there's nothing to save you from.

Besides it's my ancestors who weren't afraid of where the world ended, not me.
I'm just left with the breeches of a Dutchman who once was in my extended
Family - a line that ended its adventurous exploits after a few unforeseen bombs landed
In Rotterdam; or did they immigrate before then? I can't be expected to know, I'm American;
No concept of the span of my heritage and I have all I could want. There's no need for me
To chase riches in the east let alone rescue love from the more forbidding climes of Hades.
A little therapy and I'd be well over you, lover.

I'm told that a garden is an excellent way to mourn for what's lost and gone away;
Maintaining some flowers is much easier than rescuing dearest lovers, at least
And pain can be released in quiet confessions to shrubbery that don't judge a lack of action.
I always was more a man of words, and gardening seems well suited to me in the wake
Of such a disconcerting tragedy as losing you would turn out to be. By now
You may have caught on that each row of soil would contain brittle-stemmed pink perennials;
Flowers that disappear one season and are back the next remind me of you.

Maybe I should travel; the real me, not the hypothetical me that has lost you in verses above
But the me that is losing you as he types these words. Where could I go to forget that fact?
I might try to make it to London to enjoy French cuisine off Greville street -
I could go to eat lunch when the afternoon grows late, one short of two
But with a place set for you and unlike Orpheus it won't be my fault you're unable to attend.
Or should I instead journey across larger oceans - no sense in half measures, right? -
Where dragons mark the ignorance of men who make maps with quill and ink?
I have satellites to show me what my ancestors had to brave life and limb to see;
Though a picture does little justice and I'd like for these two eyes to take their fill
Of those little doves from the Philippines; Is what you say about me true? Is it true?
Will I be painfully reminded of the heart that beats in my chest
as I gaze upon the vivid splashes of red that mar their white breasts?

Interested to hear what you think.

re: member requests

ladytairngire — Sat, 03 Nov 2007 13:24:21 GMT

Please post an application if you are interested in membership to E0L. Your request will be honored if you are accepted by the established membership.

Application format and guidelines are available on our info page.

Postcards from the Edge

ladytairngire — Tue, 23 Oct 2007 16:06:29 GMT

Well I've been nice and busy with my current writing project; I wouldn't abandon you for anything less. I hope everyone else is following their passions as well.

So when you write, where do your stories take place? Do you write about your home town, or is writing a way to take you anywhere but?

Which places inspire your settings? When you write about foreign places, are you really recreating what you know? Or do you design your written world wholly in your imagination?

Personally, I've got a mental block when it comes to writing about my home town - even when I set the stories there. Here's an link to a recent post in my own journal:

http://ladytairngire.livejournal.com/216947.html

Book Recommendation for Writers

richlayers — Mon, 10 Sep 2007 16:51:26 GMT

I'm reading a great book -- writers, pay attention! It's called Writing Magic: Creating Stories That Fly, by Gail Carson Levine, author of award winning Ella Enchanted. She developed this book after running a writing program for children in her area, and while it's clearly marketed to the very young writers among us, I'm finding that it's very inspirational, fun, and full of helpful tips. (Even at my advanced age, har har.)

Levine's Rules:

1. The best way to write better is to write more.

2. The best way to write better is to write more.

3. The best way to write better is to write more.

4. The best way to write more is to write whenever you have five minutes and wherever you find a chair and a pen and paper or your computer.

5. Read! Most likely you don't need this rule. If you enjoy writing, you probably enjoy reading. The payoff for this pleasure is that reading books shows you how to write them.

6. Reread! There's nothing wrong with reading a book you love over and over. When you do, the words get inside you, become part of you, in a way that words in a book you've read only once can't.

7. Save everything you write, even if you don't like it, even if you hate it. Save it for a minimum of fifteen years. I'm serious. At that time, if you want to, you can throw it out, but even then don't discard your writing lightly.

If that's not enough to convince you, there's more information here at her website, http://www.gailcarsonlevinebooks.com.

Enjoy!

and_vellum — Sat, 08 Sep 2007 22:28:12 GMT

Um. Hello. These are mostly unfinished pieces(having trouble actually coming to a point of finality), but I was wondering what any of you thought. Comments appreciated.

(pieces separated by ::::::::::::::::::)

last thursday the strumming came again-
a gentle hum hum hum
and do wop-wop-wop,
moaning about the weather
and the babel of new york:

"all day rain,
rain all day,
umbrellas, umbrellas, umbrellas,"

::::::::::::::::::

but really,
the flowers glowed
like polished wood floors
or her hair in june;
orange her dress
and slightly mad in the dancing moonlight.

she knew the flowers
and their words in her mind
to set him free.

::::::::::::::::::

this is like cold soup,
gone sour,
a film like mist
over the eyes of a blind dog,

like eating mud
and feeling unable to move.

::::::::::::::::::

"to etta james on her birthday- i love you."

in my room etta is singing again,
in rhythm with the rain and the steady floor-
braying the pain and the stops between.
she has caught her hair up knotted,
and dances like splitting hairs:
back and forth, and back, and forth.

to my ears, its more like ease of release,
like pouring brown freedom over ice,
malt over the rocks of steady inebriation,
like growth backwards,
or growing younger or all the more wholesomely dirty
or-

the battle with the engines all around the walls of the house
is fierce and will probably send her to something inhuman,
or might just set free finally the bird inside her swelling cage
plumed with great messy feathers
who growls sweetly, "heaven, at last."

and all the while my feet tap the steady floor
as i forget the noise.

--

bubbles slipped from the lips of chan in the bath
are so filled with light
that if you were to break them all
you would be blinded and finally see.

--

knock loud its beautiful in here
and we're all too transfixed to give a damn

we are singing flowers and putting them behind our ears
singing large pools of water
the movement of cheeks when the sun was hot
rose petals over and over again,
refrain after refrain after refrain

even when our chords are broken
and look more like mesh wire than string.

::::::::::::::::::

they won't even need to take blood given the nose lately,
just go mop up the floor.

and while you're at it,
vacuum those awkward birds and their dark circles
from around the spheres of pooled sky that were once so beautiful.

we have become men.

::::::::::::::::::

this is where i keep all the gently fading things,
where all is warm and floating deeply,
submerged in past and bygone movements-
the dreams dreamt to keep light alive
and all the cold with living men.

thanks again.

If you have been following the disucssion:

ladytairngire — Wed, 05 Sep 2007 16:27:11 GMT

Posting to E0L is now completely unmoderated. Non-members are free to post writing for critique.

Membership, on the other hand, will be moderated. Friends-only posts will only be visible to currently active (stamped) members.

Please see the updated community info page and lemme know if there are any questions. Thanks!

too subtle?

ladytairngire — Wed, 29 Aug 2007 15:44:11 GMT

Story Intro - I'm having considerable difficulty here. Help please?

Rockford Fare was lined with cars, all twinkling and steaming in the aftermath of the rain. Peter Donaghey stood in an overflow parking lot, listening to the whispers of distant traffic and the sound of run-off coursing through the gutters. All around him, the neighborhood felt new and vibrant. He hardly recognized it.

Last year, the ivy-encrusted brownstone that overlooked this lot had sold for nearly half a million dollars. Peter gazed up at a dark third-story window. Eighteen people had once lived shoulder to shoulder in that house; Mr. and Mrs. Mulrooney, Johnny Mac and his four buxom sisters, and a parade of immigrant relatives - including Johnny’s spinster aunt by the name of Biddie Mae who had brought with her a recipe for soda biscuits so incredibly rich that Peter turned his entire adult life into an excuse for baking them.

A car door slammed down the street.

When they were boys, this lot had been part of a cobblestone thoroughfare leading to the textile mill and, beyond that, the rocky edge of the Brandywine. After weather like this, the river would be swelling its banks, frigid water churning over the smooth backs of river stones. Peter fancied he could feel the rumbling through the soles of his newly shined shoes.

With a groan of wood and cracking ice, a young Johnny Mulrooney leaned half-naked from the attic window.

Hey, Petey! Cold enough for ya?”

Johnny Mac guffawed and dissolved in a cloud of icy breath, leaving the old man in his Sunday best staring up at a shuttered window in bemusement.

Stuck in a house full of women and old people, Johnny Mac had had a sort of desperate energy, a thrill for life that was as contagious as it was dangerous. He’d been the kind of guy who would go skinny dipping with you to amuse the neighborhood girls, never mind that it was December and half of them were relatives. Peter guessed that it was that frenetic charm that attracted his sister Claire to Johnny Mac, and it was probably that energy that attracted a sniper’s bullet to him in Vietnam.

A man and woman shuffled past the lot, elbows locked together for mutual support. Peter watched them struggle up the hill until their black coats passed out of view, then set out well behind them. He matched their pace, slow and careful, so he would not overtake them.

He was in no hurry.

......

I realize this passage is rather slow. Any suggestions for how to fix that would be appreciated, but I have one overriding concern...

Did anyone NOT realize that the young Johnny Mac in the window is a memory?

thermitesocks — Fri, 17 Aug 2007 14:49:10 GMT

Name: Jamison
Age: 21
Heard about: Hello again.
How long have you been writing: 10 years. 1 seriously
Favorite Authors: Dostoevsky, Don Delillo, Voltaire, Hemingway, Shakespeare, etc.
A description of your writing style: I'd like to think that it's observational and surreal. It tends to cover many topics simultaneously.
In writing, what are your strengths: Imagery. Creativity. Use of literary devices. I'm getting better at economy.
What are your weaknesses: In addition to the weaknesses I mentioned in prior applications, I feel that my tone can be a bit more haughty than I'd like. And I'm very much against the privatization of art.
What are you looking to gain?: Different perspectives on writing. Insightful critiques.
What will you bring?: Insightful critiques. Different perspectives on writing.

*I apologize, especially to KV, for my caprice.

Propagation of Character

Pregnant women rend raccoon skin.
Some use teeth. Their hands
encircle in caresses that redden the womb.

The animals are then stitched into hats
at the hands of the pretty seamstress.

The rest watch the men fight.
They spit and stomp and curse--
a fringe of shrieking voyeurs.

Between her two fingers
she feels the tension of pulling thread,
so brilliantly that she might almost hear it.
She feels the thin indentation of pressure
and cold upon her by the needle.
She feels the child kick inside her.

She sets the last hat on the table
to cup hands of peeling copper at the mouth.
"They are ready, my darlings!"

"The fur is stained,"
one says
shaking her head.
"These hats won't do."
"Send for axes!"

The weapons are distributed promptly,
brandished prompter.
She prostrates herself at their feet,
as if to wash their toes.

The blades redirect the sun
as they are raised towards it.

She implores for mercy,

but they fall with sounds like splitting wood.
The bones are displayed
like the storm-wrecked frame
of a shelter.

Untitled

    Her name was Pheodora, meaning: "God's gift". What of her designators? They disappeared before explaining their nominative intentions. It remained, for her, little beside a phonetic dance of tongue. An arbitrary specification. A Social Security Number. Such an impartment would have meant nothing to her anyway. It would inspire no messianic illusion, as it may have in the case of others. She didn't believe in God, but in Mort and Mory, who received her in the parking lot of the Barstow, Nevada saloon.
     A lollipop bigger than her head, shattered but, still wrapped, had held its shape at her feet. A bow clung obliquely to the ends of her disheveled hair. She cried in a miasma of dust, from which trailed the furrows of tires. Afternoon drunks issued from the bar with varying degrees of sway, a few if only to scratch their heads at her. What's the bruised up tyke in the hiked up dress?
     Smoke break witnesses, with a most explicit view of the occurrence, saw no reason for inquiry. They chased the sand-stirring glimmer of sun, the Cherokee from which the child was thrown. Sudden vigilantism rendered them barely sentient in transports of anger. They were naught but visceral, unaware of that which moved them to compassion: a feeling of betrayal roused by action against human fraternity. But they never reduced this sickness to cause of treachery. Never gaining a chance at hypocrisy, they held an ironic noose--that which hangs one traitor to create several more.
     Mort and Mory knew of the elusive pertinence of treachery, love and trust. They knelt aside the girl, their fingers laced, a lattice fence. Mort and Mory, made one by touch--keeper of that which is sacred and innocent from that which might violate it. "My God, Mort! Look at her arms. They're black as night, green as lagoons, yellow as lemons. Nasty motherfucker, that guy. Pray, darling, tell us your name."
     "Fay-huh-huh-oh-door-uh," she replied, recovering from hysterics.
     The woman's hand laid across her shoulder was warmer than than the desert's sun; more expansive than its stretches of sand; softer than the breeze and the seeming cause of it--a stirring air of clement amidst visible heat.
     It is her first memory.

</div>

August Challenge Theme

ladytairngire — Mon, 06 Aug 2007 16:16:27 GMT

Our August Challenge Theme is:

FAIRY TALES

Challenge entries count towards the evidence0flife participation requirement.
Entries may be poetry or prose, any style, so long as the theme is met.
The current challenge will last for 25 Days. Deadline for entries is August 31st.

Challenge is open to all stamped members. Voting is encouraged for all stamped members and required for challenge contestants.

Poll: August Challenge Themes

ladytairngire — Wed, 01 Aug 2007 14:36:00 GMT

Please vote for your favorite in a response to this post.

A. Fairy Tales
B. Science
C. Siblings
D. Occupations

Again, we're shortening the deadline for this challenge. Get your pencils ready!

July Challenge: "We are all winners", and other affirmations

ladytairngire — Wed, 01 Aug 2007 14:30:27 GMT

First Place: Ladytairngire
Second Place: Erture
Third Place: Prynnesneedle

Way to go us!

Challenge Entries -

ladytairngire — Sat, 28 Jul 2007 18:26:33 GMT

We have three. Let's not waste 'em!

Here, Clickey-Click

ladytairngire — Thu, 26 Jul 2007 18:26:15 GMT

Dear John Challenge ends in FIVE days.

Jumping ahead: we are now taking suggestions for the August theme.
So, the eternal question: What do you want to write about?