Day six of Nanowrimo-my update

Day six of Nanowrimo-my update

Day six of Nanowrimo-my update

Hi everyone! welcome to my nanowrimo day six update…yeah, via video. I am WAYYYY too busy to try to type all this stuff out. I hope your Nanowrimo experience is going well. Heres the latest on me… Enjoy!

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Welcome to the Weekend (a real update!)

Woo hoo! The weekend is here! How’s everybody doing? It’s Saturday…it’s going to be a lovely day to be out planning our gardens and enjoying the respite from winter. At least, in the mid south where I am this is true. No garden dreams for me today, though. I will be working hard today with my video production job. I am sort of a grunt at this job, and by the end of the shoot, I feel like I have had a real workout. I also will be doing some photography and that is always fun. Photography sort of tweaks

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Surfing the net

Okay, so it’s been a wild week, most of which I spent watching the weather trying to decide if I was going to have to go to work. I didn’t have to most of it, and that is a good thing. It was nasty. So, instead of working, I found surfing to be of more interest and found some good sites for you to check out. Here is a list. 1. The death of writing (Guardian) 2. So you want to be a writer? (Writer’s Circle) 3. Write better crime fiction (Live, write, thrive) 4. Using Pinterest as a Writing

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The Odd Machine, an original poem by Kim Smith

The Odd Machine an original poem by Kim Smith High atop the blackened rock, In the midst of a magic ring, Sat an emerald colored car It was an odd machine. The inspection sticker bore out its age From its perch upon the glass That swayed and twirled, a tattered flag Antique and shattered mass. The blackened rock bespoke of might A former glam, a beauty Now retired and wasted down Relieved of its great duty. The seats were like cracked coconut The wheel no longer useful The odd machine, a monster now If I am being truthful. The only

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The Passing Woman

The Passing Woman

For an author, inspiration is pretty much everywhere. I am one of those authors who usually acts on impulse toward inspiration. For some reason, yesterday I was struck by a sight not often seen. An African American woman was striding down a busy street, scarf wrapped around her head in a very cultural way, pulling a wheeled bag such as one carries when going on a trip. All of these things sent a chill down my back, and the determined look on her face only cemented for me that there was a story to be told in this strange sight.

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