Lucy Brazier, the author of “Secret Diary of Porter girl” has featured on Newauthoronline previously. Lucy’s writing is amusing and her blog (and now the book) are well worth reading. Kevin
The wise old owl scowled,
At the lone grey wolf who howled,
As she prowled,
Intent on deeds most foul,
Under the rising moon.
Said the owl, “Must you howl,
In a manner quite so foul?
You cause my head to ache,
Go and jump in yonder lake.
Said the wolf, “Make no mistake,
It is getting late,
The lake is freezing cold,
And I am not so bold”.
A post in which L. L. Barkat argues that it is time for writers to stop blogging, (http://janefriedman.com/2013/03/15/its-time-for-many-experienced-writers-to-stop-blogging/). As an author with a blog and someone who blogs often, I don’t agree with Barkat’s perspective. Her views do, however deserve a hearing.
Barkat’s main argument is that most blogs receive comparatively few views so writers would be better spending their time (that not reserved for writing books) composing articles for sites with a big audience. Writing articles for big name sites will, in Barkat’s view gain more exposure for the writer than blogging via a personal blog.
I relish the connection my blog, newauthoronline.com provides between mmy followers and I. Such a connection can not exist where one writes exclusively for big name sites where there exists no direct link between the writer and their audience. There is, however no reason why a writer or any other blogger can not utilise their own personal site while also writing for websites with a following running into the hundreds of thousands (assuming one is lucky enough to be afforded the opportunity to contribute to such sites)! Barkat is correct that the writer needs to keep a watchful eye on their blogging to ensure it doesn’t eat up time which could be devoted to writing books.
I have no intention of ceasing my meanderings on this blog so don’t crack open the champagne just yet …!
“Cecil Graham: What is a cynic?
Lord Darlington: A man who knows the price of everything, and the value of nothing.
Cecil Graham: And a sentimentalist, my dear Darlington, is a man who sees an absurd value in everything and doesn’t know the market price of any single
thing.”
(Oscar Wilde. Lady Windermere’s Fan).
According to the above, I am a sentimentalist for I had no idea what price to attach to my book, “Dalliance; A Collection Of Poetry And Prose”. Indeed I must confess to finding the attaching of monetary value to artistic creations rather distasteful. For me literature and art more generally possesses a value in and of itself which can not be reduced to a matter of pounds, shillings and pence. Food feeds the stomach while art nourishes the soul. While the former is vital to the survival of the species, once food is eaten that is an end of the matter while, with art exposure to it continues to feed the spirit long after the creation in question has vanished from view. Poems I read as a boy continue to resonate with me today while countless meals are long since forgotten. Of course one may remember a dinner for the excellent companionship of friends but only on rare occasions will the food consumed figure in one’s recollections.
Having said all that, I do, of course accept that man does not exist by consuming fresh air alone. Authors must earn (and deserve to earn) a crust. Consequently it is necessary for me and other authors to attach monetary value to our creations. In the case of “Dalliance” I discussed the matter of price with several colleagues and friends who had read the book. None where of much help. One colleague suggested a price range of between £8 to £20. Given that “Dalliance” runs to 68 pages I felt that £20 was much to high. Eventually I consulted the man who owns my local bookshop, Bookseller Crow. He suggested a price of £7.99 which we agreed upon. This will cover the cost of producing “Dalliance” and, I hope allow both myself and the good purveyor of books to earn a crust.
In conclusion, books do possess an inherent value which can not be translated into purely monetary terms. However in the real world it is necessary (as with other artistic creations) to assign a price to them. However, deep in my soul I feel that it is sacreligious to place a financial value on Keats “Ode to A Nightingale” or Arnold’s “Dover Beach”.
Many thanks to Victo Dolore for the below guest post. If you haven’t already checked out Victo’s blog please do so. She writes with humanity and humour about the medical world and so much more, (https://doctorly.wordpress.com/).
—
The Guest
The headmaster was standing at the back of the room in his brown suit and brown tie, his arms crossed somberly across his chest. He was a serious man who
never joked, never smiled.
I was nervous just looking at him.
It was my second grade class and it was the end of the school year. My teacher, Ms. White, held a sheaf of those wide ruled tan colored notebook papers
stapled together in her hands, turning each page slowly as she read from the podium at the front of the class.
They were my papers.
It was my story.
I stole another glance around the room. My classmates watched her with rapt attention, eyes growing wider. They were there in the story, I could see it!
There were dwarves and a wizard and a cave filled with treasure and scary monsters that clung to the dark shadows. I knew the secret, though. It was going
to end up with good winning out over evil. Just wait, I smiled to myself.
As she read the last words there was silence. More silence. My heart stood still as the seconds ticked by. Then… everyone clapped, even the somber, frightening
man at the back of the class.
He smiled at me!
I had never been recognized by anyone as being good at anything to that point. My handwriting was always awful. I read aloud too fast. My clothes were
old, worn hand-me-downs. Mathematics was a mystery to me. I was quiet as a mouse, never speaking, always invisible.
And so from that day forward I wrote every chance I could get.
I will never win any literary award. I will never have a huge audience. But when I put pen to paper I find my voice. The magic weaves its way through my
fingers, taking over…
Thus began my love affair with words.
Passion fragile as glass
Bliss empty as the passing of cash.
Love that endures while money lasts.
Lonleness yawns, it’s mouth vast
She smiled, awhile I tarried there, fashioned castles out of air. She laughed, set my heart aflame, tis love, or my overactive brain.
I think of her but who is she? A bird encaged longing to be free? Is she content in her cage? Or does she beat the bars with rage? Do I put my thoughts on her? Building castles in the air? Who am I? who is she? Both are struggling to be free.
There is no love, only lust.
There is no flesh, tis but dust.
There is no joy, only moan.
Friendship tis fleeting, man dies alone.
I am pleased to announce that my book, “Dalliance; A Collection Of Poetry And Prose” is available to purchase from Bookseller Crow in Crystal Palace, (http://booksellercrow.co.uk/). Print copies can also be obtained by contacting me at newauthoronline (at) gmail dot com, (please put “Dalliance” in the subject line). “Dalliance is also available as an ebook from Amazon, (http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dalliance-collection-poetry-prose-Morris-ebook/dp/B00QQVJC7E). Below are examples of the poetry to be found in “Dalliance”:
Midnight
Midnight, black as pitch.
No scheming demon, ghost, nor witch.
Only the darkness, which in the human heart resides, manifests itself in cruelty and pride.
—
Let Us Away
Let us away and make hay,
For tomorrow we must pay.
Let us frolic the live long day,
But tomorrow we must pay.
—
Fire
I have felt the fire’s power;
It kindles brightly and sinks within the hour.
I have watched the embers dying fast;
Looked into the future and gazed into the past.
I have raked the ashes cold, felt the bleakness in my soul.
K Morris - Poet 