Can you imagine my surprise when I awoke to find dozens of people wandering around Milk Wood. Not to say we don’t get a good number during our events but with no events taking place, I was confused as to why they were there. After a few hours of wading through the crowds I asked one of the visitors how she had heard of us. “Oh,” she said, “You are on the Showcase, you’re number one right at the top of the list.”

Now, I have to admit I didn’t really know how to access this list and did feel silly asking, but eventually I pulled it up and there we were, right at the top as she had said! Somehow we have caught the Linden’s eye and I am thrilled and honoured. I’ve worked hard to grow our community which started in February 2008 but I have to say the honour should go to all our fabulous members, many of whom work so tirelessly for us. So, thank you to the most remarkable people, our community at Milk Wood.

http://secondlife.com/my/whatnext/destinations/category.php?c=arts

http://thebookstacks.org/2009/11/10/milk-wood-showcased/#comment-241

Do you have any Second Life® work that you would like to be reviewed? Perhaps a brilliant story set in Second Life® or another alternate universe? Do you have any poetry, flash fiction or novellas? Well, each month I will choose a piece of work from one Second Life® writer or poet, review it and post it on the blog here. I think there is some wonderful work out there and our talented writers need a bit of a shout out.

So, if you want to have your bones laid bare, then send me your work to virtualwriters.inc@googlemail.com and keep watching this space.

 

“Sounds of Poems” hosted by Jilly Kidd (a.k.a. Adele Ward) has become a highly attended event at the “Cookie Writers and Performers Hub”; it brings together many writers of the Second Life® community to socialize and listen to a polished, poetry reading in an outdoor arena.

On November 16th, Corwyn and Morgue took the stage to read aloud poems, given to them by the audience members. Poem selections were both from well-known authors and original pieces created by Second Life® writers. Corwyn and Morgue each had their own style of reading which complemented each other and gave their listeners an entertaining show.

Corwyn’s voice is deep and commanding. He reads with the power of a Shakespearian trained actor; every word so clear and filled with power. Morgan, sounds so mysterious and lyrical; like a goddess addressing her admirers. They interact with each other and the audience easily, giving a sense that this is more than a reading, it is a family.

Having the gift to write poetry is wonderful. The original poems given to the readers were thoughtful and moving. “Listen,” by Jilly Kidd, vividly reveals emotions one has when experiencing new, romantic love. “Time Measured,” by Stosh Quartz, speaks of the fleeting nature of time. Both poems beautifully written and well performed.

I don’t write poetry… anymore. When I was ten years old I had a cute little “Hello Kitty” diary, where I composed many heartfelt poems, all with the same theme ,“Thoughts wander through my head…I hate my parents…I hope they die!” In my teen years, they were all about my friends, also with pretty much the same theme. Needless to say, my poems were not that interesting. However, if you do want to listen to wonderful poetry, I recommend that you attend this weekly event.

Thank you for reading “Jaen’s World!”

-Jaen Wirefly

Note from Editor: Look out for several new poetry events starting up in Milk Wood very soon and the inauguration of our new Bard of Milk Wood. Who will be chosen? You will have to stay tuned to find that one out.

“Remember not only to say the right thing in the right place, but far more difficult still, to leave unsaid the wrong thing at the tempting moment.” - Ben Franklin

Some people think that ff, Flawnt’s signature, stands for “fearless Finn”. This week, Virtual Writers, Inc. sent ff as a correspondent into the thick of the NaNoWriMo battle, which is waged all over the world with hundreds of thousands of combattants wearing viking helmets, with nothing but a pen or a feathered quill for a weapon, high hopes between the horns.

The scene: a Scottish castle in the Highlands where “Bloody Management”, an in vitro novel by Flawnt currently consisting of 37,931 words in no particular order (rumoured to be opted by The Institute of Jesuit Sources after “Illuminati” was found out to be historically irreparably flawed), is being created with an international cast of B-actors many of which were hiding, at the time of our visit, behind Movement moustaches.

After getting turned down by Hestia, the book’s heroine, and the central antagonist, the bearded, reckless CEO of the company, Champ DeLorean, Flawnt managed to corner the main protagonist, Nicholas Dart, and, holding him at flawntpoint, extract an interview with him of which we publish only a fragment:

Flawnt: So tell me, Mr Dart, how does it feel to be part of a novel?

Nicholas Dart: I am flattered and honoured to be here.

Flawnt: Great. I’m sure our readers will appreciate that. How is your relationship with your creator?

Nicholas Dart: Well, I don’t know much about him, really. I am not even aware of his name.

Flawnt: His nom de plume is Finnegan Flawnt.

Nicholas Dart: Never heard of him. Should I have?

Flawnt:  Not necessarily. But he’s writing you and without him you wouldn’t be here.

Nicholas Dart: I don’t know about that. I like to think that I was there all along and was only  lifted out of this gentleman’s unconscious.

Flawnt: But surely you cannot deny the superior role played by the writer in putting together …

Nicholas Dart: …I feel a little used, actually.

Flawnt: How do you mean?

Nicholas Dart: I say it quite clearly in the beginning of the book…

Flawnt: …there isn’t really a book yet…

Nicholas Dart: …of this rough first draft then – I say very clearly that I’m confused and looking for guidance. Instead, I am merrily being led by the nose around the country, find myself in company that I didn’t ask for, in places I didn’t know existed, doing things I feel unprepared for…

Flawnt: But what about the love of your life, Hestia?

Nicholas Dart: I find her annoying, mostly, though I cannot deny a certain attraction that, however, feels uncanny and sometimes forced.

Flawnt: I am sorry.

Nicholas Dart: You should be. I recognise you now, though you’ve gone to quite some length to disguise your true identity: you are Finnegan Flawnt!

Flawnt: (nods in a characteristic way)

Nicholas Dart: You even have my nod!

Flawnt: Actually, you have my nod.

At this point, things were starting to get ugly. Suddenly, nothing that had made sense in Flawnt’s head, sentences that were already beautifully formed in his mind, situations that seemed ripe for action, and plot holes ready to be filled with treasures, worked on the paper anymore. Meeting his main character in person made him think that he had merely taken the worst of himself and wrapped it in wordcoats whose tails he was dragging through the mud.

He was almost three weeks into the contest with himself and was beginning to doubt if really he was a worthy adversary. There was only one way to find out: eyes closed, mind shut, listening only to the mumbling voices from within. So he did and wrote on.

And it was good.

Virtually yours,
Flawnt Alchemi (virtually absent during November)

“Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.” — Dr. Seuss

[Writing Reveals]

Revealing has been a HUGE trend in America for the past 20 years with Reality TV programs, talk shows and game shows taking center stage. People have become very comfortable humiliating themselves in front of large, engaged, audiences. American combat troops fight daily in Iraq, coverage broadcasted throughout the day but Reality TV doesn’t seem lacking in ratings and new shows keep popping up. Apparently, bloodshed and dismembered body parts isn’t enough action for American viewers.

But prior to Survivor, Oprah and The Newlywed Game, writers have revealed themselves for hundreds of years to unknown readers. The simple fact is: “When you choose to write, you also choose to introduce your soul to the world,” and that choice is brave.

(That being said, if you are writing directions on “How to put together the latest end table from Ikea” you don’t need to worry about revealing much, except, hopefully, an actual end table.)

Be it poetry or prose, fiction or non, a writers opinions, personality and perceptions slip into the sentences like falling crumbs from a delicious sandwich and upon finishing your meal you ask yourself, “Do I want to clean up these crumbs or not?”

There is something exciting about being exposed. During a casual conversation someone makes a perceptive comment about who you are. Suddenly, your face freezes, thoughts mix and you feel a tight grasp at your throat. You stare at the messenger, thinking, “How do they know that?”—then spend a significant amount of time searching for an answer. Writers knowingly put themselves in this position every time they submit a piece and sometimes ( for good reasons) have regrets. Revealing can lead to rejection, a common fear among most and paralyzing to some —not all of us have the wonderful self-esteem of Dr. Seuss. We re-read what is already written and wonder if people will now be able to figure out our once well-guarded secrets and if so—will they still like us?

But that is part of the thrill of writing; perhaps, that is why we spend hours writing and rewriting sentences to feel that sense of being exposed and hopefully—understood? Writing helps us to connect to others in a way that is not experienced through other art forms and that is what makes it strangely unique and sometimes, softly, satisfying.

Writers will continue to express what they can and reveal what they must, it is what they do.

Thank you for visiting “Jaen’s World”, my next post is in one week. If there are any issues or events you would like to read about please let me know.

-Jaen Wirefly

“That Quantity that is sufficient, the Stomach can perfectly concoct and digest, and it sufficeth the due Nourishment of the Body.” – Ben Franklin

Quantity. Oh my, my first week of NaNoWriMo comes to a creaking close. I open my browser in the morning to check last night’s word count: I haven’t been dreaming it – it stands solidly at 16,595 words. When in doubt, I go in-world to check the writing above my head, or the NaNoWriMo tree  under Milk Wood, or I teleport to NaNoCafe. Databases surround me like drooling dogs, feeding on an abundant secretion of their own saliva.

The daunted neo novelist under the Milk Wood NaNoWriMo tree, alone, at night.

Numbers are, as so often, deceptive, a device much like a calorie count: they do not account for the process of digestion that must take place after the gathering. At times, I feel too seriousy engaged in my own quest to touch my belly, listen to the noise it makes. I have published a few excerpts: tasty little morsels.

Quality. “How’s it going”, asks Ms Flawnt. “I don’t know”, I say, “I’m writing but I don’t know where I’m going with this.” We spread out plotting, usually at night, laying next to each other in bed – “Lovely foreplay”, she says, but I’m not sure she isn’t kidding. I’m trying to shut out what I know and sharpen my senses to what I must.

I kick plot ideas around like a soccer player during practice: one, two, three, four, five balls are in the air at once. My calves ache, I twist and  turn, I try too hard.

Mid-week, and I get so unhappy with my attempts at crafting dialogue that I throw up and refuse to speak at all on the page. Several of my characters come knocking: “Please, give us a voice, master.” They chivy me, they cajole. I cry into my pillow at night, soundlessly, then I get up and ask the hamster for advice: “Tell me what to do!” The hamster nibbles my finger down to the bone. A quote by Henry James is tattooed on it:

“The only reason for the existence of a novel is that it does attempt to represent life.”

Still, I give up trying to create life-like dialogue. I let my characters speak rather than attempting to speak through them. It helps. My dialogue gets better. I begin to sleep dreamlessly again.

Qualms. This is a seance with inky spirits. Have I summoned too many of them too fast? I feel stuffed as if I had had too much pasta too late at night. The richness of the sauce. The meatballs. What was it that Mark Twain recommended?

“Part of the secret of success in life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside.”

Perhaps I simply need to trust my insides more. Not only not re-read with my eyes, but also not re-double my efforts in my mind. Accept that I cannot, shall not have a complete picture at this stage – I’m still 33,405 words away from the end, which, most likely, is not going to be the end. I should be grateful that the wound is still oozing, not closing, that I’m letting my blood flow on the page.

Last time I tried to write a novel, my narrative melted like Gorgonzola in the sun, making a stink (which was good) but not making sense in the end. I had killed it by letting myself wanting to know too much too fast: “Magic Mirror, on the wall, who is the fairest one of all?”

The NaNoShrine and NaNoCafe for obsessive Wrimos with in-world/twitter wc updates

Quarry. Beneath the struggle, there is a quiet comfort that I discovered during this first week: the entire world has become my quarry! Whether I listen to a BBC broadcast, take a walk through low snow from our cottage down to the tracks, or retrace memory lines written all over my face: everything becomes another brick in the wall…

End of chapter. Special thanks to all the wrimo warriors out there who give shelter and support via various social media channels. I’d never have believed this would make such a difference, that you’re doing it, too: ”Together we stand, divided we fall”…

Virtually yours,
Flawnt Alchemi

This book is a dark comedy/horror by David Wong. David Wong is the pseudonym for the head editor of Cracked.com. It is another book, among a growing number, that was originally published online and is now gracing the shelves of our favorite bookstores. The set up is this, David and his best friend are reluctant paranormal investigators.

John, the aforementioned best friend and the title’s namesake, takes a drug called “soy sauce”. When David comes to rescue John from what he believes is a very bad trip, he accidentally takes some of the drug. There are no quotes around accidentally, as it is completely sincere and meant in no way to be sarcastic. The after effects of the drug cause all sorts of problems for both David and John, though not in the ways you might expect.

The style of “John Dies at the End” is very conversational, it feels like a buddy telling you of his drunken adventures. The descriptions are incredibly vivid, without being grotesque. There were sentences in this books that made me laugh and say “oohh, gross” at the exact same time. The descriptions are not intended to get a gross out reaction, but simply provide a clear mental picture. Wong supplies us with several unexpected twists in the tale.

I recommend this for people that like horror, comedy, or are just looking for something a little out of the ordinary. If you are a fan of Cracked.com then you will definitely enjoy this book, but then again if you are a fan of Cracked.com you probably already know about the book.

For those who do not know me: I am Jaen Wirefly. Harriet has been so kind inviting me to write a weekly blog entry for Virtual Writers. I feel honored and privileged to share the same space as my talented friend Flawnt. My style, subject matter and experience is very different from Flawnt. Hopefully, you will enjoy my posts, I encourage feedback both positive and negative.

When you enter Second Life® I suppose the first writing challenge that presents itself is picking out a name. Sounds easy, but it really isn’t. The name that you pick will need to convey to the Second Life® world who you are or who you want to be—all in a single word.

I decided to give my avatar a nice, unnoticeable, name, (very generic) like “Jane Doe,” fueled by my wish to keep a low-Second Life®-profile. “Jane” was a nice, simple, name “plain Jane,” but this is Second Life®, a world filled with virtual creativity and I wanted to appear slightly“ cutting edge” so I switched some of the letters around and called myself “Jaen,” pronounced— “Jane.”

However, to my disappointment, this juxtaposition of letters doesn’t always translate well and sometimes people will call me “Jean”. So my plan for a nice simple name with a twist didn’t work out so well. However, I did learn that “Jaén” is the capital city of Jaén Province in Southern Spain, which is known for olive oil and fittingly, I really enjoy olive oil.

My in-world writing so far has been primarily as a journalist for Sinatra Style Magazine, which has been an amazing experience thus far. The Sinatra’s put so much time, energy and real money into their Second Life® projects which does show a deep passion to create art in Second Life®. The magazine is looking to hire new writers and I encourage those who wish to improve their craft to apply. Writing is a field that is brimming with competition and any opportunity one has to get their work displayed should be seized. Although, I did receive my B.A in Theatre English, I still consider myself new to the writing field. However, my life has been a bit unusual and  has given me lots of topics that I can exploit.

Writing is an art that is both calming and frustrating and the explosion of blogs, on-line magazines and daily chat gives the writer lots of interesting opportunities. I welcome you to join me on my journey as I delve deeper into this wonderful endeavor called writing.

Welcome to Jaen’s World!

-Jaen Wirefly

We finished reading John Dies at the End. Our book for November is The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde. We will meet on November 29th at 3PM SLT for costume contest, quiz and discussion. I hope to see you all there.

If you’d like more input on upcoming books message me here, or in-world, or visit our group on GoodReads.

www.goodreads.com

“You may delay but time will not.” (Ben Franklin)

I’m sitting outside in front of our weekend house, and it is freezing cold. I wear four layers: undershirt, shirt, sweater, jacket, and I have slung a blanket around my legs. I look like I ought to look like: sitting in front of a lifeless piece of electronic editing equipment, staring at the blank screen. I shouldn’t be here, I should be out having fun, exercising my muscles, firming up. Spending quality time with the family. Enjoying the last rays of the sun.

Instead I have committed myself (hardly anybody’s watching*) to doing this NaNoWriMo thing & write a 50,000 word novel from scratch in 30 days. Why did I do that again? One of those foul contracts the soul closes with itself, playing both devil and man, temptor and tempted. As I sit there, listlessly listening to my own blood rushing through a head that feels less than empty and more like a black hole swallowing all energy around it, I start having feelings of anger and disappointment in myself. That’s good! That’s true! Anything that’s true is good! Witness Stephen King (yes, that King, from On Writing, 2000):

“Now comes the big question: What are you going to write about? And the equally big answer: Anything you damn well want. Anything at all . . . as long as you tell the truth.”

Now I write turning my anger and my self-loathing into a text, process into prose, stirring away from the image of myself, not pushing the feelings away but into the undefined body of the story of which I only have the dimmest idea. So dim in fact, that I’m hesitant to even call it an idea. An “ideoid” (don’t google this – you’ll get to a BBC documentary “Pedigree Dogs Exposed” and that’s not what I’m getting at…) is more like it, the fragment of an idea, a shard.

Yes, I’ve got an outline (I think I might have found it written on a hankie on the bus): dead Christmas lights are hanging off it like citizens after a lynching. I write, and I get to 617 words. My superstition motivates a singular search with the following result:

• 617 Squadron, RAF, “The Dambusters” was a single squadron formed during the Second World War to carry out a single special and dangerous task.
• Area code 617 once covered the entire eastern half of Massachusetts, and was coextensive with the Eastern Massachusetts L[ocal]A[rea]T[ransportation]A[ccess] #128.
• The International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers Local Union 617 represents construction electricians, sound and communications workers, and electrical transit technicians in San Mateo County, California.
• The GEMÜ 617 is a manually operated 2/2-way diaphragm valve with a low-maintenance plastic bonnet and an optical position indicator integrated as standard.

I am now convinced that I have put, through my writing, put an ink-stained finger right on the nexus of a bunch of intermingling, deep secrets. New food for thought and more words! As interesting as irrelevant!

Bloody Management, an unwritten novel by ff

Then I stop and I make my first fatal mistake of the day: I read what I wrote.

Don’t, cries my inner writer, who’s just only been unleashed and has barely begun to sniff around gathering fantasy animals round an imagined camp fire to tell stories. But I don’t listen, I bring in the inner critic instead, the hunter, whose step is thunder – and all the animals immediately scatter and when the hunter lifts his rifle ready to shoot, there’s nothing but a few hundred wispy words in the middle of a clearing, sad words, sad because the spirit that brought them to life for half an hour or so, was scared away.

Don’t read yet, I write on a post-it note and glue it to my forehead. Have a Schnitzel instead, wipe your mouth with dark chocolate, lean back, admire the wilderness around your writer’s cabin in the woods. Have a shag, bury your head in the pillows, plant a tree if you must, do whatever – but don’t read before you’re done. And perhaps not even then. Let your words compost, let them grow warts and hunches before you think of harvesting them.

Have someone else read your piece if you need it to be read but don’t let them tell you about it. Let them write their views in water and wash your mouth out with it every November morning. Just stay on the page.

Virtually yours,

Flawnt Alchemi

(writing about NaNoWriMo throughout November until exorcised)

* a link to the Virtual Writers, Inc. Facebook group page. If you’re not on Facebook, this will do nothing for you.