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Why You Write
August 26, 2016 by Loan Le Leave a Comment
A short manifesto I wrote for Causeway Lit, a literary magazine run by Fairfield University's MFA Program.
Causeway Lit
Written by: Loan Le – Fiction Section Editor
So, here you are. You have turned down invitations to parties and happy hours, because you cannot socialize when you have a character in your mind, her voice echoing like a message over a PA system in an empty hallway. You have endured strangers' tilted heads, the sardonic curl of their lips, the upspeak "Oh, really?" when you explain that you are a writer. Your worth has been challenged and measured against already established writers. Your work is "not the right fit" for this journal or that magazine. All of this has left you despairing, wondering why you have chosen this particular way of being, which lately brings much more pain than reward.
Credit: John Liu
Step back. Somewhere, find a pocket of peace where your thoughts are your own, where you hear only yourself. Recognize, first, that by writing, you have…
Filed Under: Books, Creative Writing, Life, MFA, Writing Tagged With: amwriting, creative writing, Fairfield university, fiction, Loan Le, nonfiction, short story, writer's manifesto, writing, writing community, writing life
On Static, or Writer's Block
February 27, 2016 by Loan Le Leave a Comment
TV Static by Justin March (via Creative Commons)
I just handed in my first MFA packet to my mentor, and I thought I'd feel relieved after that. After all, I'd spent many hours muttering about my characters, plot, and language. I'd pressed the BACKSPACE tab so many times that I thought it'd be broken by now. On the left side of my bed are stacks of earlier drafts that I'd edited and proofread in red, but I suppose I'll have to recycle them soon to make room for what my bed is actually for—you know, sleeping.
GREAT. Time for a new story!
Let's sit down, pull up Google Docs, turn on my Spotify list of dark trap music that makes you feel like Satan has a gun to your head Taylor Swift music, and . . .
And what? There's an idea somewhere, but I'm not quite getting it; it runs away before I can call its name. I'm passing my time watching the text cursor blink. Nothing's being written. Most people call this period writer's block.
That term can be a misnomer: Block, as in a road block—cars jammed one-way, bumper to bumper, where there's a slew of idiots who think they can honk their horns and everything will miraculously part like the fucking Red Sea. Block, as in a Facebook block— especially that annoying high school classmate who loved playing The Game. Block, as in a basketball block—good lord, I'm referencing basketball now . . . What I'm getting at is that writer's block is too definite and too solid of a word for me.
From now on, I'd like to call writer's block "static." Hell, let's make it more official by capitalizing that S and adding the just this once: THE STATIC (coming to select theaters this summer).
Static looks like the television screen after the end of a VHS movie, feels like Pop Rocks in your mouth, and sounds like that friend who talks too much. If you have static, you're getting story ideas but they're coming at you half-assed and nondescript. They surround you—that guy in front of you hacking out his lung, that little shit at the Times Square subway stop kicking the shins of his father who checks baseball stats on his phone; that shifty beggar in the third-to-last car whose lips move soundlessly—and you see all of this, yet you're not getting the idea you want. Which makes you moody and depressed, and the sadistic side of you grieves for the torture of writing because at least you had the company, at least you had a goal, and at least you were doing all hell to accomplish it.
I did something bad recently, as I was experiencing this static. I went back to one of my more polished stories and edited. Frustrated that I wasn't getting a new idea quick enough, feeling bored or anxious, I wanted to exert power, to have some semblance of control. I changed my characters and their backstories so they were completely different. I sloppily extended my original ending by three pages (without having a new ending in mind). All the while, I felt uncomfortable, but my fingers kept typing away. I thought I was improving my story, but I was only destroying it.
So, what is the point of this static? My theory for static's existence is that it's the brain's way of complaining: "Slow down, you're gonna kill me with all your imagination." Or shaming us. "Stop thinking about murder, why don't you? You can't kill everyone (in your story)." Or even protecting us. Static is to writing as pickled ginger is to eating sushi. (I'm hungry as I'm writing this post, so my analogies aren't going to be the ones you find in an SAT book.) Customary practice says to use a sliver of gari to cleanse the palate after each sushi so that the tongue is prepped for the next sushi. If you skip this step and eat one piece after another, it tastes like you're stuffing way too many things in your mouth (you slut). And you're unable to taste the slight sweetness of rice, the dab of wasabi, or the raw fish melting in your mouth.
Now, in writing, the static is the mind enabling a defense mechanism, clearing away all the emotional vestiges from the last story. All writers know that we carry our own burden and the imaginary ones that we put on our characters. This could interfere with the writing process of the next story, whatever it becomes.
Another theory is that static says you might not get good reception from where you are, so go somewhere else—do something else besides writing, because you've been kind of a shitty person lately. Maybe, you know, remind people you're alive. I'll be honest: when I hit a groove in writing, I tell my friends the truth and ask to reschedule this and that. I don't do it that often because I'm not an asshole, but I want to tell the truth and my friends often understand.
Once I started seeing the positive that comes with static, I didn't fight it as much, which helped with my mood. I started planning and re-visualizing one of my stories, and I was left feeling more reassured rather than guilty. And the fun thing is that revising can lead to another story.
If static comes, it should be comforting to know that it will pass soon. It's knowing that there's a story out there, and that there's no need to rush to get it right away. It is my belief that when you find that idea, that character, that story calling for you, it's easy to feel like you'd never experienced this static.
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Filed Under: Creative Writing, Life, MFA, Writing Tagged With: craft, craft essay, creative writing, writer's block, writing life
That time I took a Modern and Contemporary Dance course
November 13, 2015 by Loan Le Leave a Comment
I've recently taken up hip hop classes in lieu of intensive workouts at my gym.
Yeah, I never thought I'd write that sentence. But it's true. Me, who cannot follow a lick of choreography, in a hip hop class … One day, I will film the class so that you can get a sense of how inadequate I am. Another post will likely delve into this experience.
Believe it or not, Dance and I have a long history.
In my senior year of college, I wanted to take a course that would fulfill my visual and performing elective and also allow me to have fun. I realized that my course load was too focused on writing; I needed to take a break somehow. So, I enrolled in Modern and Contemporary Dance. Cue the initial stages of awkwardness, as I recalled early childhood memories of dance classes (tap, jazz, and hip hop) with Miss Beverley, courtesy of Waterbury Park and Recreation: the horror of doing solos, the feeling of utter failure as my clumsy body tried to mirror my teachers' lithe movements, and oh god, the glittery dance costumes and corny photos . . .
How did I last ten years? (I have the trophy to prove it.) I still don't have the answer.
I was surprised by Brad Roth's class at the Pepsico Theater. He was always so chill that I wondered if he smoked a few before our class. He wanted us to sync our inside self with our outside self, wanted our emotions to fuel our movements. He taught us the Alexander technique to reduce the tension that comes from everyday activities like sitting in a slouched position in front of a computer. (I had to correct my posture after writing this sentence).
As much as I pretended to dislike this class—laughing and rolling my eyes at certain things that Brad did—I honestly treasured these afternoons. We once had a dancer from Stomp! guest-teach our class. We also did yoga (and I didn't fall asleep!). My most memorable moment, however, was toward the end of semester when our class decided to do a flash mob outside. Well, not a mob, as it was a class of maybe twelve . . . and it wasn't planned very well. I just remember us jumping and prancing around the traffic circle near the campus center. People definitely stopped to watch us, but after awhile, it didn't seem like our class cared. We were too busy dancing 🙂
Our final project was to create a piece of work that incorporated what we had learned throughout the class. The thought of choreographing anything terrified me, so I decided to play it safe: I wrote a story. I ended up reading it in class, the first time in a long time in which I'd shared my work out loud.
I thought it'd be fun to post it here, unedited, as it's almost two years old. I didn't imagine it as more than what's pasted below. Sometimes that happens with writing. Below, I also pasted my analysis of the movements that were mentioned in the piece.
Trust Gone
by Loan Le
The pale and bare branches of dying trees swayed violently, battling each other in the winter wind. A maroon Prius, with its windows shivering, drove over crushed ice and slush and entered an asphalt yard boxed in by gray and icy chain-link fencing. Lily emerged from the front seat and gazed up at the cemented boxes and rectangles that kept her father inside. She wanted to get back in the car and turn around. She wanted go back to her house and sit near the warmth of her fireplace. But he had called her. For some reason, he decided to reach out to her—even though she never wanted to hear from him again.
Stuffing her hands into the pockets of her wool jacket and tucking her chin underneath a scarf, she battled the winds, walking to the entrance. In her nightmares—the ones that emerge even after a peaceful day—she would explore the prison's halls, and strange men with scars, tattoos and rotten teeth would always jump out around the corners. She'd wake up screaming and her boyfriend Tom would have to hold her until she regained her breath.
Now inside, Lily said her name to the guard, who, after jerking his head to the right, buzzed her in. Large and small hands did a preliminary search of her body. She kept shifting her feet, which made the guards suspicious, but once they realized she didn't want to be there, they let her go. She followed their directions, proceeding down a long hallway with double doors at the very end. Her feet moved automatically in a straight line. In the same nightmares she had appeared in a similarly placed corridor, only as she traveled further and further, the walls closed in on her. Trapped behind the blindingly white walls were grotesquely distorted faces and hands clawing their way out. They screamed at her.
She kept her body tight, crossing her arms to fight away a bout of claustrophobia. In the distance she heard men throw curse words at each other, chairs and tables scuffling, and keys jangling as someone presumably jogged to secure the scene.
One tall guard stood outside of the visiting room, his face stoic, and arms behind his back. His stance was fit for a soldier prepared for an attack.
"Hands out," he said.
She glanced up at him, confused. How in the world could she sneak something in hands between the first checkpoint and this area? Yet, Lily removed them from her pockets. Satisfied, he listed out the general etiquette for visitors. Keep it to a half hour. Hands where they can be easily seen. Use the phone to talk to the prisoner.
It took her a few beats to realize the guard had stopped speaking. He had opened the door for her.
As if sensing her hesitation, he added, "We have two guards inside who will watch the door." Lily let her eyes wander over his deep mahogany face—which aside from residual acne scars and what looked like a crooked nose—appeared kind. She wondered if he was a father. If he was, she wanted to tell him her whole story. That it was her father who wanted to see her, not the other way around. That he could never receive her forgiveness no matter how many times he tried.
She took off her jacket, feeling her body heat up. She hugged it as she stepped into the next room. The walls looked more gray than white. A row was sectioned like cubicles to allow visitors to speak with prisoners in semi-privacy. A redheaded woman joked with a scrawny, nervous looking man whose gray jumpsuit made his own red hair more pronounced. Another man sat with a little blonde girl, probably five or six, since she carried a doll with her. The female prisoner behind the glass divider, her hair cut short and uneven, gazed fondly at the girl, who was more preoccupied with her toy. These family gatherings would have looked normal—sentimental even—if only there weren't glass dividers, jumpsuits, handcuffs, and guards.
She then look to the front and, with a slight jolt, saw her father staring straight at her; he waited for the moment she walked through that door. Her boots clicked against the linoleum tiles, echoing over the hushed conversations. Once taking a seat she didn't tuck in her chair like she would at a dinner table. Even with the divider up, she didn't trust herself enough to get close.
He had aged since the last time she'd seen him at his sentencing. White hair dominated light brown strands and wrinkles were carved into his skin. Black bags under his eyes resembled bruises. He sat up, loosening his right hand, which had been curled into a fist. He leaned forward, shoulders hunched, digging his elbows into the table.
Her father mouthed something at her and then pointed at the handset that was to his left—her right. She reached for hers—was her hand shaking?—and pressed the cold chromium plastic to her ear.
"Hi, Lily," the man whispered. And in that instant, she was six years old, in bed, falling asleep to the sound of him reading Peter Pan to her.
"Hi." The word "Dad" could no longer be used.
"How was your exam?" he asked.
"I passed." Bradley must have told him. For some reason Lily kept in touch with her father's lawyer. He relayed her father's request, asking cautiously engaging her in a pretentious conversation about her life. Like others, Bradley felt sympathy for her father; they were actually good friends. During the trial people said that he had snapped—that was all. He wasn't a bad man. She was surprised to receive more mail from sympathizers than from angry and sometimes incomprehensible people. Some said they understood why he'd kill someone. Some said they would do the same if they had experienced the same betrayal as he did.
Regardless of people's opinions about her father's innocence, she knew nothing could bring her mother back.
Her father smiled. "That's great. You always wanted to be a nurse. Nursing school is the first step."
"I remember you used to like playing with those—what were they called? Cabbage Patch Girls I think. You'd take care of them like they were your babies." He laughed briefly, more to himself. "How's everything else? Work treating you well? You look a bit thin since the last—"
"It's been eight years, Dad," Lily answered. She bit her tongue; how naturally that word could flow out of her mouth. She hated how this seemed to strengthen him, because he gazed at her, long and hard, seeing something that she could not.
"You look so much like her."
She gripped her handset tighter.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say it like that. I didn't think."
Lily locked eyes with her father. She couldn't believe him his nerve. The disgust abated, and was replaced by familiar numbness. She followed where his eyes landed and saw her sleeves had rolled up to reveal the gashes on her wrists. They still hurt. Quickly, she pulled her hands away and put them on her lap, intertwining her fingers so tightly that they turned white.
"So you called? I didn't expect to get a call from here." Appear interested, her psychiatrist told her a few weeks ago. Don't let yourself feel scared; be in control.
"I have something to tell you. And I couldn't wait for you to call me—because that would take forever." The lightness in his voice wrung her heart, and she tried inconspicuously to breathe deeply through her nose. She sensed his father wanted to talk more about what he'd just seen, but she should never reveal anything to him. It would be futile. She watched his Adam's apple bob up and down as he swallowed.
"I'm dying."
"Oh?" was all she could say.
"It's cancer."
Lily, without knowing why, started laughing. Her mind seemed to overload then, thoughts and thoughts piled on top each other but one word that kept repeating was "Why?"
"I didn't think you'd find it funny," her father said, almost looking hurt.
"Oh, it's hilarious. What—" She stopped, fighting down another laugh that bubbled in her throat. Cancer in this case must be a sympathetic disease, though her father didn't deserve any mercy. "So what does this mean?"
He tilted his head, genuinely confused. "I'll be moved to a hospice. I've chosen one near home."
The word "home" had not registered in her mind for a long time. She wasn't able to save hers. "How sweet," Lily spat. "But no one lives there anymore, remember? I ended up in foster care." The memories came back to her; her psychiatrist kept telling her to move on, but they kept her back: her "parents" who had already too many kids to care for and her "siblings" who'd goad her about her real father who was all over the news until someone else killed another person.
"I didn't know that would happen. I didn't want anything to happen to you," her father kept saying.
"It's too late to say things like that."
"I needed to see you. Because the doctor said the cancer's spreading fast. He doesn't think I—"
"It's been four years—"
"—the meds aren't working—"
"You can go fuck yourself for all I—"
"—Damn it, Lily!" He banged a fist onto the table, the mere action sucking all other conversations out of the room. Lily instinctively pushed herself away, and had nearly pulled out the telephone's cord. Her father forced his hand open and then dragged it through his hair. He slowed his breathing. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." He was saying this to the guard who had stood a few feet away from them.
"You okay?" the guard asked gruffly, placing a hand on Lily's shoulder. She nodded.
With the other man back in his original place, her father started speaking again. "I don't expect you to forgive me. Not right away."
"Not ever. I wouldn't have cared if you died." She instantly knew that was a lie. She did care, still, even it was just a little. Her therapist knew as well, which was why she encouraged her to come today. Lily felt the tears behind her ears.
Her father swallowed again. He pressed a hand against the glass divider. She could see the faint reflection of herself, and was surprised to find her expression emotionless—cold like the weather she would soon meet again.
As a kid Lily thought it was so fascinating how much larger his hands were. She used to rest her own hand against his, as if he was her reflection. Lily compared the difference in texture: hers baby soft, his calloused with grooves and small hills, hers clean, his stained with residual oil grease, as if he had the color black permanently tattooed on it. She remembered wanting her hands to be like that—so grown up. She wanted to be him, not her mother—the woman who keep Lysol cleaning wipes in her bag, who would cringe at her dad's touch and never allowed him a small kiss, even when he did shower after work. One time, while her mother cooked dinner, he snuck up behind her, quickly wrapping his arms around her waist. She wriggle out of his embrace, telling him he was bothering her. Her father spoke with his arms—outstretched arms meant he couldn't contain his words and feelings. Her mother spoke with frowns and disapproving eyes. Lily never understood her—sometimes she even hated her. She was only a little surprised when her mother had sought comfort elsewhere.
Now staring at her father, Lily felt her arm inching forward on its own accord. In her mind, she saw that hand, outstretched, waiting for hers as she balanced—left foot, right foot, left foot, right food, don't fall—along a narrow cemented wall in a nearby park. Her father would walk steadily besides her, watching for a fall, but she never took up his offer. If she could just remember how she felt in those moments, maybe—
But she couldn't stop her mind from going back to two years ago, when she came home late from volunteering at the hospital . . .
When the police were already there.
Blood pounding in her ears, she moved through the rooms: the living room, where she was measured every year; the kitchen, where her mother seemed to live; the stairs that Lily used to slide down as a carefree child. She thought of her father; he must be hurt. The police wouldn't tell her anything, but she eventually found out when she saw her mother's body in the master bedroom. She pushed past the officers with strength she didn't know she possessed. The medical examiner didn't have time to cover up her mother, her bruised neck, and her naked body, when Lily made it to the room.
A slash of blood coated the walls like a Pollock painting Lily once saw at the Met. Next to her mother lay the naked body of a John Doe, his chest sliced open, and on the floor a bloodied letter opener.
His hand against the glass reminded her of the same hands that prosecutors said wrung her mother's neck until her larynx caved in.
"We're family," his dad said to her, bringing her back.
Finally Lily pushed her chair back, metal screeching across the floor. She nodded at the nearby security guard who stepped aside and opened the door for her. She gave her dad one last look. His hand still rested against the glass divider, but he let his phone dangle beside him. He gave her a pleading look, the kind that would have made her six-year-old self rush into his arms and bury her nose into his shirt to smell the gasoline in the summer. But she wasn't six anymore.
"No, we're not."
I've learned that dance reflects life. Dance is the outward expression of the emotions that we hold inside; it is an attempt to make emotions tangible. When deciding on this story, I focused first on the emotions, because that is the way I write: I want to make readers feel something. I believe readers can empathize with characters who also show emotions, so when I create my characters, I create them as broken people. Then I try to repair them in my stories.
I usually find inspiration when I hear a one-liner or when my mind focuses on an imagined scene, like watching a movie. For this story specifically, I saw the father's hand pressed against the glass divider. It is such an open expression; we use the gesture every day. With an open palm, we give friendly high-fives, we wave hello and goodbye, and we place it on our heart when we pledge to the flag or when we just want to remind ourselves that we are alive by feeling our hearts beat. The palm faced outwards says, "I am here." In this story, I wanted the open hand to mean "I am your father." Naturally the climax, as you might say, revolves around this one imagery.
My next step was to build a conversation that could be the crux of the story. Dialogue tends to hasten the plot while also revealing a lot about the characters. After that, I had to fill in the blanks, and I did this by using what we learned about the four efforts. When we went over the efforts in class, you provided us with examples and pictures that helped make them more visible to us. This is a bit odd, but when I thought about time and weight, I thought about feelings. What feelings can be associated with sustained time? With light weight? I started asking myself these sorts of questions. Using the open palm and other examples of what an outstretched hand could mean, I built the history of Lily and her father. I wanted the light and slower scenes in the story, mostly in flashbacks, to symbolize a happier time. But then the stronger and quicker descriptions were bad, symbolizing a broken present. I connected the flow element with the concept of freedom and the space element with the concept of relationships.
For example, the closer the space between two people, the closer they are related. Similarly in our dance class, we had a lot of exercises that required us to work close with other classmates. With our visit to the center in Trumbull, we would often strike a pose to connect everyone—people with disabilities and people without disabilities—together. It is clear that dance has the great potential to connect.
But I wanted to show that there is a downside to being so close and so connected to another person. When Lily was little, she didn't like being away from her father. We all know just how comforting another presence can be. Yet, we must acknowledge an unfortunate reality – a close presence can be poisoning. You can become dependent on it or you can ignored all of its flaws. Lily had not seen the darker side to her father because she was young; she had only seen the product of his anger. But after his jail time, she realizes that she never wants to see his true side. As you can see, she misses the past, but she knows that nothing can make up for the present. And there is no more future with her father. At the end, she walks away, purposely widening the distance, realizing that she does not need to be close anyone, she is independent.
I learned that movement within a story must mean something. Actions are sometimes more important than dialogue. A man might confess his undying love for a woman in a speech, but if the readers reads on and finds out through the writer's narrative that "he held a knife behind his back," then readers can realize the truth of his intentions. I realized the power of movement by observing the exercises we have done in class. Good choreography tells a story. So many examples in our dance class have stayed with me. For the anniversary of the September 11 attacks, we dedicated a piece to the people who died that cloudless day. I remembered a moment when two of my classmates standing next to each other, modeling the Twin Towers. Taken out of context, it would just mean two people standing side by side. Yet, when I saw this happening, I felt sad, angry, reflective, and comforted all at the same time. Experiencing the power of movement, I wanted my descriptions about Lily and her father's outward movement to be clear. One main element that I kept in mind was movement that represented resistance.
In one of our partner exercises, we had to have one person lean forward as far as possible, while the other person held back the partner's arms to balance them. This exercise was based on trust and strength. My partner needed to feel comfortable with how far she could lean forward. But I interpreted this exercise in a different way, too. I imagined my partner leaning away, trying to escape my grasp, even though her efforts were futile. In this story, I portrayed Lily as she tried to escape her father's grip. In the end she does, but the ending can also be interpreted that her father had finally let her go, because he knew he couldn't do anything else to win her back.
After writing this story and the end-of-the-month responses, I've grown used to writing dance descriptions, which made me pay more attention to writing descriptions in general. Before, when watching dance recitals and performances, I always had a passive experience; I would see so many moves that looked pretty and awe-inspiring, but now I wonder about a choreographer's choices. I learned a good choreographer doesn't just put moves in a dance to "wow" the audience; the moves must have weight and must affect the viewer long after the dance is done—not just in that one minuscule second. Much like choreography, descriptions in short stories and novels have to mean something in order to make stories truly come alive.
Filed Under: Creative Writing, Life, Writing Tagged With: arts, creative writing, dance, writing
"Yeah, um, I don't like to read."
January 25, 2015 by Loan Le 2 Comments
Conversations—I'm not that good at starting them. Some people might think I'm odd, but one of the questions I might ask a stranger is what she or he is reading. I was at a writing group one time, and met a girl who was close to my age. She had just read an excerpt from her fiction short story. Asking for her reading preference didn't seem unusual to me, especially because we were in a writing environment, but then she laughed shortly and answered:
I tried hiding my shock, but I'm told that my emotions show.
In general I'm not bothered by people who don't like to read. It's perfectly fine for people to consume information through a different medium. But it doesn't make sense to me when I hear that a writer dislikes reading. For my entire life, reading and writing have always gone hand in hand.
Let me explain how I started writing. I read the Harry Potter series over and over again, and in between each book release I created elaborate stories involving Rowling's characters (aka, fanfiction). Eventually, I realized that my plots involved little to no magic, and my characters were unlike the characters within Rowling's pages, so I knew that I'd outgrown the Harry Potter world, and needed to create my own. I started writing because I liked reading so much and I wanted different things to read.
I can say that one of my main sources of inspiration stems from the books I read (Harry Potter is only one example). When I can't think of anything to write, I find refuge in books. True, there have been times when I purposely stopped reading. I foolishly convinced myself that I should focus on my own writing, that I should create sentences and stories, not absorb them. I also worried that by reading and writing at the same time I might accidentally compose a sentence that sounds good, only to realize I had read it in someone else's work. However, I've learned that inspiration doesn't mean plagiarism (well, to Shia LaBeouf it might). It's taking one small, compressed detail in an existing work and expanding it into a completely different piece.
Take postmodern literature for example. Wide Sargasso Sea explores the life of a character who later becomes the madwoman in the attic in Jane Eyre. You can also consider more irreverent titles like Jane Slayre, which re-imagines the title character as a demon-slaying heroine. While still relying on the bare bones of Jane Eyre, Jean Rhys and Sherri Browning Erwin's novels created something different from the original story.
Additionally, writers who read have a better sense of their place in the spectrum of existing writers, and this awareness helps when you're trying to establish your writing career. In publishing, there's something called a Hollywood formula. When pitching a book in a letter, sometimes it's easiest to write, "This book is such and such meets such and such." Inception meets 10 Things I Hate About You. Um, well, that might be a weird description. I don't even know how to make sense of that . . . I hope you get my point. Just one sentence can help an editor understand the content of your work, but it's near impossible to make comparisons without possessing knowledge of those who are deemed great writers in your genre.
By reading, writers also gain literary aspirations. Be jealous of great writers! I'm constantly envious of today's writers; I've read works from storytellers like Kate Milliken and Denis Johnson, and I think, "Damn. These people are unbelievably good." I endeavor to be like them one day—not for the fame, but for the ability to evoke powerful, lasting emotions in strangers. People often say that you learn a lot from life, but I've learned so much from writers. (I guess what I'm saying is redundant because writers essentially mold life and its peculiarities into plausible words and sentences). I learned about the economy in writing from Raymond Carver, the unnecessary existence of form and punctuation from José Saramago, and the art of writing fascinating disturbed characters from Vladimir Nabokov, Ian McEwan, and Bret Easton Ellis.
If I could meet this non-reader writer again—despite the size of New York, it's still a possibility—I'd encourage her to read more and read well, and perhaps leave her with this quote from Stephen King regarding the synergy between reading and writing:
"The real importance of reading is that it creates an ease and intimacy with the process of writing; one comes to the country of the writer with one's papers and identification pretty much in order. Constant reading will pull you into a place (a mind-set, if you like the phrase) where you can write eagerly and without self-consciousness. It also offers you a constantly growing knowledge of what has been done and what hasn't, what is trite and what is fresh, what works and what just lies there dying (or dead) on the page. The more you read, the less apt you are to make a fool of yourself with your pen or word processor. . . ." (Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft)
I'm interested to see which books have influenced writers the most. I'm starting a page called A Writer's Toolbox, and would love to hear your suggestions. Comment or answer the poll below!
Filed Under: Books, Creative Writing, Life, Writing Tagged With: amwriting, books, creative writing, fiction, reading, writers, writing, writing life
November 22, 2014 by Loan Le 6 Comments
I went to a brown bag lunch the other day, and it was led by Colin Harrison, the Vice President and Editor-in-Chief at Scribner. Before joining Scribner, he was the deputy editor for Harper's Magazine. He's an accomplished novelist but edits mostly nonfiction because he enjoys the challenge, the journey that he takes with the sometimes nervous and overburdened writer.
These sessions allow young editors the opportunity to interact with someone who, before, had only been known by name.
Harrison is a middle-aged man with salt-and-pepper hair and a well-kept winter beard, and he talks with his hands. I expected the typical spiel about the business of books, but he actually provided an intimate account of writing and editing. I felt that some of his points might help me and you (whoever "you" might be) become better writers.
"What does it mean to be a writer?" he asked us. We all worked in different departments: editorial, marketing, finance, and legal. First thing that popped into my head is that writers need to be a bit bonkers. They need a small dose of insanity to conjure wild stories. Harrison definitely agreed, saying that a writer either wears this stereotype like a badge of honor or profusely denies it.
But, "writers are [also] criminals," he remarked. While others aren't noticing, while they are too busy obsessing over the superficiality of the world—the Kardashians, for example—writers take what they see as authentic and appropriate it to their own use. Without others knowing, these writers commit a slight theft, storing knowledge for later use.
Harrison also discussed the challenges that writers encounter: the form, the story, and the process.
The Form. This should be the easiest thing to figure out, right? Wrong. Sometimes you'll need the reader to point out that one form would benefit the story more than another. There have been plenty of times when I critiqued a writer's work at my writing group and saw that the story could have functioned as a poem, rather than a short story.
The Story. Ugh, the struggle. I often ask myself why I'm telling this person's story? What is the narrative that will grab the readers' heart, hold them hostage until they become willing visitors to another world?
The Process. Every writer has a particular way of functioning. Harrison mentioned someone he knows who writes in the morning. And every morning, his wife would pour water on his head to wake him up. Funnily enough, this practical joke has become a step that the writer takes to jump-start his writing process. I haven't developed a process that benefits me fully, but I will.
Oftentimes, writers mistake one problem for another. Example: I can't figure out how to write this story in first person. Someone else asks: Why? Writer: Because the coffee shop where I write gets noisy and I can't concentrate when that happens. What they think is a form problem actually turns out to be a process problem.
Finally, Harrison also talked about the definition of a book. He dismissed the normal definition that we all use, and of course, tweaked it with a novelist's flair. According to him, a book is a machine of language. The beginning brings readers to the middle, which leads to the end; every part of a novel benefits the next. So, in this sense, editors are the mechanics. A book comprises a narrative, an argument, or a list. If you have trouble placing your book into any of these categories, then you might not have a book.
Well, it's obvious by now that I love talking about writing! Perhaps too much. But I hope Harrison's tips resonate with you as much as they resonate with me. Comment below to let me know your thoughts!
Other posts on writing:
What I learned after working at literary agency
What I learned from reading and writing fanfiction
Filed Under: Books, Creative Writing, Life, Writing Tagged With: colin harrison, creative writing, editing, novels, process, scribner, writing
August 2, 2014 by Loan Le 3 Comments
Oh wow! Writers in their natural habitats!
In a previous blog post, I wrote about loneliness and the transition from college life to semi-adult life. Short summary: It wasn't going very well. My way of coping, of abating that loneliness, was to write. Interestingly enough, after I published that post, a stranger on Twitter suggested that writing could also be the cause of loneliness. I suppose this person is half-right; when you're doing something you love, you're in the moment, and you can forget where you are. But I don't want writing to prevent me from meeting people; I decided that writing should help me meet people.
I immediately began my search for writing groups in NYC and Brooklyn, and let me tell you: The quest was exhausting. I left my first meeting feeling utterly disappointed. I was the youngest person in attendance, and felt as if the older members devalued my opinions. They were also creepy.
Then I attended a Gotham Writers' Workshop course in downtown Brooklyn, which turned out to be a much better experience. I felt included—perhaps it was because the instructor sought to make all writers feel comfortable. Despite this, I'm not sure I'd want to pay $20 for another course. The instructor only allowed us to offer positive feedback. I'm all for positive energy, but I wonder how we'll improve as writers if we receive only positive feedback. Perhaps I am used to seeing my writing be brutally torn apart, thanks to my journalism experience (starting with the time I got a 76 on my first journalism assignment in Dr. Simon's freshman news writing class…but that doesn't really matter…)
Anyways, guys, I've finally found a writers' group. It's been around for twelve years, with a solid core and a welcoming attitude toward newer members like moi. I've attended four meetings so far, recently returning from a session last night, and I feel like I can belong here eventually. I really enjoyed meeting and talking to the other writers. There's a writer who is a financial analyst by day and a horror screenwriter by night, a former Silicon Valley techie working on a (surprise!) technology thriller, and a librarian writing the next big teen novel (sans vampires).
Here's the drill: we chat for a few minutes and then take an hour to work on our writing. After the host says stop, we spend two and a half hours reading and critiquing each other's works. Three types of readers usually show up to these meetings. There are the immediate volunteers. This person is confident enough to be the first to read. Or, this person is overly confident and likes the sound of his or her own voice (ew). There are the reluctant sharers. They look around and see no one volunteering. They decide, after a sigh, to read. There are the oh-god-don't-look-at-me non-readers. They usually sit in the corner and frantically shake their heads when asked to read. They don't share in fear that they might be horrible—but by doing this, they might be brilliant writers, but we'd never know it.
I can be any of these three types of people, but I tend to be the reluctant reader. I've always been a self-conscious speaker, because I stumble over my words. Good thing I can practice at these meetings! It actually helps to listen to myself. For example, if I struggle with a sentence, I make sure to mark the spot and see if I can smooth it out later.
As much as I love writing and reading my work, my favorite part is the feedback session. Over the years I've received countless writing advice from trustworthy writers, and I like to absorb all that I can to become a better writer. Naturally, I want other writers to feel like they're receiving constructive feedback—something they can use and not just think about. At the last group meeting, our critique got intensely detailed. For about twenty minutes, we pondered if it was right for a particular character to drink Bass Pale Ale. Yes, I know how silly that sounds, but we were all serious! Is this character really a Bass guy? Or would he drink Guinness? Decisions, decisions (As a non-drinker, I tried to play along).
I do worry, however, that some feedback will go unheard. Writers can't help but feel a small stab whenever they receive critiques. There are some who can swallow their pride, and there are others who feel the need to defend their every word. I'm sure people have felt the frustration of explaining a critique only to find a writer completely intolerant to the idea that maybe – just maybe – they have committed a fault in their writing. Because of this, I sometimes prefer writing feedback, rather than giving it to the person upfront (yay reader's reports!)
I'm so excited for more writing sessions!
In effort to become more social on the web (I hear writers need to do that these days), here's a question to end this post: writers, what do you think of writers' groups?
Filed Under: Creative Writing, Life, Writing Tagged With: creative writing, creativity, critique, fiction, Loan Le, New York, novel writing, poetry, poetry writing, reading, short story, storytelling workshop, workshop, writer's circle, writers, writing, writing community
Am I a poet now?
May 6, 2014 by Loan Le 1 Comment
Courtesy of V.H. Hammer on Flickr. Found through Creative Commons.
I just handed in a short poetry collection that I worked on for a semester. That's right: poetry.
This class was certainly a transformative experience. I've learned to appreciate the emotional stake, the inspired language, and the truth in works of several poets (Sylvia Plath, James Tate, James Wright, to name a few). I've also learned a great deal by reading my classmates' poems and seeing their style. In my poems I talked about myself and my family, and it was weird, because I've become so used to writing fictional lives. Some elements in these poems surprised me; they came out of nowhere. Writing poetry helped me explore why I'm the person I am today.
Here's a poem that I'm proud of, just because I've never written something like this before. I was inspired by my days in New York. I look forward to revising it even more.
To infinity
My eyes burn and the computer
keeps staring at me.
Sighs and clicks
accent the air. The heater
moans its frustrations,
and it's time to go home, finally.
Thanks for everything, Loan.
It's the smell of piss that gets to me.
Sobbing, a dirty-face vagrant
sits with his back
glued to the wall
Hell's Kitchen.
Please, I need help.
God will come, a woman responds,
Paper-stuffed Bible in hand.
Eyes down, emails to check,
iPhones, Blackberries—
Subway ads are far more interesting.
Footsteps of I-have-tos
edge me
down the corridor
towards the 7 train.
Wheels whine
a cautionary tale.
Ding.
I jump through
biting doors
and the man who follows—
gray-haired, Wall Street, no ring—
almost loses an arm.
Another man
sits across from me:
balding and sweat
casing his forehead.
What does he see in me?
Our eyes meet, and
his smirk bathes
my body with grease
and scum.
Doors open;
people gush out.
The old woman is always there,
her back a hill,
her arms tethered with
plastic bag weights:
her belongings.
I wonder where her children must be,
and how they could
leave her to beg.
My grandmother, if she were alive,
would never have to do this.
Today, she sits
in front of the staircase
until a cop on a Segway
tells her:
You're bothering people.
And she will not understand.
Underneath Times Square,
a pulse emanates
from the drums beating in the back,
and pushes out into the crowd—
jolts my heart.
Forward I stride
into a dripping tunnel,
down, down, down we go.
Silence arches over
the March on Eighth Ave,
the New York Diaspora.
A family of
fanny packs and sneakers
walk ahead.
I hear my parents
and turn around
to be reminded of home.
But they're just impostors.
I yearn for the sky again,
so I go above ground, and
elbows collide
against one another.
Breathing in cigarette air,
I tread in a pool of people
for the walk signal.
Yellow-bullet taxis roar:
Look out!
Above us gray clouds
cluster once more.
Rain drops like bombs
so we run for cover.
We pack the train.
Suits pop open their
Coors Lights, Bud Lights—
poisons to end
their Nine to Fives.
We wait for the lull.
Tickets, please.
If you're interested in reading, here's the original poem:
The computer screen stares
at me, and sighs and clicks
and it's time to go home finally.
shivers, his back
glued to the walls.
No one sees them.
The drone and taps
of heels and I-have-tos
follow me, edging me
towards the train tracks.
A man sits across from me.
Our eyes meet,
Under Times Square,
from the drums beating in the back
Forward I stride.
Elbows brashly push
Look left and right!
One man bravely
edges out on his own
and we surge ahead.
Above us the gray clouds
Coors Lights, Bud Lights,
choosing their poisons to end
We do these things
for another
over and over
again. Maybe
things will get better.
Time is short.
If someone offered me
Forever,
I would take it.
Filed Under: Creative Writing Tagged With: creative writing, Loan Le, poem, poetry
Time to Wake
February 1, 2014 by Loan Le Leave a Comment
Poem #1
I wake at the edge of the bed, wrapped in downy-scented Mickey Mouse blankets,
Arms pinned to my side.
I know I started out at the center, squished between Mom and Sister,
Who gave me warmth that only they could provide.
Mom's lavender perfume sticks to my pillow.
The ceiling fan wheezes as its blades turn.
Outside, cars whiz by, and light wastes away, sinking into a hill.
The lullaby of ice cream suddenly beckons me—and already I reach for my piggy bank in my
Dresser, surrounded by a mess of underwear, glittery rocks, and sea-beaten shells.
But my hope gets crushed when footsteps burden the old stairs,
And Mom's hushed voice echoes in the hallway: Con, xuống ăn cơm.
I inhale an errant waft of fresh rice.
I am the youngest in my family.
Every day I waited for An and Dan to come home from elementary school. Living in a small apartment, the three of us shared a room. My mother would combine all of our beds and we'd take naps together. I remember feeling so safe during this time, surrounded by my family, and I never wanted to leave. I was always the last one to wake up, and I'd lay in my bed and listen to the whispers of activities going on around me, which soothed me like a mother's lullaby.
We had to write about a specific place in our first poetry assignment. I couldn't find one that stuck out to me, so I thought of the times when I felt comforted and loved: in my bed in Apartment Four on Scott Road – back in the old days.
Filed Under: Creative Writing Tagged With: creative writing, family life, nonfiction, poems, poetry
Fiction: The Right Thing
June 8, 2012 by Loan Le Leave a Comment
Contrary to popular belief, the cafeteria was not a complete animal kingdom. Each table kept to itself. All conversations were focused at the tables. Girls gossiped about the latest celebrity news–something about Beyoncé and her baby. Guys talked about various sports, and arguments would erupt from opposing sides.
Ben didn't fit into any conversation. He had little care for the celebrity world and sports world. Not to mention that he was relatively unknown to anyone. He wasn't particularly smart–maybe average. He couldn't play sports for his life. He dressed like any teenage boy with his t-shirt, sweater, and jeans. He would never admit that his mom still buys his clothes.
It wasn't that he was a victim to any social injustice. He just…didn't seem to exist. There was always someone like that. People never glanced at him. Teachers glossed over his name during attendance, without meaning to. He also tended to stumble over his words when reading out loud in literature classes. Add that to his list of problems.
Ben was used to it. In fact, he was sure he'd have to deal with the same thing all his life. His parents always discouraged his pessimistic thinking, but Ben didn't think it would help to fool himself. A realist, he called himself.
Ben sighed as he pushed around a blob of chili with his fork. Even the food at his high school couldn't hold his attention. He decided his appetite was done, so he gathered his tray to stand and head over to the trashcans–
–then he heard a crash, and he, startled, emerged from his self-imposed silent bubble.
At the same moment, all talk stopped. Heads turned to see what the sudden commotion was all about. Someone had tripped and her tray had toppled out of her hand and mixes of fruit juice, chili and dessert crumbs crashed to the floor. To make things worse, the girl looked like she had landed in the pile.
The girl's name was Sara.
Sara was the girl that everyone knew. With her bright hazel eyes, easy fashion sense and involvement with various extracurricular clubs, she was well-liked. Even Ben knew her–and that's saying something. Ben didn't like to keep up with profiles of his classmates. Sara was in his U.S. History class and sat in the middle and occasionally answered questions the teacher would ask.
The only thing Ben puzzled over were her friends. They didn't mesh with Sara; they always seemed to look at her for leadership, but she seemed adamant to not be anything like that. When she wasn't around, her friends were ravenous and soul-sucking fiends. They liked to target the weak.
Ben heard the girls would steal other girls' boyfriends without remorse. They'd shoplift for fun. They'd make a meek girl cry for entertainment. Ben hated girls like that. It made Ben feel thankful that he was invisible. Yet, Sara seemed oblivious or maybe she knew about these incidences but didn't want to do anything.
Ben wondered why an accidental fall and the sound of a cup clattering across the floor always garnered extreme reactions.
The cafeteria roared in laughter. Some boys at the next table yelled, "Nice!" They started to clap their hands like imbeciles. Ben thought they sounded like pigs.
Sara glanced around the room and probably saw what he saw every day–the mocking, the amused and the curious–and she quickly ducked her head. She began gathering her tray together, but Ben know she was probably more worried about her dignity than the mess on the floor. He couldn't believe there was no one to help her–not even her friends. He didn't think her "friends" would be so callous to leave her there, since they always were desperate for her attention.
With only a minute of hesitation, he left his seat and his sneakers squeaked as he trekked over the food pile. Ben bent down, taking the tray from a blushing and embarrassed Sara. He carried it over to his table, mindful of the stares he was receiving.
Ben unzipped his sweater, half sure he might be rejected for his next move. In a moment of silence between the two, he offered her his sweater. Sara glanced down at it, her mouth dropping open slightly.
When she didn't move, he pressed forward again.
Sara reached over to take it. "Thanks," she said, gazing up at him in wonder. She slid her arms through the sleeves and zipped it up. The maroon sweater fortunately covered the mess on her shirt. However, her jeans were still covered with lunch food.
With a hand behind his neck, Ben shrugged modestly. He had plenty of sweaters at home and didn't think he'd miss that one.
Behind him, he heard the snickers of guys and girls–Ben has a crush on Sara!–but he was used to it and ignored it. At least he did something, rather than sit there while she was only a few feet from his table.
Something else–maybe a fart or an undignified burp–took the attention away from the pair, and as quickly as it started, Ben and Sara's moment was over. The bell rung. Backpacks swung across backs, seats pushed into various directions and chatters rose to the maximum decibel.
Ben, feeling like he had to say something, turned to Sara, who still stood with her hands clasped in front of her, and said, "Well, bye." After that eloquent response and with reasons unbeknownst to him, Ben turned once more and nearly jogged out of the lunch room.
The next day, the incident had left his mind.
It was towards the end of the day. Ben wasn't in a good mood, because he just left his history class where they had a test. He didn't study, obviously, and knew his parents wouldn't like the grade that was coming. At his lockers, Ben was gathering his books into his backpack, and as he was searching for his Chemistry book, someone tapped him on his shoulder.
He turned and saw Sara there. She gave a little wave, to which he returned with his own awkward one.
"Hey, Ben."
He tried to hide his surprise at her knowing his name and somehow, he answered, "Hey."
Sara pushed something towards him, and with one look, Ben saw it was his maroon sweater that he gave to her yesterday.
"Thanks for this, you know." Ben noticed she had an lilting accent, but it was quiet–like a whisper. He thought it was nice to hear it in her voice, and he missed it yesterday. "Some of the stuff on my shirt got on it…so I washed it."
"Oh," Ben said. He smiled slightly, noting how she had folded his sweater in the same way his mom would. "You didn't have."
"Yeah, well," Sara giggled nervously. "I mean, it was the least I could do." She glanced behind Ben, at his locker, then they locked eyes again. "You're in my history class, right." It wasn't a question.
"Um, yeah," Ben answered. He then thought it was pathetic how he could even hesitate in such answer. He closed his locker, shouldering his backpack. "So…what'd you think of that test we just had?"
Sara's eyes widened, and suddenly, Ben realized how easy it was to talk to someone.
Before he knew it, Sara was talking about her fears of failing the class, and there he was, listening attentively, walking beside her down the hallway, the sweater tucked under his arms.
Filed Under: Creative Writing Tagged With: creative writing, fiction, figment, short story, social injustice, writing


As Allison M. Charette notes in her illuminating introduction to this month's issue, very few Malagasy writers have been translated into English, and only a handful of authors in Madagascar can support themselves with their writing. One author you'll find in both categories is Jean-Luc Raharimanana, who's graced WWB in previous years with both poetry and prose. We introduced Raharimanana in our May 2012 issue of writing from the Indian Ocean with two poems: the incantatory "Kratos" and the sardonic "Famine," translated by the team of Alexis Pernsteiner and Antoine Bargel. Sophie Lewis, who translated Charlotte-Arrisoa Rafenomanjato's heartbreaking "Omeo Zamako" for the current issue, contributed a tour de force excerpt from Raharimanana's novel Za for our September 2013 Black Markets issue. The contraband in question is organs (needless to say, not the musical kind), and the deceptively antic narrative reveals the grim reality of poverty and class struggle on the island. Taken together, Raharimana's works reflect the insight and scope of contemporary Malagasy writing—a terrific primer before leaping into this month's issue, which provides new scope on an unprecedented scale.


Influenced by the likes of Todd Terje, Stimming, Jimpster and acts such as Tame Impala, Tycho and Caribou, Budakid has developed a very melodic style all his own.
A typical Budakid song has a funky groove, the right set of chords and some strong, positive vibes all mashed together. All this made him a crowd favorite at festivals like Solar, Indian Summer and Kindergarten and clubs such as Melkweg Amsterdam and Effenaar Eindhoven.
His music has been already supported by heavyweights such as Tensnake, Oliver Schories and Claptone, releasing on labels like Einmusika, Jalapeño Records and Manual Music.
Today's exclusive premiere is Budakid's 'Black Mountain' off the eponymous 3 track EP on Audiomatique Recordings. Here, the atmosphere is deep and spacey – the gradual introduction of perfectly crafted elements build to a sleek, irresistible groove.


iFlight Original BaseCam SimpleBGC 32-bit Extended Gimbal Controller, it is built-in frame IMU, current sensor to measure battery power consumption.
The GBM62 series motor by iPower Motors is the ultimate brushless gimbal motor for DSLR / CANON 5D MARKII, MARKIII Cameras. This motor is designed for large scale multi-rotor platforms looking to lift Red Epic & DSLR sized gear – 4KG/cm Torque. The principle of the camera stabilization using brushless direct drive motors, In fact, gimbal based on BLDC motors is very similar to regular gimbal based on hobby servo.


Physical therapy and occupational therapy are important parts of your orthopedic care and long-term recovery from injury.
You may be prescribed physical or occupational therapy as a treatment method at any point in your orthopedic care. Physical and Occupational Therapists are clinicians trained in assessing and improving upon your body's function and movement. They will work with you to help rehabilitate your movement—increasing range of motion, strength, and balance—based upon agreed upon limitations and corresponding care plan.
Therapy programs are customized to each individual to maximize your quality of life and get you back to what you love to do. Adherence to your care plan, including home activities, is crucial to aid in your healing.
At Elite Sports Medicine + Orthopedics, our orthopedic specialists and therapists work closely together to provide each patient with a comprehensive and consistent care team. We want our patients to focus on their healing, not on coordinating their care between their physician and therapy team.
Also known as trigger point dry needling or intramuscular manual therapy, this therapy allows a therapist to target muscles and trigger points not accessible through traditional manual therapy. A needle without medicine (a dry needle) is used to access these trigger points to release the muscle tension, reduce pain, and improve movement.
An occupational therapist works with those who, due to illness, cognitive changes, or injury, require rehabilitation for their daily activities. This therapy helps patients adapt to the movements and essential functions of their everyday lives.
This therapy targets soft tissue with a manual release. A therapist will target the injured tissue with pressure, facilitating the breakdown of the scar tissue or adhesions in the muscle. By stimulating the tissue to heal properly, patients experience improved range of motion and a decrease in pain.
Similar to ART, this therapy uses ergonomically designed tools to assist with breaking down scar tissue and improving soft tissue injuries.
Questions about physical therapy, dry needling, occupational therapy, active release therapy, or instrument assisted soft tissue mobilization? Contact us at 615.324.1600 or fill out the form below!


As many young adults graduate from college and go into the working world, going to happy hours with colleagues and friends becomes your new reality. However, after participating in your first few happy hours, you'll quickly find that happy hours are not quite what you expected.
Happy hours are home to both newcomers and seasoned experts alike. As for newcomers, you don't have to worry if happy hours aren't what you expected, because even happy hour experts don't know what to expect! After all, it's the nature of happy hours to be fun and unpredictable. Having said that, here are some Happy Hour expectations vs. reality that will give you an idea of what happy hours are like, and as for seasoned folks, I'm sure this will give you a bit of a chuckle. View the infographic.
Reality:…only to find out that the menu consists of pickles, some salted nuts, and a pint of the cheapest grade beer.
When you've been to the same few happy hours a bunch of times, it's easy to fall prey and get excited when you see a "New Happy Hour" sign. The promotions for drinks look great but ever notice how they often don't mention any food? Think about it: those A-frame signboards with quirky, witty one-liners–often even embellished with fancy calligraphy. They all emphasize how you should "live like it's happy hour" and enjoy a drink for a super cheap price. These signs are often inviting, promoting the best single offer to lure you in and once you're trapped, the job is done.
Expectation: Getting a couple of drinks with friends to catch up on the latest gossip.
Reality: Starting off with one gin and tonic or vodka cranberry and the next thing you know you're five drinks deep, stumbling into a cab to get home.
I'm sure many whom have watched a typical comedy movie or chick-flick often watch scenes of a few close friends or workers meeting at the bar, casually sipping on their drink (or downing it depending on how their day was). Then you watch them get up and leave the bar completely fine. This, of course, is not the reality many of us experience. Instead, we stumble our way home completely blasted, mentally and emotionally preparing ourselves for a hangover the next day.
Reality:…only to find out that it's been discontinued.
Many of us have told ourselves, "I'm going to chill this week and I won't drink much." But the next thing you know, you're walking into your favorite bar, greeting your favorite bartender, ready to have a good time and do some damage once again.
Reality:…only to see your boss there and he spends the whole time talking about work & emails.
Remember when you were a kid and you're out at the mall, and in the distance, you see your principal walking down your direction. And your first instinct is to turn around and quickly walk away? Well if you thought you've finally escaped that part of your life, think again.
Expectation: Thinking you will save money on cheap food.
Reality: Splurging on tons of because "treat yourself", am I right?
Reality:…only to find out that your waiter "accidentally" charged you for regular price (on one too many occasions).
After a fun time with friends at happy hour and your waiter places the bill in front of you, you find that you were charged regular prices instead of happy hour prices. And then you brace yourself for the awkward conversation coming up, where you have to politely tell your waiter that you were charged wrongly. Yikes. At least you got a 50% discount, am I right?
With all that's said, our take on Happy Hour expectations vs. reality gives you a glimpse of what happy hours are really like. Happy hours are perfect for catching up with old friends or making new ones. There is an abundance of happy hours available all around the South Bay that offers great deals on drinks and food (real food, I promise). As working young professionals and adults it's often hard to find time to search for happy hour deals for different kinds of restaurants or bars, which is why we wanted to make it easy for you with our mobile happy hour finder app.


Welcome to Metz Fire & Rescue, your premier Canadian dealer for KME Fire-Rescue vehicles in Canada.
Metz Fire & Rescue was founded in 1997 to provide high-quality fire and rescue equipment to Fire Departments and EMS services across Ontario, Canada.
Today, we are dedicated to delivering high value, state of the art fire trucks to the Canadian marketplace. KME is a global leader in the supply of customized specialty fire-rescue trucks and is also a member of the Fire Apparatus Manufacturer's Association.
Metz Fire & Rescue offers the complete line of KME Kovatch fire-rescue apparatus. Our vehicles are categorized as follows: Aerials, Pumpers, Tankers, Rescue and Wildland trucks. The experts at Metz Fire & Rescue will work with your fire department and/or municipality to find the right vehicle that meets your needs and budget.
Our commitment is to ensure that your customer experience with buying any fire-rescue vehicle is a thorough and complete end to end process, from tender specifications to delivery.
Excellent quality and a commitment to craftsmanship from a company, KME which has been in the fire-rescue business since 1946.
KME engineers understand that customization is a key initiative to any fire-rescue vehicle, it must meet with you exact specifications.
A vehicle that exceeds today's safety standards.
An Industry leading manufacturing processes gives your fire department a vehicle with the latest in technology and operational maneuverability that positions KME rescue trucks far ahead of the competition.
Working in Partnership with C-Max Fire Solutions is a division of Weber's Fabricating Ltd. for complete Service and Maintenance in Ontario. Our customers often tell us that the thing they like most about working with Metz Fire & Rescue is we truly are a one-stop-shop, from purchase to service and maintenance. .
Metz Fire and Rescue's mission is to deliver high value, state of the art fire trucks to the Canadian marketplace.


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Q: How to use Azure API Management to publish a collection of endpoints for public partners and another for my own apps I'm looking to use Azure API Management (APIM) to publish my REST API endpoints to be consumed by external partner apps. I also have an app I own. I would like my app to consume the same endpoints as well as a few additional endpoints. I don't want to expose those additional endpoints to partner apps. Basically, I would like to end up with two packages of endpoints in APIM where I only expose the extra endpoints to my company's apps. My company's client apps are accessible over the Internet and are not isolated in an internal network.
This feels like a common use case, but I wasn't able to find anything directly addressing this. I'm assuming it's because I'm somewhat new to APIM.

A: See Products: https://learn.microsoft.com/en-us/azure/api-management/api-management-key-concepts#--products They're created specifically for the case of packaging same or different APIs into separate offerings. You can control product visibility as well, so that only users of specific group would be aware of some product, i.e. your own product can be made visible only to service administrators - you.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


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Lee Cecil Fletcher Sallows (born April 30, 1944) is a British electronics engineer known for his contributions to recreational mathematics. He is particularly noted as the inventor of golygons, self-enumerating sentences, and geomagic squares.
Sallows is an expert on the theory of magic squares and has invented several variations on them, including alphamagic squares and geomagic squares. The latter invention caught the attention of mathematician Peter Cameron who has said that he believes that "an even deeper structure may lie hidden beyond geomagic squares"
In "The lost theorem" published in 1997 he showed that every 3 × 3 magic square is associated with a unique parallelogram on the complex plane, a discovery that had escaped all previous researchers from ancient times down to the present day. In 2014 Sallows discovered a previously unnoticed result involving the medians of a triangle.
A golygon is a polygon containing only right angles, such that adjacent sides exhibit consecutive integer lengths. Golygons were invented and named by Sallows and introduced by A.K. Dewdney in the Computer Recreations column of the July 1990 issue of Scientific American.
In 2012 Sallows invented and named self-tiling tile sets—a new generalization of rep-tiles.
Lee Sallows is the only son of Florence Eliza Fletcher and Leonard Gandy Sallows. He was born on 30 April 1944 at Brocket Hall in Hertfordshire, England, and grew up in the district of Upper Clapton in northeast London. Sallows attended Dame Alice Owen's School, then located at The Angel, Islington, but failed to settle in and was without diplomas when he left at age 17. Knowledge gained via interest in short-wave radio enabled him to find work as a technician within the electronics industry. In 1970 he moved to Nijmegen in the Netherlands, where until 2009, he worked as an electronic engineer at Radboud University. In 1973 Sallows met up with his Dutch partner Evert Lamfers, a cardiologist, with whom he has lived ever since.
1997 "The Lost Theorem", The Mathematical Intelligencer 1997 19; 4: 51–54.
1995 "The Impossible Problem", The Mathematical Intelligencer 1995 17; 1: 27–33.
1992 Sallows, Lee (1992). "New pathways in serial isogons". The Mathematical Intelligencer. 14 (2): 55–67. doi:10.1007/BF03025216.
1990 "A Curious New Result in Switching Theory", The Mathematical Intelligencer 1990; 12: 21–32.
This page was last edited on 19 December 2018, at 16:00 (UTC).


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I'll never forget during the 1992 presidential election, Rush Limbaugh telling me that America would not survive a President Bill Clinton. Rush said "Slick Willie" would take my house, my job and everything else I cared about.
As an 18-year-old conservative at the time, I was mortified. This man had to be stopped!
But of course, none of those things happened. Our 42nd president was a conventional Democrat who was bad in all the ways a conservative or Republican might expect, but the 1990s were also generally a time Americans remember fondly. In terms of conservative worries like growing government and our national debt, President George W. Bush actually ended up being significantly worse than his Democrat predecessor.
As the 2016 election enters the home stretch, many Hillary Clinton supporters now declare loudly that the country cannot survive a President Trump, and many Donald Trump supporters genuinely believe a second President Clinton will destroy the country.
This doesn't mean both Clinton or Trump wouldn't have terrible policies (I'm voting for Libertarian Gary Johnson in this god awful election), but whether you view either major party candidate's potential agendas positively or negatively generally depends on where you land on the ideological spectrum. These policies might affect the country badly, and perhaps even you directly.
But it's not the apocalypse.
I believe Clinton is uniquely terrible by normal Democrat standards, combining the worst of the last Republican administration (particularly her hawkish foreign policy) with the big government agenda of Barack Obama. I'm deeply opposed to her becoming the next commander in chief.
But she will not destroy the country. Those saying that right now, will say the same in 2020 should she become president this November 8, and lo and behold, there will still be an America.
Trump is no doubt uniquely terrible among Republicans, but even he would not end the United States of America. There's just as much chance that the transparently non-ideological Trump as president would be a political moderate—a mere creature of his Beltway advisers—as there is he would be the authoritarian nightmare he often portrays in his campaign speeches.
Either way, it's hyperbole to say the country ends with a President Trump.
This kind of election lunacy is not new.
Remember all the celebrities who said they would leave the country if George W. Bush got elected in 2000? Singing a familiar tune, Rush Limbaugh said America would be "doomed" in 2012 if Obama were reelected.
Well… are y'all okay out there? Are most of us still here?
"Of the 74 attendees they spoke with, 16 said they intended to leave the country if Romney wins in November," Mediate reported.
These Democrats were worried about a national existential crisis over Mitt Romney. Seriously. Seems pretty silly through the lens of 2016, doesn't it?
The guiding principle behind this election fear mongering that happens every cycle, is that it's upon each voter to prevent the extinction of the country by voting accordingly. There are Clinton supporters right now who genuinely believe it is one's moral duty to do everything in their power to keep Trump out of the White House, and there are Trump supporters who believe Hillary Clinton will somehow be the end of the republic.
Don't fall for other's hyper partisanship and paranoia. Your only duty is to vote your conscience.
In just a few short weeks all of this will be over. The sky won't fall.
Please don't misunderstand. This election certainly matters. Who we choose to govern at our nation's highest level is nothing to balk at. Who becomes the leader of the free world is not insignificant.
Politics is important. It's just not quite as important as many seem to think. Elections are rarely, if ever, a final chapter.


We are going to conduct server merge on Apr 09, 2019, 2 am US server time/9 am EU server time to improve server environment. The duration is about 30 minutes.
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QUESNEL, BRITISH COLUMBIA--(Marketwire - Dec. 23, 2009) - Richfield Ventures Corp. (TSX VENTURE:RVC) ("Richfield" or the "Company") announces that it has amended its incentive stock option plan to increase the number of common shares of the Company available for grant under the option plan to 4,807,262 and granted 2,148,825 options under the amended option plan. The Company also reports that the Company's shareholders rights plan was approved by disinterested shareholders at its general meeting of shareholders held on December 14, 2009.
The option grants are subject to TSX Venture Exchange acceptance and shareholder approval of the amended option plan. The 2,148,825 incentive stock options were granted to directors, officers, employees and consultants of the Company, are subject to vesting restrictions and are exercisable on or before December 22, 2014 at an exercise price of $1.25 per share. The 4,807,262 common shares of the Company reserved for issuance under the amended option plan represents 20% of the current issued and outstanding common shares of the Company.
Richfield Ventures Corp. is a public mineral exploration company trading on the TSX Venture Exchange under the symbol RVC. Richfield has been actively acquiring and exploring mineral tenures in the Quesnel Trough and Nechako Plateau regions of British Columbia.
About this company Richfield Ventures Corp.


Magic DPS classes are masters of spells and enchantments. They usually keep to themselves, often retreating to secluded forest hideaways where they pore over spell books and scrolls for months, sometimes years. These secretive beings don't outright control nature, but rather work with it, through an ancient and mysterious partnership with the elements.
The Magician (Mage for short) is one of the beginning classes available to players. Magicians are normally light-hearted creatures, often using spells and potions for the entertainment of friends and family. However, this happy-go-lucky persona is quickly shed in the light of battle. A skilled Magician is a formidable presence. Magicians can conjure damaging blizzards of fire and ice, teleport your party to safety, even become invisible.
Lightning BoltIncreases M-ATK. Deals Lightning damage to a target. Also has a chance to knock down the target with Winter Chill effect. Hell FireInflicts Fire damage per second on the target area.
Snow StormIncreases M-ATK, dealing Ice damage on all nearby targets and immobilizing them. FogConceals you instantly. The invisible status recovers your MP by a certain amount of points per second. Cannot be cast in combat.
Resistance CollapseLowers a target's Fire, Ice and Lightning Resistance. Also reduces Healing done to the target. Element GuardianIncreases a target's Fire, Ice and Lightning Resistance. Also deals bonus Fire, Ice and Lightning damage.
Spatial ConversionInstantly teleports you and your party members in the same map back to your Checkpoint. Cannot be cast in combat. Ice ShieldGrants you an Ice Shield, increasing your DEF. Also has a chance to freeze the target that attacks you, reducing its Move SPD.
Extreme Magic Increases caster's M-ATK; lasts 12 seconds. Stacks up to 3 times. Only effective on the next attack; disperses after next attack. Fusion Reaction Deals Fire damage to a 20-foot target area and an extra Fire damage over time. Lasts for 5 seconds. Affected by M-ATK. Damage per second not affected.
"What, you were expecting ruby slippers maybe? Those are so passé."
Jesters may seem friendly, but be wary. As masters of deception, the illusionist class is highly skilled at distraction and enchantment. If their outlandish jester hats and checkered outfits aren't disorienting enough to the enemy, the illusionist can cast several hypnotizing spells and summon an arcane pet to help in battle. Illusionists can also heal party members.
Deadly IcicleIncreases M-ATK. Strikes a target with Ice damage 3 times. Each strike deals less damage than the last. Hypnotic EyeHypnotizes all enemies in the target area, making them temporarily fall sleep. Increases the next damage they take.
StimulationIncreases the ATK SPD and Cast SPD of each nearby party member, stacking up to 3 times. PsychedelicHides your trace, recovering your MP every 2 seconds. Cannot be cast in combat. When the status is activated, the caster cannot be detected by the monster unless they move.
Mind SurgeRegenerates the MP of nearby party members. IllusionCharms a target below a certain level, redirecting it to attack the caster's enemies. Also reduces Magic damage taken.
EmissaryAssigns your pet to attack a selected target. Ancient CallInstantly summons a Vestige Creature. The Vestige Creature's level equals to your skill level. The pet will Increases Magic damage done to the enemies.
Ineffective Magic Reduces M-DMG taken and reflects 20% of damage back to the attacker for 30 seconds. AeroliteDeals Fire damage to a 20-foot target area, Knockdown effect, last for 3 seconds. No effect on boss monsters. Affected by M-ATK.
"Hey, want to see a fun trick? HAH you're dead! Wanna play again?"
This grimoire-wielding, spell casting powerhouse utilizes the power of the dark arts to devastate anything that stands in its way. Warlocks specialize in spawning parasites on their targets and manipulating them with an array of spells that damage while inducing life leach, fear, and debuffs while enhancing their own abilities. Warlocks also have the ability to summon a pet Behelder to do its bidding.
Dark ParasiteSpawns a parasite in a selected host, dealing Dark damage per second. Stacks up to 3 times and has a 30% chance to remove one buff from the target. Not affected by M-ATK. Shadow Arrow Deals Dark damage to an enemy. If Dark Parasite effect is on the enemy, has a 30% chance to transfer HP leached by the parasites back to the caster. (Note: This kills the parasites.) Affected by M-ATK.
Wicked PactNot available in combat. Summons a Behelder equal to your skill level. The pet increases M-CRIT DMG to enemies +50%. Mandate Tasks your pet with attacking a specific target.
SacrificeSacrifices your pet. Increases caster's M-CRIT Rate for 30 seconds and reduces your received damage -25%. Nightmare AttackDeals Dark damage to an enemy. If the enemy is under the Dark Parasite effect, bonus damage is dealt. Affected by M-ATK.
Death ThreatsFrightens all enemies below skill level within 15 feet, throwing them into a Fear state for 5 seconds. Also decreases their G-Healing. No effect on boss monsters. Blood Conversion Recovers HP per second for 15 seconds. Consumes 25% of a Behelder's HP to hold the rite.
Plague Carrier Plant a Dark Parasite into target. When the target is attacked, the parasite will lay eggs into the attacker. The parasite lives for 12 seconds. Power of parasite correspond to the level of the skill. Wild ShoutFor 20 seconds, party members within 25 feet will receive a magic charging effect. Every successful attack on an enemy increases target's M-ATK. Stackable up to 5 times; lasts 20 seconds.
"Warlocks borrow power from the darkness, heedless to the danger of evil. Enemies quiver at their merciless magic."
Luminary must use his control over dark and light to destroy all obstacles in their way. They use the Luminary Blade in their hand to unleash Dark and Sacred powers. Both Dark and Sacred powers wielded by Luminary are mighty, but their might is many times greater when combined. They control both Dark and Sacred powers and thus need to learn both Dark and Sacred Magic as they grow. These skills can be used separately or together to lower the abilities of their opponents on the battlefield.
Light SplitMagic Attack increases +279 points. Inflicts Holy Damage status and gives caster "Holy Photoaffinity" status. Stackable up to 10 times, lasts 8 seconds. Aurora Light DestructionMagic Attack increases +232 points. Inflicts Holy Damage to targets within a 25 feet straight line area, and puts them in "Aurora Repentence" status.
Bursting LightMagic Attack increases +204 points. Inflicts Holy Damage to enemy targets within 20 feet of caster, and puts them in "Bursting Light" status. Lasts 3 seconds. Blinding GloryDecreases Accuracy -14 points to targets within a 15 feet of caster and inflicts "Blinding Glory" status, putting caster in invisible mode after landing attack on target. Lasts 5 seconds.
Holy PrayerAfter using, uses up the "Holy Photoaffinity" status. Costs -40% of caster's MP, recovers +30% of your teammate's HP, and can cancel out an attack once. Black CutMagic Attack increases +186 points. Inflicts Dark Damage on target with a Triple Strike effect, and gives caster "Shroud of Darkness" status. Stackable up to 10 times, last 10 seconds.
Dead Silence FormationMagic Attack increases +325 points. Inflicts Dark Damage to all enemy targets within 15 feet of caster, and puts them in "Dead Silence Formation" status. Lasts 4 seconds. Shadow CrossMagic Attack increases +279 points. Inflicts Dark Damage to enemy targets within 15 feet cross-shape area of caster, and puts them in "Dead Cross" status, decreasing Move Speed -30%. Lasts 4 seconds.
Gateway to DarknessInstantly moves next to target, and decreases the Attack Speed of targets within 15 feet radius of caster -18 points, and Cast Speed -18 points. Lasts 4 seconds. Dark Shadow SacrificeAfter using, uses up the "Shroud of Darkness" status on caster. Decreases caster's HP limit -20%, increases M-CRIT Rate +20%, and increases M-CRIT DMG +50%, Lasts 20 seconds.


Who Pays Care Home Fees In The UK?
Are You Wondering Who Pays Care Home Fees Within The UK?
Did you know who pays care home fees in the UK? If you or a loved one are currently paying the cost of care, although have a primary health need, you could be entitled to receive FREE NHS Continuing Healthcare funding. Continuing Healthcare funding allows you or someone you know secure funding to cover all care costs whether it is in a care home or their own home. The care package is dependent solely upon the care requirements of an individual and is not dependent on the location in which the care is provided and neither does the financial situation of an eligible individual. If you are a UK resident, aged 18 or above who has a primary need contact our team of funding specialists who are more than happy to provide you with the case management from the initial stage, right through to the final decision. Give us a call today on 0844 248 3254 and we will be more than happy to provide you with your appraisal, alternatively you can complete our fully confidential and simple to use online survey.
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I'm Bob Larson. It may have slowed slightly, but the growth in the brewing of craft beers across the country continues.
But, as brewers experiment with newer and bolder beer flavors, one of the more difficult parts of this brewing boom is to try and guess which hop varieties will be in demand from one year to the next.
Brophy says 75 percent of the U.S. hops are grown right here in Washington and, over the past 5 years, production is up 85% thanks, in large part, to the growth of craft breweries.


NOTE: While this model is very similar to the 1928 Treasurer, there are some noticeable differences. Namely, this case is more elongated with less rounded sides than the Treasurer. The back of this case is also curved, whereas the Treasurer is flat. The lugs on this model are engraved, whereas the lugs on the Treasurer are not. Also, the bezel engraving is different in the center of the sides. There is another example of this model filed under 1929, as well as an actual Treasurer.


Canada Dry Ginger Ale is full of goodness, it is perfectly blended, refreshingly crisp and brilliantly sparkling. Made with 100 percent natural flavors and real ginger.
I still prefer seven up, but this drink is good too, I never tried it before coming to Canada, but I guess it'S refreshing enough. I would propably prefer Seven up of Miranda over it.
I drink Gingerale to help with my nausea due to my cronic illnesses. The taste is nice and refreshing and always makes me feel abit better. I recommend Canada Dry Gingerale 100%.
Tried many brands of Ginger Ale - Canada Dry definitely the winner.
Not too sweet, very refreshing.
I use this as mix with Rum. Definitely a great combination.
The best in ginger ale!
Having had Canada Dry ginger ale for a change in taste from the norm of the common sodas is a refreshing alternative to a nice cold drink with its own goodness.
I absolutely love Canada Dry gingerale. It tastes great. Not too gingery and just the right amount of carbonation. I have ONLY had Canada Dry Gingerale since I was very young to help when I was sick and still use it and now my kids love it too!!!


Knowledge of the French agricultural, agro-food and forestry sectors.
Thorough knowledge of the different sectors, agricultural policies and current regulations.
Advice adapted to your sector of activity.
Transversal vision of the profession.


text:
La Bol'šaja Cheta (anche traslitterato come Bol'šaja Heta, Bol'šaja Kheta o Bolshaya Kheta) è un fiume della Russia siberiana nordoccidentale (Kraj di Krasnojarsk), affluente di sinistra dello Enisej.

Nasce da modesti rilievi collinari all'estremità nordorientale del Bassopiano della Siberia Occidentale, scorrendo con direzione prevalentemente settentrionale in un territorio piatto e ricco di laghi (quasi 6.000 nell'intero bacino). Confluisce nello Enisej, a pochissimi chilometri dal suo sbocco nella baia omonima.

Collegamenti esterni

Bolsaja Cheta
Bolsaja Cheta

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


Shoppe keep 2 has been developed by Strange Fire and published under the banner of Excalibur Games. It was released on May 3rd, 2018 and we have to produce new crops in our land because old one will be damaged by dirty animals or people. You can also download city of brass game which's also nice series of all time and our player has to loot some of the vegetables from the village by just using his bran or playing skills in Gameplay.
Just watch the complete video tutorial by clicking this below installation button you will get shoppe keep 2 for PC.