Write Me Up

Just writing. Maybe someone will read it.

And now, in book news… September 22, 2013

Filed under: General Blog-tastic Writings — Dorothy Lynn @ 9:37 pm
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Danielle (http://norithmetic.wordpress.com/) has vowed that she will stand outside my house and throw tomatoes at me, and then steal my favorite tea if I don’t send her my first three chapters by October 21st. Hopefully that is enough of a deadline for me to do it. I think this will work!


A Foto from Friday, but on Sunday.

Filed under: Foto Friday — Dorothy Lynn @ 8:32 pm
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I’m a procrastinator, and I hold too much information in my head at one time to remember everything that I need to do in one day.

So here’s a picture that I should’ve posted on Friday.

Picture credit goes to my friend Cailey, who is an amazing photographer.

Alaska looks like this. No joke!
Alaska looks like this. No joke!




Filed under: General Blog-tastic Writings — Dorothy Lynn @ 9:47 pm
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The pirate’s favorite letter. Happy International Talk Like a Pirate Day everyone! 

Unfortunately today i didn’t get the chance to incorporate piratical witticisms into my speech, although I am wondering if by doing so I may have gotten more accomplished. However I did have a conversation with my boyfriend yesterday about how we should live on a boat and become pirates, so I think that counts towards celebrating today.

That is all. Tomorrow is Friday, so I shall post an epic picture!!!!


some ramblings September 18, 2013

Since I’ve posted poetry twice already this week, I’ll continue to upset my own pattern and NOT do a poem today. Instead, I’m just going to ramble a bit.
I know blogs aren’t quite the place for journaling, but sometimes I process better if I can get feedback.

I’m having some problems getting back into my book. I know where I want to go with it, but I’m at a weird standstill where I have no motivation to jump back in even though I want more than ANYTHING to finish the draft.

I have this picture in my head of what my life will feel like once I’ve finished this book. Of course, every artist has delusions of grandeur, as well as a disillusioned sense of what actually will happen, which is not grand at all, but I have a strange feeling, that in spite of all of my doubts, people will maybe want to read this thing I’m writing. So gosh darn it, I need to finish it! Why can’t I?

There are numerous possibilities:

1) I care a lot about my job, but it makes me tired, so I use that as an excuse to not write when I get home.

2) I get distracted when I should be writing by various things–usually in the form of Netflix.

3) I’m still overwhelmed by how much freaking work it takes to finish a book!!!! Cheesh!!!!

4) I don’t have an actual deadline, and procrastination only works when there are consequences for not finishing something on time.

The first two are stupid. The second two are more legitimate. Mostly, I think it would help me to have a real deadline, but since fiction doesn’t really sell until you have a finished draft, I’m kind of stuck in a weird catch-22 moment. I probably just need to get some more self-control and write. Or hire someone to beat me up if I don’t finish by a certain time, like that guy in the Pink Panther movies that hides in Inspector Clouseau’s house and attacks him when his guard is down. Okay, that may not be the best option, but I’m seriously contemplating something of the like, because I’m very stuck right now. Very, very, very, very stuck.

For now, I’m trying to kick start my imagination and artistic motivation by crossing mediums and dabbling in some painting, drawing, and jewelry making. I’m also reading some weird scifi books and calling it research. I need some new music though. Any suggestions would be welcome.

End ramblings.


Part the third, walking in the park. September 16, 2013

Continuing the theme of strange coincidences
That aren’t actually coincidences,
I was walking in the park later that day
With my friend from college.
There is a thing that happens
When people ask me about the book
I am writing.
This thing annoys me,
But only because I cannot control
Myself, and I hate being out of control.
I begin to spout my whole story,
Themes, characters, plot outlines,
Names, places, action,
Anything that pops into my head.
For some reason, people still seem interested
But it vexes me to no end.
I wish to be mysterious,
To reveal just enough about my project
To interest a stranger,
Then leave them thirsty for more.
Instead I spray them with a fire hose.

My friend was still interested,
But my sister really had to pee.
So we found a bathroom,
Which, by the way, are difficult
To find in Central Park.
We sat on the ground while we waited
And a man walked by with an adorable
Dachshund in a pink sweater.
Well, the dog walked past first,
Followed by the man.
As we pet the dog, the man immediately
Began to spout the most random story
About his daughter. My friend and I had spoken
A greeting and nothing else,
When he recounted details
Of how his daughter wrote all the time
And never could seem to get a break,
When suddenly a major publisher discovered
Her talent and now she was selling her works.
Not two minutes before the pink-clad dachshund had
Approached us, I had been lamenting to my friend
That I didn’t have much hope in becoming successful
At my passion as far as making it into a career.
After his story, the man wished us a nice day,
And promptly walked away.
After that, I had a little more hope,
In spite of my procrastination,
In spite of my quirkiness,
In spite of my heartbreak and lack
Of motivation, I had a little bit of hope.


A walk in the park, continued. September 15, 2013

Even when you are walking in the park, life is not always a walk in the park.
My sister and I had just finished listening to “Amazing Grace” and we sat
in a little protected stone nook overlooking the fountain.
We were talking about my recent break up,
about our hair,
and about God and his amazing ability to interject little points of beauty and hope
into our lives.

He walked past again, but this time,
I noticed his limp. He foot was in a walking cast.
He looked in a hurry. I called out a greeting
as he passed us, and asked how the fundraising
was going. He looked tired.
“I’m in a hurry,” he explained.
“I have to finish this so I can go somewhere
“I hope you finish in time,” either my sister or I said.
I don’t remember how it happened, but somehow,
he told us that he had to go to a funeral.
He spoke of how he didn’t want to go.
My heart began to crack at his story.
Whose funeral? we wondered aloud.
His mother’s.
His mother’s funeral.
He didn’t want to go.
His sister hated him for his lifestyle,
and he didn’t have much time left,
and he only found out that his mom passed
two days before
because his bitter sister refused to tell him.
His eyes were so tired.

What do you ask when this happens?
What do you say when a stranger speaks
their heart?
How do you comfort such brokenness?
All I thought was to ask a question.
“What was your mother’s name?”
I didn’t even know his name,
but it felt important to know this little
detail. “Rebekah,” was his reply.
My sister and I looked at each other.
My sister’s name is Rebekah.
I can’t even describe his face.
It wasn’t that he almost cried,
or that we had done anything special to give him comfort.
He looked noticed.

Like he realized what we had just been singing,
“Amazing Grace.”


I know September 13, 2013

It’s Friday, but I want to post this part of a poem anyway. There’s this slam poet named Asia that makes me go “WHOA.” every time I listen to him. Here is an excerpt from one of his poems called “1000 Paper Cranes”

“you who have always been quick with a punchline
you who can flatter me with an insult
you who comforts like a cold front in august
you who cold fronts like you’re perfect but will crack like thin ice the moment someone walks all over you
i should’ve been beneath you when you buckled
should have caught you with the truth
should’ve reached out with love tatooed on my forearms
so you would always know what you were falling into”


That’s just a taste of his amazing words. If you want another one, look up “Sunscreen” or “Flood”


A walk in the park, a poem…. Roughly September 4, 2013

“Girl, your hair is so fabulous
it actually turned me
straight for a whole minute!”
He grinned as he talked us up.
His smile was sincere and his laugh
Genuine and when he asked
For money for Sandy relief
We didn’t even care if he was
Scamming us or not.
The trees overhead dripped gently
From the morning’s light rain,
And the wind blew my sister’s
Hair into a wavy mane.
It really did look fabulous,
As much as our meeting
With him.

We walked towards the fountain,
THE fountain, right in the middle.
We needed to find it because
Of the terrible angels.
We got sidetracked by the echoes
In the tunnel, echoes of harmony
And violin and classical guitar.
We stood to listen for as many
Songs as they would sing,
And stayed for some repeats.
The soprano made us cry.

To be continued….I have to go practice some music with a bunch of youths!