Linda’s Video Writing Tips #4

Hello and Welcome Dear Readers.  I have two writing tips for you today.  I hope you find them useful!

 

Well, that does it for this week’s video writing tips.  Have a great weekend everyone!

 

Until next time . . . I love you

Linda’s Video Writing Tips #3

Welcome Dear Readers!  Well, here we are at Day 3 of my week-long video writing tips.  Today’s topic is writing for money.

Well there you have it, Dear Readers.  Hope you enjoyed this tip.  Come back tomorrow for tip #4 in my series of video tips.

 

Until next time . . . I love you

Linda’s Video Writing Tip #2

Welcome Dear Readers to day #2 of my video writing tips.  Today’s writing topic is inspiration!

 

 

Okay so that does it for today’s tip.  Hope you enjoyed it.  Please check back tomorrow for another writing tip.

Until next time . . . I love you

Linda’s Writing-tip Video

Welcome Dear Readers! Several years ago, I made a video and put it up on YouTube.  Well here it is hundreds and hundreds of days later, and guess what?  I finally got around to making another one.  

So I thought it would be fun to make this week my video writing-tip week.  So here’s my first writing tip.

Well, there you have it, Dear Readers.

Until next time . . . I love you

Linda’s Bedtime Stories for Grown-Up Children

Randall

Randall the white owl

Nobody knew about Randall. He came in the night.

Rhonda listened for her husband’s deep breathing and when she heard the familiar rhythm she slipped out of bed, carefully slid open the door and crept onto the balcony.

Tonight was clear and still with air so crisp you could almost smell the stars. Randall was perched on the railing in his usual spot waiting for her and  staring straight ahead with his secretive eyes.

Rhonda reached into her robe pocket and pulled out a cigarette, stuck it between her lips, lit it and inhaled suddenly like a newborn taking its first breath.

“You ought to quit,” Randall said.

“Mind your own business, you dirty owl.” Rhonda snapped. Rhonda hated it when Randall complained about her smoking.   She hated a lot of things about Randall — especially the fact that he was slowly convincing her to murder her husband.

“He’s the reason you’re always having panic attacks.  Having to go to the hospital.  Not being able to breath.” Randall raised his wings and fluffed his white feathers loudly. “You’d be better off without him.”

“Who?”

“Who.   That’s my line.” Randall blinked. Then focused his gaze into Rhonda’s soul. “Don’t be obtuse.”

“I can’t do it!”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not a murderer!”

“Sure you are. You just need to get in touch with your inner murderer. Everybody’s got one. Given a certain set of circumstances, enough rage and a fortuitous blunt instrument, that is.

“You nasty snake eater! Just looking at you makes me want to take a shower!” Rhonda flicked a long ash off the end of her cigarette and aimlessly smeared it around with the toe of her slipper. “If I listen to you, I’ll end up on death row! You’re the one I should kill.”

“Ha! What’d I tell you? See how easy it is to get in touch with your inner murderer? It won’t be long now. I’ll bet you already got a gun. Maybe you stole one.”

Rhonda drew deeply on her cigarette then coughed out a harsh, smoky laugh.“Let’s just say I was able to get in touch with my inner thief.”

Someone was jiggling the balcony door. Randall took flight just before Rhonda’s husband stepped out onto the balcony.

“What the hell is going on out here? Christ sakes! Who are you talking to?”

Rhonda kept her cool. “Just having a cigarette, Robert.” She said not as pleasantly as she could muster, but pleasantly enough considering she was, after all, planning his murder.

Robert put both his hands on the railing. “Hear that? There’s an owl out there somewhere. I hear it almost every night. Must live up in one of these trees.”

A  little smile crossed Rhonda’s face as she stubbed out her cigarette and tossed it into the darkness.

 

 

 

The Real(ish) Story of St. Patrick

Of course everyone knows that St. Patrick is the patron saint of four-leaf clovers because he was partial to the color green.  But there are other little known facts about St. Patrick that the average person might not know.

For instance, back in the days when St. Patrick was alive, they had a lot of snakes slithering around Ireland.  It was really gross.  The whole place just gave you the heebie-jeebies.  As a matter of fact, that is why the Irish Jig was invented – to keep from stepping on them. But that’s another story I haven’t made up yet.

Irish Jig Dancers performing the “Get a load of the size of that one!” twirling leap
Anyway, St. Patrick, who happened to not like snakes very well, decided to take it upon himself to rid the entire island of them. He set about doing this by writing down some goals and sticking them up on the village mirror and by repeating them over and over whenever he had some spare time.

“Six slippery snakes slid slowly seawards . . . six slippery snakes slid slowly seawards . . . “

It must have worked because St. Patrick is credited, history-wise, with getting the entire population of Ireland totally onboard with Christianity, foods that are magically delicious, and snake ridding.

But it was the snake ridding that really got his name in print. The story goes somewhat but not very much like this:

You see, St. Patrick was nothing if not charming. He had it all, looks, a winning personality and a flashy carriage to cruise around in.  This is a guy who had powers of persuasion in spades.

So St. Patrick, being a man of the cloth, (he had a huge and impressive cloth collection) decided that everyone hopping around all the time trying to side step snakes was depleting the citizenry of their usual vim.  (Vigor hadn’t been invented yet.)

It was obvious something needed to be done, post-haste.  And so he decided to “charm” the snakes out of Ireland. 

He started by inviting all the snakes over to his house, under the guise of celebrating St. Patrick’s Day and began charming the pants off them (In those days Irish snakes wore plaid pants with little matching berets.)  He did this by slathering the blarney on pretty thick and following up with a plethora of pandering and topped off with a prodigious pitcher of empty promises.  Pat was pretty proud.

Then, when he realized he was running low on straws for the rum and cokes, he quickly herded his limbless revelers outside and managed to lure them over the White Cliffs of Dover where they toppled, snake-like, into the sea where they became dead as doornails (Albeit very large doornails).

And of course, we all know what happened next. St. Patrick painted the White Cliffs of Dover green to commemorate the occasion.

So next time you have a Happy St. Patrick’s Day, you’ll know why.

Until next time . . . I love you

What Really Happened When George Cut Down the Cherry Tree

Setting: George Washington’s Sixth Birthday. 

Happy Birthday Hatchet Pie!

Our story opens when George Washington’s father comes outside and finds that the cherry tree has been chopped down:

What the?  George Washington come here right NOW!

Yes father?

Something tells me you cut down this cherry tree with the hatchet I got you for your birthday today!  I knew you were too young for a hatchet!  I knew I should have gone with your mother’s suggestion and gotten you a guillotine instead.

Father, please . . . I’m six!  All the other children in the township got hatchets when they turned three!  I mean, it’s downright embarrassing how long I had to wait to finally get a hatchet of my very own!  And, besides, everybody knows guillotines are for babies.

Well look what happens.  I finally get you a hatchet, and you haven’t even had it more than an hour and what’s the first thing you do? Cut down my prized cherry tree!

Well, I cannot tell a lie, Father.  It’s not exactly the first thing I cut down.

What?!?

Well now that you’ve brought it up, and since I cannot tell a lie, this might be as good a time as any to mention that first I cut down the apple tree, then I cut down the apricot tree and, lastly, I cut down the cherry tree — in addition to hacking up a couple of rose bushes.

That does it George, march yourself to the woodshed, I’m giving you a sound whipping’!

Father, as you know, I cannot tell a lie, so this might be as good a time as any to also mention that the woodshed isn’t as much of a woodshed as it used to be . . .

 On no!  Not another “I cannot tell a lie!”

In fact, it would be more accurate, Dear Father, if we were to start thinking of the woodshed in terms of a rather large pile of kindling rather than an  actual building in and of itself.

Nothing like the thrill of killing and eating fruit!

Oh for crying out loud!  Well, I hope you at least saved the fruit so that your mother can bake us some pies . . . George?  You did save the fruit from the trees didn’t you?

Oh that . . . well . . .  I can cannot tell a lie, Father, for I surely would if it would spare you the heartache of telling you that I but finished off the last of fruit only seconds ago.

Ha ha! Well,  you might be the naughtiest boy in the world but at least you’re honest George, my boy!   I have a feeling you are going to grow up to be the very first President of the United States of America!  Now off with you!  Oh . . . and for godsakes don’t forget to brush your teeth again!

Happy Birthday George Washington!  Wherever you are!

Until next time . . . I love you