The 2014 Art of Marketing conference in Vancouver featured incredible speakers and big-name sponsors, each presenter offering a unique perspective on the current and future state of marketing—knowledge as essential to the author as it is to the startup tech company.
Read my guest post at Jane Friedman’s blog for my big conference takeaways, including how to find your audience, earn trust, live generously, and generally make your network blow up like a marshmallow in a microwave.
In winter nineteen-thirty-two
On humble Makwa plains
Born to Julia and Walter
Art Warner was his name.
He dug for gold when he was eight,
Went trapping after school,
He learned to fly, and ride, and boat,
And live by his own rules.
He pioneered a company,
He hunted, fished, and snared.
He worked, he farmed, and once – no lie –
He fought a grizzly bear.
To four he was a loyal Dad
And husband to their mother,
To eight he was a caring Umpa,
To others, son and brother.
Now this cowboy reunites
With Doc, his trusty steed.
He rounds up cattle, gallops on,
And lives that cowboy creed.
Although he’s passed beyond this life,
His spirit still lives strong
Within our memories and hearts
For that’s where it belongs.
His love and life are worth the tears
We shed for this great man,
So if we had to live once more
We’d do it all again.
So on the shining BC coast
This great man he became.
Admired, adored, and full of life,
Art Warner was his name.
She paced around the darkened room,
Her lovely face drained white.
Her thoughts obsessed with what did loom,
That cold and daunting night.
The candles danced and flickered low,
The dinner plates were set.
Her golden hair donned with a bow,
The stew not ready yet.
She painted pink her cheeks with blush,
She brushed blue ’round her eyes.
Pulled on her skirt without a rush,
Then heard the doorbell’s cries.
Her nerves were gone, replaced with joy,
She trotted to the door.
“Hello, good sir!” she told the boy,
And smiled at him once more.
The fellow said, “How glad I am,
You’re giving me this chance!
You having me for dinner, ma’am,
Is true first-date romance.”
“I thought so too,” she smiled and said,
Hanging up his coat.
He kissed her cheek and she blushed red
And told him not to dote.
He sat down in the dining room,
While she went to the pot.
She stirred the stew and pretty soon,
It boiled nice and hot.
“You’re quite the chef,” he said and smelled.
She turned to look at he.
And then with shock, he saw she held
A knife as large as three.
“What’s that for?” he asked with fear,
Her eyes a twinkling red.
“I’m having you for dinner, dear.
Is that not what I said?”
“I’ve had before a rabbit soup.”
She clenched, unclenched her hand.
“As well as one of duck and goose,
But never one of man.”
He shouted out and stood up quick,
To stop her in her path.
But late he was, and with a flick,
She made a hot blood bath.
The crimson ran onto her dress,
And sullied up the floor.
She giggled down at all the mess
She must, for now, ignore.
“This boyfriend soup will not be bland,
Once I mince this meat.”
She licked her lips and wiped her hands,
And made her tasty treat.
Consult your physician
As seen on TV
Enlarged to show texture
It’s not you it’s me
Legal separation
Please hold your applause
Studies have shown
I’m calling because
National bestseller
Attempted suicide
Antioxidant-rich
Look on the bright side
Scientific method
Ladies first
Performance review
For better or worse
We’re gonna need backup
Results may vary
Let’s get wasted
Eat drink and be merry
Regulate your cycle
Read package directions
Nonsurgical face-lift
We’ve got a situation
Pro-life pro-choice
Procrastination
Pro-active pro-rated
Professional opinion
One-millionth visitor
Come claim your prize
I want my lawyer
Actual size
Guard dog on duty
Recommended dosage
Side-effects include
Take out a second mortgage
Remember to log out
Remember to vote
Remember to smile
That’s a misquote
War on terror
Jesus loves you
God hates gays
Have you heard the good news?
Capital punishment
Christmas in July
It’s only a theory
The cake is a lie
Mad cow salmonella
Bird flu swine flu
Nervous breakdown
Your books are overdue
Trespassers prosecuted
She’s a train wreck
Physical examination
Practice makes perfect
Go for coffee
Enter to win
Plagiarism
Intervention
school shooting
zero trans fat
probation
instant chat
tax-free
GST
audit me
HST
own
lease
war
peace
truth
lies
laugh
cry
sex
death
lust
greed
wrath
envy
pride
I have an obsessive personality. I get hooked on something and it’s all I can think about. Naturally, when I have an idea for a novel (one I’m convinced is spectacular), nothing gets between me and my keyboard. I make sacrifices—socializing, mainly—in order to spend time writing. Part of me even becomes my protagonist: I want to think like him so I can successfully write him.
Writing a book obviously requires a ridiculous amount of dedication. Less obvious, however, is why some people can accomplish it and some can’t. What traits set us apart? Are some of us predisposed to be novelists?
Continue reading my guest post at Helping Writers Become Authors
Header photo: Insane by Melissa Petrie via Flickr
I have to share this. It’s one of the first poems I ever wrote. The positive reaction from the class and teacher was a huge factor in inspiring me to keep writing. Moral of the story: praise a kid’s work, because that encouragement makes a big impact!
When I make my snowman
With a carrot for his nose
Along comes my pony
Munch munch! Off she goes!
When I make my snowman
With peanuts for his toes
Along comes a squirrel
Munch munch! Off he goes!
When I make my snowman
With no nose or toes
Along comes my puppy
Now he has yellow clothes.
To match the human to the face that has Picasso drawn
To find among the autumn leaves the still and silent fawn
On such a day I know the truth whether the path is set
Be the ground fresh laid in stone or be its clay still wet
Does great Hecate see me there in grass that seems more lush?
Or should the daisies at my feet subdue my need to rush?
Is it a house that I’ve begun to build with this brick wall?
Or is it meant to crumble here ’til brick by brick, it falls?
Beyond the bricks perhaps there lies an Earth of paradise
But since its snow is free of prints it may be mere thin ice
I can’t but tell unless I try to build my house from snow
If it shall melt I still at least have all those bricks to show
And so I carve said house of snow but build the bricks up still
In hopes someday that igloo holds, and move to it, I will
For I cannot but know for sure the nature of my path
The trades of safety, fun or growth, responsible or rash
I will not be the fawn so still on clear untrodden land
But rather be Picasso’s work, and paint my Earth by hand
Me and my cousins falling off our horses. Made with Windows Movie Maker when I was in high school. Classic.
