Monthly Archives: May 2020

Writer’s Block

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Editor’s Note: The following story by Jeff Rembert was posted by Ghost Parachute: A Literary Magazine on its website under Blog on May 20, 2020.

You’re staring at the screen, and you’ve got nothing. Your mind is a void. You type random words and hope a coherent sentence emerges. Still nothing. Your cat gives it a shot with words of her invention and does so with steadfast confidence. Still incoherent, but your cat doesn’t care. Your frustration continues unabated. In your cat’s eyes, you’re simply a dog. Good luck with that.

Futile efforts, cat judgement, emptiness of thought and desire are common. The origin of this state of inability remains unknown to scientists, literary professors and writing coaches. Politicians blame Belgium. Your father blames your mother’s side of the family. Your mother says something about a real father. While theories fail to adequately explain the malady, it continues to rage through writing communities, literary groups and freelance sweatshops.

And no one is immune. You have what some call writer’s block.

Writer’s block affects the young and old, the experienced and inexperienced, short story writers and novelists, romantic writers and fantasy apocalyptic authors (same thing), English undergrads and MFAs. Writer’s block doesn’t recognize borders, culture, race or political parties. It affects those with and without the latest technology. Starbucks patrons are particularly susceptible.

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Keep Up Tradition

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Editor’s Note: Writing a goodbye column was a tradition at The University Daily, the campus paper at Texas Tech University. And I probably wrote mine in a huff. Too many ads. Not enough editorial space. Why my editor, Inez Russell, didn’t calf-tie me and leave me in a forgotten barn, I’ll never know. Thank you for not finding the keys to the school van. From the May 4, 1982, edition of the UD, a long-seasoned vanity piece.

HIGHWAY 84 – I guess it’s time to shut the book on an era. The wild and carefree columns of the past will make like my grade point and fade away. No more columns about filling 32 inches of space in the newspaper. No more columns about Tech students going on strike demanding easier courses and less-stringent grading policies. Even Ol’ Dusty may have seen his last Tech-Arkansas football game.

Tradition is dying out, folks.

Despite claims by the Latin faculty, I’m not very old. But when you’re 21 and have four years of higher learning tucked away in a copy of Sports Illustrated, some of the newer students look upon you as if you were Will Rogers’ statue – a Tech fixture. The baseball players can’t imagine anyone but you covering their team, and the other sports writers can’t remember when anyone but you finished last in Fearless Forecasters.

But how old can you be when you’re in college. The life is as carefree as you’ll ever experience. I can remember when Tech had a winning football team. When the basketball team participated in post-season tournaments. When a night of intramural basketball was spent at the Intramural Gym. And when Applause was one of the hottest clubs in Lubbock.

Now my catalog tells me I have enough hours to graduate, so I should leave Tech and make something of myself. Administration said I should grow up while I was at it. I was grown up when I entered college. I just regressed as the years progressed.

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Why Start A Literary Group?

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Editor’s Note: The following story by Jeff Rembert was posted by GHOST PARACHUTE – A LITERARY MAGAZINE on its website under Blog on December 20, 2019.

You’re new to the writing game. Someone in your past said you had talent, but life got in the way. Family, career, bills and discouragement kept you away from the keyboard. Only recently you made the commitment to sidestep obstacles and put your thoughts on paper. You’ve a laptop, ideas and a dream. You’ll carve out time. But the quest can be lonely, frustrating, mind-numbing, for anonymity and solitude lay in your path. You need a community of like-minded individuals.

It’s common for newbie writers to seek guidance from the experienced and support from those also getting started. But getting five minutes of productive conversation from authors at book festivals is problematic. Holiday meals with family, after bringing up your burgeoning writing career, results in encouragement yet no real understanding. Aunt Gracie is impressed but her writing career fizzled high school senior year. Rather than retreat crestfallen to your study and labors, perhaps you form a community. A hybrid. A combination writing group and an open mic.

After a career in journalism and public relations, and years away from the keyboard, I discovered a friend was a closeted writer. No one knew outside his family, and his efforts focused on fictitious holiday updates. We learned in the ensuing years he’s a talented comedic writer with a gift for dialogue and off-beat characters. But at first, upon learning of each other’s desire to write, we spent coffee hours simply discussing the craft and sharing our efforts. And once we learned all we could from one another we sought the input of other writers. Those writers seeking a group where we could share ideas and inspiration. Perhaps collaborate.

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From Here to Isolation

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Editor’s Note: While for many the following unfortunately is not the case, those in my world remain well and the experience of isolation, surreal for sure, has been an observation of human behavior. Whether it’s folks in denial while shopping without masks, or protesters defying social distancing on the steps of government buildings. Whether it’s reruns of the 1978 MLB season or Katy Perry’s wardrobe on American Idol At Home. The mind wanders. Hey, I just organized my sock drawer by color.

Is it strange I schedule my day around the evening news?

CENTRAL FLORIDA – Self-exile. We’d think I was an embattled Shah or Justin Bieber, but no. My county has stay-at-home orders with a broad definition of essential services. Only massage parlors, tattoo shops and barbers, the only true essentials, are closed. I’m simply home and working remote because I’m on the low end of the at-risk category and somebody out there loves me. But it hasn’t been without raised eyebrow.

The learning curve has been steep. And I’m either annoyed or hungry. Then again I’m always hungry. Bottom line? People are nuts. How anyone survived outside the womb is beyond me. Perhaps people survived childhood by eating paint chips, perhaps THEY were correct about fluoride in the water. No matter, everyone is nuts. And Dr. Anthony Fauci will save us.

Clothing. Or do the goldfish make me look fat?

I haven’t worn pants in six weeks. Not Terry Bradshaw full nude around the fish tank, but rather shorts versus jeans. And I’ve discovered cargo shorts can hold three dog leashes, collars and treats. Four unused environmentally friendly doggie poop bags. Seven used fabric sheets for the dryer. Two remote controls. One bottled water. Seven days of mail, and one Hunter S. Thompson paperback. A stapler, wrench and double-sided tape. One package of peanut butter crackers. Double A batteries, chicken bones and nail clippers. Did I mention I forgot how to tie my shoes?

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