Volume 1 Issue 1
Welcome to Evans’ Rag—rag as the rarest of digital newsprint. Not to rag on you or nothing. This is not a Scott Joplin rag neither, if a bit ragged at the edges. As Little Feat would sing, “Rag on thru the night!” second lining the whole way down Bourbon Street. I’m talking about your Spanish Moon.
Does a digital letter leave printers’ ink contrails in the atmosphere?
Tom Petty was caught on YouTube saying, “…the difference between a six string and twelve, well it’s got twelve strings.” The song is about the perils of a peculiar kind of multi-tasking. I can’t type, so listen to Yer So Bad while I slurp my coffee and scratch the dog on her white belly.
What in fact have you done with your 15 minutes of fame? Is that even a thing anymore? Regardless, it’s time to get moving!
Right off, I’d like to recommend a link to someone who I’ve been following for several years now. Steven Pressfield is a fiction writer, coach and voice to the wider world for writing. A writer of several good reads, including The Legend of Bagger Vance, Steven plays the role of a writers’ coach in ways that get to the heart of what works and what doesn’t, and: where on earth does he come up with his observations? Here’s a link to a recent Writing Wednesday post: Steven Pressfield. His book, The War of Art is mentioned in a second blog (coming out in a couple). Steven made me realize the main component of turning professional is to roll up your sleeves—and to value the work. Setting aside the fear of failure, sniffling about not being sufficiently loved, and all the other stuff introverted writers (admittedly an oxymoron) fall into, one has to “do the work”, as Pressfield says. Focus, focus, focus, along with endless rewrites. Pressfield is honest about his own struggles which convinces me what he has to say is the real deal.
Did you build puppet shows as a kid when it was too rainy to go outside? Ever get the rag curtains to draw back? What about between the acts writing gag advertisements? Who gave you those hand puppets in the first place?
WHY I WRITE
For some time I’ve been fascinated by what attracts people to write. For myself I can’t really say, except that I’ve been at it since a youth, and it’s become part of who I am.
When virtual reality will no longer require headsets, will you be the first to buy one, or will you wait for the Costco sale?
KIll devil come the storm
“Ocracoke lay south of Hatteras Island, both islands more name than land mass, bridges stapling the bits together. The entire stretch was a bare ridge in the way of a rising ocean. Viewed by satellite, a first thought might be ‘fragile’ and the second ‘soon gone.’ “
“Charlie watched BJ and her friend hug goodbye. Her friend headed for the exit, passing close by him. Half standing, his first thought was to approach BJ. But the door’s second shriek caught his attention. Charlie flung the bar stool to one side, scrambling after. He bulldozed the door and left it hanging from one hinge. Around the side of the building, Charlie caught sounds of a commotion, and ran straight at it. For once he regretted not carrying his gun. Too late now, Jack. He spied the devil dragging her by her scalp like a caveman’s prize across the parking lot.
“The devil had her halfway inside the van by the time Charlie reached them. “Stop, motherfucker! Police, you goddamn sonofabitch!” And jammed his foot against the back of the giant’s knee, slamming it against the door frame in his best imitation of a karate move.”
“The wind was blowing the spray at her face with the smell of the ocean. She pressed close to him, keeping his body between her and the gunwale. If she was going overboard, she was taking him with her, swear to God! BJ shivered in another gust of wind and salt spray. When Charlie put his arm around her and drew her closer, she didn’t protest. No better reason she could think of why men were useful.”
Coming next: Digressions will be honored
The new age word “blog” lands in the dictionary between blot and flog.
Is it true in Starbucks only the barista is real, and the rest are simulacra?
Love in Winter missing ryan
We moved into a 1950’s lake cottage in late August, 2002. Ryan and I had toured the site before we had even closed on the property, shortly before he headed off to Virginia Tech. Two months later Ryan jumped from his dorm room window.
Fall into winter began a marathon of pain.
A final story
A few years ago I led the design team for a new library for Southwest Virginia Community College, down in Virginia’s former coal country. Driving to the campus, I’d pass by a cottage sitting high on the hill above the highway and often thought about living in Appalachia. Between semesters, my father worked the mines in Pennsylvania and was gravely injured in a methane explosion; his brother died in the mines. “No country for old men” as Yeats said. What follows is a pure work of fiction, dedicated to the Irish of Appalachia.
Post to the World, LLC is the publisher of the books found on GoPosted. The logo depicts paw prints trotting over a stamp like a seal of approval. Dogs have always shown a better sense of humor than their humans.