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Tell us all about yourself and how writing fits into your life. Are you published? Is it just a hobby? Is it your profession? Is it just a therapeutic release? I want to know! If you have been published, tell us how it happened. Of course, we want the details. What type of writing do you prefer? edit: Please tag me so I can be notified. As more and more post, I'm finding that I am missing some precious posts and I want to read them all.
Written by Sooz in portal Nonfiction

Writing is my distillery

Writing without a predetermined outcome is my favourite way to learn. It teaches me about my topic and about myself. Writing is my distillery. It's the place I go to sort through a thousand thoughts, writing and deleting until only the most important points remain. 

That's how the process goes when it works. On the flip side of the coin I have spent innumerable hours writing clunkers that don't deserve to see the light of day.

I've been an active blogger since 2009. Most of my articles are about recruitment, the workplace, and online branding for job seekers and employers. I especially love writing articles that help people with their job search as I have a lot of 'insider information' to share from nearly 20 years in the staffing industry. My readership is small but the blog continues to get me paid writing assignments.

Fiction was the farthest thing from my mind before joining Prose. The challenges looked like such fun I had to try my hand and I'm so glad I did. I have 2 short stories in the works that will show up soon. Don't ask me why but spending a few hours writing fiction helps me produce better business articles. 

The genre that completely eludes me is poetry. I'm in awe of writers who need only a few short lines of text to convey a vivid story. Poets are master distillers. 

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Tell us all about yourself and how writing fits into your life. Are you published? Is it just a hobby? Is it your profession? Is it just a therapeutic release? I want to know! If you have been published, tell us how it happened. Of course, we want the details. What type of writing do you prefer? edit: Please tag me so I can be notified. As more and more post, I'm finding that I am missing some precious posts and I want to read them all.
Written by Sooz in portal Nonfiction
Writing is my distillery
Writing without a predetermined outcome is my favourite way to learn. It teaches me about my topic and about myself. Writing is my distillery. It's the place I go to sort through a thousand thoughts, writing and deleting until only the most important points remain. 

That's how the process goes when it works. On the flip side of the coin I have spent innumerable hours writing clunkers that don't deserve to see the light of day.

I've been an active blogger since 2009. Most of my articles are about recruitment, the workplace, and online branding for job seekers and employers. I especially love writing articles that help people with their job search as I have a lot of 'insider information' to share from nearly 20 years in the staffing industry. My readership is small but the blog continues to get me paid writing assignments.

Fiction was the farthest thing from my mind before joining Prose. The challenges looked like such fun I had to try my hand and I'm so glad I did. I have 2 short stories in the works that will show up soon. Don't ask me why but spending a few hours writing fiction helps me produce better business articles. 

The genre that completely eludes me is poetry. I'm in awe of writers who need only a few short lines of text to convey a vivid story. Poets are master distillers. 
#nonfiction  #writing  #writers 
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To write a Lipogram using only one vowel in words throughout the entire poem. You can choose the vowel. The winner will receive a postcard full of mindless ditherings from myself in Sydney, Australia (so yes you will have to PM me your postal address if you choose when you win.) You can find an example of a Lipogram here: https://theprose.com/post/35698/man-makes-mistakes
Written by Sooz in portal Poetry & Free Verse

“Ah” - A Lipogram in A

Tall man

tan pants

Walmart cart.

Stands at wall

asks cash.

Attacks land hard

“Vagrant!”

“Scram, asshat!”

“What a scam.”

Acts calm and walks away.

Alan can’t stand barbs

can’t spar back

can’t fall apart.

Draws bandana, dabs at angst.

“Harsh past?” man asks.

“War flashbacks, PTSD. And bad grass.”

“Ah, wack ganja.”

Grabs Alan’s hand and palms a saw.

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To write a Lipogram using only one vowel in words throughout the entire poem. You can choose the vowel. The winner will receive a postcard full of mindless ditherings from myself in Sydney, Australia (so yes you will have to PM me your postal address if you choose when you win.) You can find an example of a Lipogram here: https://theprose.com/post/35698/man-makes-mistakes
Written by Sooz in portal Poetry & Free Verse
“Ah” - A Lipogram in A
Tall man
tan pants
Walmart cart.

Stands at wall
asks cash.

Attacks land hard
“Vagrant!”
“Scram, asshat!”
“What a scam.”
Acts calm and walks away.

Alan can’t stand barbs
can’t spar back
can’t fall apart.
Draws bandana, dabs at angst.

“Harsh past?” man asks.
“War flashbacks, PTSD. And bad grass.”
“Ah, wack ganja.”
Grabs Alan’s hand and palms a saw.
#challenge  #lipogram 
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Prose Challenge of the Week #9: Write a 20 word story about heartbreak. The winner will be chosen by Prose based on a number of criteria, this includes: fire, form, and creative edge. Number of reads, bookmarks, and shares will also be taken into consideration. Winner will receive $100.
Written by Sooz

The shunning

"This one is rejected."

Cold shoulder.

Deaf ear.

Invisibility.

You wail into a vacuum — unloved, uncomforted. 

Welcome to your shunning.

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Prose Challenge of the Week #9: Write a 20 word story about heartbreak. The winner will be chosen by Prose based on a number of criteria, this includes: fire, form, and creative edge. Number of reads, bookmarks, and shares will also be taken into consideration. Winner will receive $100.
Written by Sooz
The shunning
"This one is rejected."

Cold shoulder.
Deaf ear.
Invisibility.
You wail into a vacuum — unloved, uncomforted. 

Welcome to your shunning.
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a six-word story on existence
Written by Sooz

Life in 6 words

We need less than we think.

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a six-word story on existence
Written by Sooz
Life in 6 words
We need less than we think.
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Written by Sooz

In praise of #fuckery and other dark prose

Someone talented said this to me today: I wrote something but didn't have the guts to post it. It was too raw and dark. People like uplifting. 

The opportunity to introduce this person to the world of Prose, where writing doesn't have to be light and pretty to be embraced, made me absolutely gleeful. T_E_Trueman, JeffStewart, rh, paintingskies, RioRamirez... these are just a few of the Prosers who tell a good tale without trying to make things appear nicer than they are.

Here are 5 posts that popped into my head tonight: I'm recommending them to @Lane to demonstrate that we love to read everything here — sometimes the darker the better, hence the hashtag #fuckery.  

hell's half acre and blacksmith - both by @rh

Big City Nights by JeffStewart

Pitch and roll, baby by RioRamirez 

I must mention my all-time favourite: Sheehan by T_E_Trueman. Watch out. This one will rip your heart out but you'll want to read it more than once.

Please follow @Lane as encouragement to see some of that "raw and dark" stuff that's in hiding. 

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Written by Sooz
In praise of #fuckery and other dark prose
Someone talented said this to me today: I wrote something but didn't have the guts to post it. It was too raw and dark. People like uplifting. 

The opportunity to introduce this person to the world of Prose, where writing doesn't have to be light and pretty to be embraced, made me absolutely gleeful. T_E_Trueman, JeffStewart, rh, paintingskies, RioRamirez... these are just a few of the Prosers who tell a good tale without trying to make things appear nicer than they are.

Here are 5 posts that popped into my head tonight: I'm recommending them to @Lane to demonstrate that we love to read everything here — sometimes the darker the better, hence the hashtag #fuckery.  

hell's half acre and blacksmith - both by @rh
Big City Nights by JeffStewart
Pitch and roll, baby by RioRamirez 

I must mention my all-time favourite: Sheehan by T_E_Trueman. Watch out. This one will rip your heart out but you'll want to read it more than once.

Please follow @Lane as encouragement to see some of that "raw and dark" stuff that's in hiding. 
#nonfiction  #culture  #fuckery 
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Written by Sooz in portal Stream of Consciousness

Happy Birthday January Babies

Does your birthday get you thinking about life — why stuff has happened, what’s in your future, and what you might wish for? It does me. Today is my 56th anniversary on planet Earth and I’m in full musing mode.

Numbers keep popping into my thoughts — for instance, my weight (birthday posts are allowed to border on narcissistic - I call it). Recording my weight each birthday was a good habit that got away from me for several years. In witness of that, 3 years ago I was carrying an additional 50 pounds on my little frame. That’s 10 bags of sugar. Or 5 average house cats. Or 2.5 car tires.

I didn’t set out to intentionally lose weight. While enjoying coffee and a treat one sunny autumn day, Hubby wondered out loud if our diet could stand some improvement. I suspect his comment was triggered by the 7 empty cookie cartons waiting to be taken to the recycle bin. We agreed to cut down on sweets and eat more protein and fibre. We called it an un-diet and swore not to make it about weight loss (as if that were an evil goal). This was supposed to be about feeling better, not counting pounds. I didn’t realize how quickly they were melting away until I sneezed one day and my pants fell down.

That was all the encouragement I needed to amp up my exercise. Don’t laugh, but my favourite way to burn calories is to walk up and down the 15 flights of stairs in my high rise. The journey from overweight couch potato — which I generously refer to as my ‘cerebral’ years — to somewhat-fit-50-something was not easy. For my first trek, I decided to walk up as many flights as I could, then take the elevator down. At the end of 7 flights I was panting. Beyond panting, really. There was coughing. And eye watering. As soon as the elevator doors opened I realized my mistake. Several people clad in winter coats and scarves stared at my inappropriate shorts and shockingly white legs and then quickly looked away. I nodded to my neighbours and got in.

Did you know it’s almost impossible to stop yourself from gulping air after unusually brisk exercise? Or that heavy breathing reverberates rudely in the confines of a small elevator? Willing myself to stop gasping just long enough to reach the lobby, I nearly passed out from lack of oxygen.

I got good at the climb after a while. No surprise to me. My sister Delaney and I have often said we were born with ‘potato field plowing legs’ in deference to our ability to lift or pull many times our own weight by virtue of extra sturdy gams. Small recompense for muscular calves that will never fit into high fashion boots.

If 2014 was about losing weight, 2015 was the year of shedding unnecessary encumbrances, the biggest of which was my car. I used to view owning a car as the ultimate freedom but it became something other than that when I began using it so infrequently the battery required a trickle charge each time we wanted to drive somewhere. Picture me pulling a battery-laden granny cart to the nearest garage. Multiple times. Worse than that, we were driving places just to keep everything functioning properly. We finally decided doing errands on foot to keep our bodies healthy was a better investment than driving around to keep the car in good shape. So Betsy left us in April.

I rid myself of a few other habits that failed the why-am-I-doing-this test, such as a compunction for never leaving the house without wearing makeup. Chalk that one up to hubris. I’m sure noone even notices whether I’m wearing mascara or not. Geesh - all the hours and money I wasted.

So I’m walking into this year lighter for having ditched some things that were no longer working for me and with a bit more spring in my step from working hard at cultivating gratitude.

Gotta go now. There’s a Belgian waffle with my name on it waiting to become a chocolate-covered vehicle of birthday decadence.

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Written by Sooz in portal Stream of Consciousness
Happy Birthday January Babies
Does your birthday get you thinking about life — why stuff has happened, what’s in your future, and what you might wish for? It does me. Today is my 56th anniversary on planet Earth and I’m in full musing mode.

Numbers keep popping into my thoughts — for instance, my weight (birthday posts are allowed to border on narcissistic - I call it). Recording my weight each birthday was a good habit that got away from me for several years. In witness of that, 3 years ago I was carrying an additional 50 pounds on my little frame. That’s 10 bags of sugar. Or 5 average house cats. Or 2.5 car tires.

I didn’t set out to intentionally lose weight. While enjoying coffee and a treat one sunny autumn day, Hubby wondered out loud if our diet could stand some improvement. I suspect his comment was triggered by the 7 empty cookie cartons waiting to be taken to the recycle bin. We agreed to cut down on sweets and eat more protein and fibre. We called it an un-diet and swore not to make it about weight loss (as if that were an evil goal). This was supposed to be about feeling better, not counting pounds. I didn’t realize how quickly they were melting away until I sneezed one day and my pants fell down.

That was all the encouragement I needed to amp up my exercise. Don’t laugh, but my favourite way to burn calories is to walk up and down the 15 flights of stairs in my high rise. The journey from overweight couch potato — which I generously refer to as my ‘cerebral’ years — to somewhat-fit-50-something was not easy. For my first trek, I decided to walk up as many flights as I could, then take the elevator down. At the end of 7 flights I was panting. Beyond panting, really. There was coughing. And eye watering. As soon as the elevator doors opened I realized my mistake. Several people clad in winter coats and scarves stared at my inappropriate shorts and shockingly white legs and then quickly looked away. I nodded to my neighbours and got in.

Did you know it’s almost impossible to stop yourself from gulping air after unusually brisk exercise? Or that heavy breathing reverberates rudely in the confines of a small elevator? Willing myself to stop gasping just long enough to reach the lobby, I nearly passed out from lack of oxygen.

I got good at the climb after a while. No surprise to me. My sister Delaney and I have often said we were born with ‘potato field plowing legs’ in deference to our ability to lift or pull many times our own weight by virtue of extra sturdy gams. Small recompense for muscular calves that will never fit into high fashion boots.

If 2014 was about losing weight, 2015 was the year of shedding unnecessary encumbrances, the biggest of which was my car. I used to view owning a car as the ultimate freedom but it became something other than that when I began using it so infrequently the battery required a trickle charge each time we wanted to drive somewhere. Picture me pulling a battery-laden granny cart to the nearest garage. Multiple times. Worse than that, we were driving places just to keep everything functioning properly. We finally decided doing errands on foot to keep our bodies healthy was a better investment than driving around to keep the car in good shape. So Betsy left us in April.

I rid myself of a few other habits that failed the why-am-I-doing-this test, such as a compunction for never leaving the house without wearing makeup. Chalk that one up to hubris. I’m sure noone even notices whether I’m wearing mascara or not. Geesh - all the hours and money I wasted.

So I’m walking into this year lighter for having ditched some things that were no longer working for me and with a bit more spring in my step from working hard at cultivating gratitude.

Gotta go now. There’s a Belgian waffle with my name on it waiting to become a chocolate-covered vehicle of birthday decadence.
#nonfiction  #philosophy  #gratitude 
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Epiphany.
Written by Sooz in portal Stream of Consciousness

Getting at death

We were making our way down the stairs and toward the back door after Sunday church. I could see sunlight streaming through the panes of glass over the door, promising an afternoon of exploring and wandering. The slow pace of our descent was torture for a seven year old. I wanted us to move quickly. Didn’t everyone know we were just a few feet away from opening that door and running into a warm summer day?

All I could think about were the daisies I’d seen in the field on the way in. I was determined to pick some before getting into Grandma’s car. Hopefully the flower petals would reveal a few aphids to help occupy my mind while I ignored the inevitable scriptural admonitions on the drive home. Those thoughts sustained me through the service as I sat with an open bible on my lap, every now and then turning my head to pull in a whiff of summer through the open windows. Grandma saw me fidgeting and gave me a white peppermint Lifesaver. I tried to make it last but ended up crunching it, enjoying the hot-cold rush.

Now, finally over, instead of racing down the stairs and out the door I was hemmed in by a swarm of dainty old ladies. Why had everyone stopped? Didn’t they know the rest of the day was waiting? Then I heard the whispers. Cancer. They were looking at a man named Pepé. The ladies had caught up with him halfway down the stairs and wouldn’t let him leave until each one had said something helpful to him. I heard: “Keep your faith.” “Everything happens for a reason.” “You need vitamins. Have you been taking vitamins?” “Which nature foods store do you go to? You do buy your food at the nature foods store, don’t you? You should, you know.”

I was just a little kid but I could see Pepé wasn’t listening. I saw him look up the stairs, and down the stairs, and then at all the women who were surrounding him with their advice. He looked down at me, the only child in a sea of little old ladies in pillbox hats, handbags crooked on elbows. He looked like he wanted a way out, like me. Except he looked tired. I wasn’t tired; my legs wanted to run.

My attention captured, I began watching the scene play out. I eventually concluded the women weren’t comforting him so much as they were comforting themselves. I believe Pepé knew it, too. He smiled at me and held my gaze for several moments while the ladies were nattering away. Although he gave me a smile, I felt his sadness and his questions. He looked tired. He looked like he wanted to leave. He looked just a bit defeated. Had he shrugged his shoulders I wouldn’t have been surprised, but he didn’t. He stood there, halfway up, halfway down the stairs, until each one had had her say.

A couple of months later I heard he died — except that’s not how they said it. They said he had finished his earthly course. I didn’t understand the words individually at the time. As a child, it always sounded like a single word: finishedhisearthlycourse. It could have been a normal phrase like ‘he ran’ or ‘he ate’ but it always signaled the end of conversation as soon as someone said it.

Years later I found myself in a similar situation while attending the funeral of a colleague’s son who had died in a car crash. In the lineup, making my way toward the bereaved parents, I realized I had no idea what to say. What in the world do you say to someone who just lost a child? To my horror, what came out of my mouth was every bit as inane and useless as the women who had mobbed Pepé with their ‘helpful’ comments twenty years earlier. Apparently I was savvy enough as a kid to realize the futility of those words but not smart enough as an adult to stop myself from saying them. With that thought came the realization I’d been shielding myself from death with trite phrases about loved ones falling asleep in death and I couldn’t reconcile that at the funeral of a university student whose life was cut short by something way more sudden and violent than falling sleep. And so began years of pondering.

What I’m about to say is not meant to sound morbid: I think about death a lot. It has taken me years to formulate my own ideas about afterlife and collective consciousness and to finally get some degree of comfort with the whole life/death cycle. I don’t want to be placated by the vision of a loved one smiling down at me from heaven or consoled by the hope of physical resurrection. Accepting mortality makes each day important. Today counts. Big time.

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Epiphany.
Written by Sooz in portal Stream of Consciousness
Getting at death
We were making our way down the stairs and toward the back door after Sunday church. I could see sunlight streaming through the panes of glass over the door, promising an afternoon of exploring and wandering. The slow pace of our descent was torture for a seven year old. I wanted us to move quickly. Didn’t everyone know we were just a few feet away from opening that door and running into a warm summer day?

All I could think about were the daisies I’d seen in the field on the way in. I was determined to pick some before getting into Grandma’s car. Hopefully the flower petals would reveal a few aphids to help occupy my mind while I ignored the inevitable scriptural admonitions on the drive home. Those thoughts sustained me through the service as I sat with an open bible on my lap, every now and then turning my head to pull in a whiff of summer through the open windows. Grandma saw me fidgeting and gave me a white peppermint Lifesaver. I tried to make it last but ended up crunching it, enjoying the hot-cold rush.

Now, finally over, instead of racing down the stairs and out the door I was hemmed in by a swarm of dainty old ladies. Why had everyone stopped? Didn’t they know the rest of the day was waiting? Then I heard the whispers. Cancer. They were looking at a man named Pepé. The ladies had caught up with him halfway down the stairs and wouldn’t let him leave until each one had said something helpful to him. I heard: “Keep your faith.” “Everything happens for a reason.” “You need vitamins. Have you been taking vitamins?” “Which nature foods store do you go to? You do buy your food at the nature foods store, don’t you? You should, you know.”

I was just a little kid but I could see Pepé wasn’t listening. I saw him look up the stairs, and down the stairs, and then at all the women who were surrounding him with their advice. He looked down at me, the only child in a sea of little old ladies in pillbox hats, handbags crooked on elbows. He looked like he wanted a way out, like me. Except he looked tired. I wasn’t tired; my legs wanted to run.

My attention captured, I began watching the scene play out. I eventually concluded the women weren’t comforting him so much as they were comforting themselves. I believe Pepé knew it, too. He smiled at me and held my gaze for several moments while the ladies were nattering away. Although he gave me a smile, I felt his sadness and his questions. He looked tired. He looked like he wanted to leave. He looked just a bit defeated. Had he shrugged his shoulders I wouldn’t have been surprised, but he didn’t. He stood there, halfway up, halfway down the stairs, until each one had had her say.

A couple of months later I heard he died — except that’s not how they said it. They said he had finished his earthly course. I didn’t understand the words individually at the time. As a child, it always sounded like a single word: finishedhisearthlycourse. It could have been a normal phrase like ‘he ran’ or ‘he ate’ but it always signaled the end of conversation as soon as someone said it.

Years later I found myself in a similar situation while attending the funeral of a colleague’s son who had died in a car crash. In the lineup, making my way toward the bereaved parents, I realized I had no idea what to say. What in the world do you say to someone who just lost a child? To my horror, what came out of my mouth was every bit as inane and useless as the women who had mobbed Pepé with their ‘helpful’ comments twenty years earlier. Apparently I was savvy enough as a kid to realize the futility of those words but not smart enough as an adult to stop myself from saying them. With that thought came the realization I’d been shielding myself from death with trite phrases about loved ones falling asleep in death and I couldn’t reconcile that at the funeral of a university student whose life was cut short by something way more sudden and violent than falling sleep. And so began years of pondering.

What I’m about to say is not meant to sound morbid: I think about death a lot. It has taken me years to formulate my own ideas about afterlife and collective consciousness and to finally get some degree of comfort with the whole life/death cycle. I don’t want to be placated by the vision of a loved one smiling down at me from heaven or consoled by the hope of physical resurrection. Accepting mortality makes each day important. Today counts. Big time.
#nonfiction  #philosophy 
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Write about enslavement of any kind.
Written by Sooz

The Divine Restlessness of Creativity

When I worked a Monday through Friday job, weekends were brutal. These were not the laid back kind, meant for sleeping late and hanging out with friends. Mine were a race to transform creative drive into something tangible by Sunday night.

Vacations were even more intense than weekends. Long before I had selected which weeks to take off, I'd have selected a subject to study. A successful vacation meant I had learned a new craft or honed a talent in some way. If I were waylaid into going hiking or kayaking, I studied the way light played on trees or the water’s surface—and would race home to capture it on canvas or paper.

I particularly remember the time I thought all I needed was two weeks of online courses and larger canvases to transform my awkward, over-saturated landscape paintings into soft, magical works reminiscent of Monet. Go big or go home, right?

Two weeks of sweltering in the August heat of my Toronto apartment netted me several ugly paintings and a renewed respect for the Impressionists.

Eventually, career demands encroached to the extent that I shelved my paints and craft tools. For several years, I satisfied the creative drive through blogging and web design.

So now that I've traded the 70-hour corporate work week for part-time gigs from home, my problems are solved, right? Nope. The drive is still there. Only now I have to deal with my own expanded expectations.

If you’re waiting for me to say I finally found the solution and you can, too, you are about to be disappointed. I still struggle with a creative drive that can only be described as relentless. It’s always there; dissatisfied with my accomplishments but buoyed by the prospect of that next project, that next great creation.

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Write about enslavement of any kind.
Written by Sooz
The Divine Restlessness of Creativity
When I worked a Monday through Friday job, weekends were brutal. These were not the laid back kind, meant for sleeping late and hanging out with friends. Mine were a race to transform creative drive into something tangible by Sunday night.


Vacations were even more intense than weekends. Long before I had selected which weeks to take off, I'd have selected a subject to study. A successful vacation meant I had learned a new craft or honed a talent in some way. If I were waylaid into going hiking or kayaking, I studied the way light played on trees or the water’s surface—and would race home to capture it on canvas or paper.


I particularly remember the time I thought all I needed was two weeks of online courses and larger canvases to transform my awkward, over-saturated landscape paintings into soft, magical works reminiscent of Monet. Go big or go home, right?


Two weeks of sweltering in the August heat of my Toronto apartment netted me several ugly paintings and a renewed respect for the Impressionists.


Eventually, career demands encroached to the extent that I shelved my paints and craft tools. For several years, I satisfied the creative drive through blogging and web design.


So now that I've traded the 70-hour corporate work week for part-time gigs from home, my problems are solved, right? Nope. The drive is still there. Only now I have to deal with my own expanded expectations.


If you’re waiting for me to say I finally found the solution and you can, too, you are about to be disappointed. I still struggle with a creative drive that can only be described as relentless. It’s always there; dissatisfied with my accomplishments but buoyed by the prospect of that next project, that next great creation.
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Which font are you?
Written by Sooz

Helvetica with Occasional Bouts of Comic Sans

Helvetica is a can-do font. It makes itself heard without raising its voice. Available in light, regular, bold, and black, it adapts without changing its nature. It has no pointy parts. Helvetica could ring your doorbell at 10 p.m. without raising suspicion. When I'm at my best I'm Helvetica. But every now and then a bit of mischief bubbles up and Comic Sans takes over.

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Which font are you?
Written by Sooz
Helvetica with Occasional Bouts of Comic Sans
Helvetica is a can-do font. It makes itself heard without raising its voice. Available in light, regular, bold, and black, it adapts without changing its nature. It has no pointy parts. Helvetica could ring your doorbell at 10 p.m. without raising suspicion. When I'm at my best I'm Helvetica. But every now and then a bit of mischief bubbles up and Comic Sans takes over.
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Written by Sooz

Challenge #2427 Winner

I'm back! My nose is once again safely above the water line after having survived the death of my laptop. The black darling gave me one final kick in the arse by giving up the ghost when I was *this close* to finishing a newsletter for one client and had just begun onboarding a brand new author client with ambitious social media goals. That's why I'm a week late in picking the winner of this mini-contest.

In challenge #2427, I promised a tweet and a Facebook plug for the person who could do the best job of entertaining us while helping us remember the difference between affect and effect.

Three Prosers answered the call by submitting a poem and two stories. Each one is special in its own way but the winner has to be @smichaelis' poem. I'll place a link to all three in the comments below.

Here's my favourite part of "I tried, I really did" by @smichaelis.

"EFFECT is a result or a consequence, you see

It’s the last part of the cycle, it seems to me

AFFECT is to make a difference to

Like this little poem did to you!"

Thank you for your submissions @MissLeFright and @gabzgrl. I'm following both of you. Keep writing!

@smichaelis, I'll PM you for the tweet and Facebook love.

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Written by Sooz
Challenge #2427 Winner
I'm back! My nose is once again safely above the water line after having survived the death of my laptop. The black darling gave me one final kick in the arse by giving up the ghost when I was *this close* to finishing a newsletter for one client and had just begun onboarding a brand new author client with ambitious social media goals. That's why I'm a week late in picking the winner of this mini-contest.

In challenge #2427, I promised a tweet and a Facebook plug for the person who could do the best job of entertaining us while helping us remember the difference between affect and effect.

Three Prosers answered the call by submitting a poem and two stories. Each one is special in its own way but the winner has to be @smichaelis' poem. I'll place a link to all three in the comments below.

Here's my favourite part of "I tried, I really did" by @smichaelis.

"EFFECT is a result or a consequence, you see
It’s the last part of the cycle, it seems to me
AFFECT is to make a difference to
Like this little poem did to you!"

Thank you for your submissions @MissLeFright and @gabzgrl. I'm following both of you. Keep writing!

@smichaelis, I'll PM you for the tweet and Facebook love.
#nonfiction  #education 
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