Locked Out — But Not in Facebook Jail
It happens. You forget your Facebook password — you haven’t had to enter it in six years, but you got a new PC or mobile phone and suddenly you’re being asked for that ancient password. …
P.T. Barnum Was Right About Us All
“There’s a sucker born every minute.”
― P.T. Barnum
“Nobody ever lost a dollar by underestimating the taste of the American public.”
― P.T. Barnum
I know, I know — you’d leave Facebook, if only your beloved great-aunt Mildred, your third cousin Raymond (thrice removed), and all the “Friends” you…
A “tough love” open letter to a disgruntled wannabe
I’m sorry that you’ve been sold a pack of lies. It’s not the lies you think you bought, though. To say that I “never started writing for the money” means that I started writing in fifth grade. I sat by the…
The friction of our furiously moving fingers ought to singe the keys
Enid helped the hapless Rhonda to her feet, all the while glaring at Colin and me. Colin began to wither again, his fingers slowing, his typing less joyful, more carefully deliberate. I, defiant as ever, glared back. I’d…
Listen! Listen, as nimble fingers tap
Staccato beats across the keys,
Pausing —
A caesura before pouncing, trouncing!
Clash! go the dissonant thoughts,
The clamoring words.
What a mumbling jumble as letters,
They tumble!
How freeing it’s been, divorcing
Sense for Seuss and reason for raisins —
The tiniest taste of mint-flavored paste.
Feral words run…
Advice to the “new writers” out there
I read this thought-provoking piece over coffee this morning:
My first thought was, “Nobody owes you a damned thing, newbie.” But then I finished the first cup, and poured a second, reminiscing over my days as a new writer. During which time, more…
A wise old owl once said, “We need a diversion!” and dropped Chekhov’s rat on top of the typewriter.
Be sure to read the preceding chapters first:
“You catch on quick,” whispered the young man, snorting as he attempted to stifle a laugh.
I smirked. My fingers tap-danced across the…
From Middling to Some Day, past Never to Late, we’re all hoping to make it to that elusive Deadline
Breakfast was hot coffee. Black. Strong enough to lift me out of my stupor and get me moving. Mrs. Minchin wasn’t kidding when she said that the town of Late ran…
Lady, you were not meant to be the bird’s breakfast
Elegy at the Bird Bath
Lady, who told you you could swim?
You were meant to fly;
Not to float upon your own reflection
Waiting for a clever robin,
Or a hungry, ill-tempered jay
To pluck you from the placid pool –
Cool on a bright…
Holly Jahangiri
Writer and Kid-at-Heart, often found at https://jahangiri.us. Subscribe to my (free!) Newsletter: https://hollyjahangiri.substack.com
