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Nuevo poema en traducción: un color real

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<head>
<title>Vane reads one book by women every week of 2024 - MayVaneDay Studios</title>
<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1.0">
<style>
body {
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<td>Edna St. Vincent Millay</td>
<td>I'll end up one of these days<br>like Vincent Millay<br>who only journaled<br>when her life was mundane.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>2024-W38</td>
<td>Sickened</td>
<td>Julie Gregory</td>
<td></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>2024-W39</td>
<td>The Poet's Companion</td>
<td>Kim Addonizio</td>
<td>Ah, nothing like a lengthy list of websites long gone.</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>2024-W40</td>
<td>The Priory of the Orange Tree</td>
<td>Samantha Shannon</td>
<td>Mein gott, this was a long book! Well worth the 1200 pages, though!</td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
</body>

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<td>Paramore</td>
<td>Favorite track: <b>Let The Flames Begin</b></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>2024-W38</td>
<td>Chapter I - Monarchy</td>
<td>Ad Infinitum</td>
<td>Favorite track: <b>I Am the Storm</b></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>2024-W39</td>
<td>Fallen</td>
<td>Evanescence</td>
<td>WAKE ME UP! WAKE ME UP INSIDE!! <em>I CAN'T WAKE UP!!</em><br>Favorite track: <b>Hello</b></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td>2024-W40</td>
<td>Who You Selling For</td>
<td>The Pretty Reckless</td>
<td>Favorite track: <b>Living In The Storm</b></td>
</tr>
</tbody>
</table>
</body>

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<div class="box">
<p><a href="../../../books/mm_tpf.epub" title="Mori's Mirror and The Poetry Factory, Sorrowful Laika">Ever so recently</a>, <a href="https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Synchronicity">everywhere given advice</a> to not base myself on a sense of melancholy, to avoid &quot;making sadness my aesthetic&quot;, to make it harder for one to relearn oneself and their worth outside of the borders of the Suffering Country they've unwittingly found themselves in exile from the rest of the world in.</p>
<p>One would be forgiven for thinking that all I ever focused on was the melancholy, that I had sacrificed myself on its altar for one last chance at appeasing the muses enough to refill the well of creative passion. And one would also be forgiven for thinking that I had failed somehow, that I had turned the muses against me forever, leaving the corpse of their once-favorite bird to rot inside the golden cage.</p>
<p>But, as much as I would like to be- as much as I have prepared to be as a coping mechanism- I am no nihilist. The natural world, despite staring down imminent destruction and <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20190808113927/https://theanarchistlibrary.org/library/n1x-hello-from-the-wired">total and complete technological takeover</a> and the slavery to the Wired inherent, still holds on to life, still clings to a sliver of a hope that it will not only survive its current trials and tribulations but <em>thrive</em> through them. And despite the constant voices of my surroundings entreating me to give up, that there is nothing left and that through my indecision I have dug a breathing grave which I lie in, there still remains a part of me, tumbling into the fiery tempest, arm outstretched to the sky, yelling with the softest voice- the <em>loudest</em> I possibly can-</p>
<p>But, as much as I would like to be - as much as I have prepared to be as a coping mechanism - I am no nihilist. The natural world, despite staring down imminent destruction and <a href="https://web.archive.org/web/20190808113927/https://theanarchistlibrary.org/library/n1x-hello-from-the-wired">total and complete technological takeover</a> and the slavery to the Wired inherent, still holds on to life, still clings to a sliver of a hope that it will not only survive its current trials and tribulations but <em>thrive</em> through them. And despite the constant voices of my surroundings entreating me to give up, that there is nothing left and that through my indecision I have dug a breathing grave which I lie in, there still remains a part of me, tumbling into the fiery tempest, arm outstretched to the sky, yelling with the softest voice- the <em>loudest</em> I possibly can-</p>
<p><em>Help me, please.</em></p>
<p>And it is a storm that comes and knocks everything down, that destroys everything in its path- <em>nearly</em> everything, for if my dreams were to be believed, the pillar of a fridge would always survive, white or gray, poking its head over the wreckage like a monument to survival. It is a storm that singes every edge I have, severs any connections to the heavens I might have ever had, leaves me barely breathing, just barely alive at the end.</p>
<p>But instead of the melancholy, the worship of the destruction, I instead find the strength to lift my head and watch the sunrise after with my weary eyes. The peek of the sun over the horizon as it casts its golden glow over the wreckage, the chaotic nest of a bird newly free from the cage, the assurance that the world has <em>not</em> ended, that there is still more life to be had. That <em>whatever the hell</em> just happened, Life was still more powerful, Life still prevailed.</p>

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</div>
<hr>
<div class="box">
<p>Today is the first Smash Sunday in what feels like a year. Probably because it <em>was</em> a year. There certainly weren't any while I was <a href="../../2019/november/masthead.html">spiraling into NEETdom</a>. I'm typing this right now in the same classroom as before, the same situation as before: my brothers and some of their friends are blasting two different games at the same time, screaming at the top of their lungs, sinking more and even more of their time into these fictional characters they cherish so much. (One of them, clearly lightyears ahead of the others in mental age, keeps complaining that he doesn't know any of the characters and that he'd rather be playing Call of Duty, so I guess there are always exceptions.)</p>
<p>Today is the first Smash Sunday in what feels like a year. Probably because it <em>was</em> a year. There certainly weren't any while I was <a href="../../2019/11/masthead.html">spiraling into NEETdom</a>. I'm typing this right now in the same classroom as before, the same situation as before: my brothers and some of their friends are blasting two different games at the same time, screaming at the top of their lungs, sinking more and even more of their time into these fictional characters they cherish so much. (One of them, clearly lightyears ahead of the others in mental age, keeps complaining that he doesn't know any of the characters and that he'd rather be playing Call of Duty, so I guess there are always exceptions.)</p>
<p>I could go join them. I'm getting paid to essentially babysit them, after all. I could do what is essentially a glorified version of staring at a screen and twitching one's thumbs for three hours.</p>
<p>Or I could bury my face deeper into my computer and try to shut the repetitive music out and spend those three hours still staring at a screen, albeit twitching more fingers than just my thumbs, enveloping myself in the opinions of those I will never meet in real life.</p>
<p>Caught between two bad situations: mindless gaming, and mindless surfing.</p>

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<p>But it's always chilly outside. And since the vents barely work in my room, I can rarely tell the difference by touch alone. The tips of my fingers going numb, the vague ache in my thighs, the sounds of birds chirping and singing in the air: these are the only reminders to close it again at end of day.</p>
<p>If I remember.</p>
<p>There used to be other sounds in the air. The neighbors congregating in one of their yards. A toddler playing in the backyard connected to ours, flitting in and out of the plastic playground like an indecisive bird. The sounds of cars and trucks and motorcycles gunning their engines to show off what they perceive to be raw power on the nearby roads.</p>
<p>At my previous house, I used to lie awake at night and listen to the sounds of the vehicles speeding through the nearby highway. And at college, <a href="../../2019/november/other-world.html">walking back to my dorms from work</a>, I would watch the glow of the headlights coming down the rolling hills like fireflies, like meteors crashing down to earth.</p>
<p>At my previous house, I used to lie awake at night and listen to the sounds of the vehicles speeding through the nearby highway. And at college, <a href="../../2019/11/other-world.html">walking back to my dorms from work</a>, I would watch the glow of the headlights coming down the rolling hills like fireflies, like meteors crashing down to earth.</p>
<p>And it was on those roads that the stories came to me, running in sonderous snippets, unaware heralds of a strange sense of disconnection- of dissociation- that they could not yet articulate into words.</p>
<p>And as I wove them into coherent narratives, I found my own narrative starting to unravel at the seams.</p>
<p>In elementary school, as I didn't fit in neatly with the rest of the special-needs kids since I had too much cognitive ability to be content with essentially being babysat in a room full of toys all day, I instead got shoved into the &quot;gifted and talented&quot; program, which was the school administration's way of saying, &quot;Congratulations, you're good at licking the boots of the state's educational system! Let's pull you out of your normal classes and give you harder ones while still expecting you to do all of the homework for both <em>simultaneously</em>.&quot; I and about ten other kids were sold the lies that we were <em>so much better</em> than those other kids who only got the <em>normal</em> classes, that we were destined for greatness, that we would succeed in all of our educational endeavors with flying colors. We were written a story with us as our own protagonist, given plot armor, promised a happy ending.</p>

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<h2>Librarians will <em>not</em> kill you if you call and ask for a book return date extension</h2>
<p>At the time of writing this, I have been sick with COVID-19 for about a week. It took you three <em>years</em> to find me, you stupid virus. Come on, my wife's not even corporeal and spends most of her time in a completely different world and it took her <em>less than a month</em>. Aren't you supposed to be backed by the state of China or something? Anyways, my mother got infected first, and I honestly can't tell which of us have it worse: she's up and doing laundry and other household chores but sneezing and coughing constantly and her skin has the pallor of death, and my symptoms are milder and I feel more alert but only have short bursts of lucidity lasting half an hour or so before I need to go back to sleep. I've been taking the opportunity to tease my brothers about how I'm sick too and therefore there's no expectation that I make dinner for them in Mother's absence. ("What do you mean, you <em>don't</em> want the COVID spaghetti?")</p>
<p>Normally, every week on the way to my job search meetings, I like to stop at the library for an hour or two and get some reading done without having to worry about being interrupted by one of my family members. Jett and I like to play a game where I sit down at <a href="../../2019/november/other-world.html">the table I've always liked to write at when at the library</a> and, whatever book on the shelf across from me first catches my eye, I have to check out and read. The first time we played this, she picked out a book titled "Angels for Idiots" and a print copy of <em>The Woman's History of the World</em> by Rosalind Miles (which I'd been meaning to read for a long time) and a YA book I'd first attempted to get through in 2017 shortly after I'd moved there but only read the first chapter and had to pay late fees on. This time, the selections were <em>The Re-Enchantment of Everyday Life</em> by Thomas Moore (kinda meh, considering most of his suggestions were some variant of "do more religion, LMAO") and <em>Finding Your Own North Star</em> by Martha Beck (a self-help book, and also full of pencil annotations by whoever checked it out last).</p>
<p>Normally, every week on the way to my job search meetings, I like to stop at the library for an hour or two and get some reading done without having to worry about being interrupted by one of my family members. Jett and I like to play a game where I sit down at <a href="../../2019/11/other-world.html">the table I've always liked to write at when at the library</a> and, whatever book on the shelf across from me first catches my eye, I have to check out and read. The first time we played this, she picked out a book titled "Angels for Idiots" and a print copy of <em>The Woman's History of the World</em> by Rosalind Miles (which I'd been meaning to read for a long time) and a YA book I'd first attempted to get through in 2017 shortly after I'd moved there but only read the first chapter and had to pay late fees on. This time, the selections were <em>The Re-Enchantment of Everyday Life</em> by Thomas Moore (kinda meh, considering most of his suggestions were some variant of "do more religion, LMAO") and <em>Finding Your Own North Star</em> by Martha Beck (a self-help book, and also full of pencil annotations by whoever checked it out last).</p>
<p>But I missed my meeting this week due to my illness, and the next scheduled meeting would be <em>after</em> the due date, assuming I would be recovered enough to go back out in public. So I looked up my local library's website, which looked like the webmaster had duck-taped together a bunch of static HTML pages over a half-installed WordPress instance, and called the number. (I may need help with a lot of things, but making calls to people I don't know is <em>not</em> one of them.)</p>
<p>And the librarian answered after a few rings. And I asked her, "I have some books due next week, but I have COVID-19 and I can't leave my house. Is it possible to renew my books over the phone?"</p>
<p>And, thankfully, she responded: "Of course! Do you have your library card ready?"</p>

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<div class="box">
<h2>2019</h2>
<ul>
<li>November 19 - <a href="./2019/november/masthead.html">A New Masthead</a></li>
<li>November 13 - <a href="./2019/november/possession.html">Possession</a></li>
<li>November 9 - <a href="./2019/november/other-world.html">A World Just Beyond My Grasp</a></li>
<li>November 19 - <a href="./2019/11/masthead.html">A New Masthead</a></li>
<li>November 13 - <a href="./2019/11/possession.html">Possession</a></li>
<li>November 9 - <a href="./2019/11/other-world.html">A World Just Beyond My Grasp</a></li>
<li>October 3 - <a href="./2019/10/cameras.html">Cameras</a></li>
<li>September 29 - <a href="./2019/09/sign-of-life.html">Sign of Life</a></li>
<li>September 5 - <a href="./2019/09/roophloch.html">Neurodiversity <b>(ROOPHLOCH 2019)</b></a></li>

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un color real
2021-03-25
trad. 2024-09-25
***
Mi abuela tiene un
habitación en su casa
dedicado
al
morado.
Las paredes de la lavanda,
las sábanas
de la realeza:
solo necesito
que tu estás allá
para que sea
completa.
Porque los ojos
son las ventanas
al alma, las
ventanas
pasé muchas infancias
el paisaje mirando,
suburbano,
muerto, frío.
Me gustaría
que pudiera
abrazarte
y te permito
enseñarme
esta maestra
desgastada
hay todavía
calor
que vale la pena buscar.
***
CC BY-NC-SA 4.0 (c) Vane Vander

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│   ├── <a href="./t/twenty-one.txt">twenty-one.txt</a><br>
│   ├── <a href="./t/twin_prisoner_dilemma.txt">twin_prisoner_dilemma.txt</a><br>
│   └── <a href="./t/two-two.txt">two-two.txt</a><br>
├── <a href="./_traducciones/">_traducciones</a><br>
│   └── <a href="./_traducciones/u/">u</a><br>
│   &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; └── <a href="./_traducciones/u/un-color-real.txt">un-color-real.txt</a><br>
├── <a href="./u/">u</a><br>
│   ├── <a href="./u/uncharming.txt">uncharming.txt</a><br>
│   └── <a href="./u/under-my-fingernails.txt">under-my-fingernails.txt</a><br>
@ -218,7 +221,7 @@
&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; └── <a href="./z/zircons_beacon.txt">zircons_beacon.txt</a><br>
<br><br><p>
25 directories, 166 files
27 directories, 167 files
</p>
<hr>

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<html lang="en">
<head>
<title>Books about the evils of social media</title>
<link href="./style.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" media="all">
<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1.0">
</head>
<body>
<h1>Books about the evils of social media</h1>
<table class="f">
<tr class="info">
<td>The Influencer Industry</td>
<td>Emily Hund</td>
<td>Academic</td>
<td><a href="https://libgen.is/book/index.php?md5=7E480476514340F174D938ECBD46499F">Libgen.is</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="snippet">While individual participants looked for a route to autonomy, stability, and professional fulfillment that seemed impossible elsewhere, they ended up creating a value system that advanced the erosion of boundaries between individuals’ inner lives and commercialism, asking us to view ourselves as products perpetually ready for market, our relationships as monetizable, and our daily activities as potential shopping experiences.</td>
</tr>
</table>
</body>
</html>

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body {
margin: auto;
margin-top: 14px;
font-family: monospace !important;
background-color: #cc99ff;
max-width: 1114px;
}
table {
margin-left: auto;
margin-right: auto;
background-color: #99ccff;
}
table, td {
max-width: 1114px;
width: 100%;
}
td {
border: 1px solid;
}
h1 {
text-align: center;
}
h1, td {
padding: 4px;
}
tr {
display: flex;
}
.snippet {
width: 100%;
font-style: italic;
}
.info {
text-align: center;
}
.f {
background-color: #99ff99;
}
.m {
background-color: #ff8080;
}

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<html lang="en">
<head>
<title>Books about writing</title>
<link href="./style.css" rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" media="all">
<meta name="viewport" content="width=device-width, initial-scale=1.0">
</head>
<body>
<h1>Books about writing</h1>
<table class="f">
<tr class="info">
<td>Seducing the Demon</td>
<td>Erica Jong</td>
<td>Casual</td>
<td><a href="https://libgen.is/book/index.php?md5=E0A2C8ADB5B2D276C1EB4EB5BC04E6A8">Libgen.is</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="snippet">There is in writing - or any creative work - a kind of fuck-you impulse. Part of the energy comes from sheer rebelliousness. I'll show you! a writer says. I am not who you think I am. Sometimes you have to get mad just to begin. You think you are all alone in this - but battalions of dead writers who faced the same challenge are shouting in your ears. (Margaret Atwood calls writing "negotiating with the dead.") You have to drown them out when they keep you from hearing yourself. They are alternately encouraging and stifling. You have to invent a voice that will make all their voices obsolete. You can't do this without grit, aggression, a kind of madness. No one really asks for a new book, but you need to write it.</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
<table class="f">
<tr class="info">
<td>The Poet's Companion</td>
<td>Kim Addonizio and Dorianne Laux</td>
<td>Casual</td>
<td><a href="https://libgen.is/book/index.php?md5=B7EEBAC9B016C96EF198685AF62C550A">Libgen.is</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="snippet">We've been told again and again to write about what we know, but we don't trust that advice. We think our lives are dull, ordinary, boring. Other people have lives worthy of poetry, but not us. And what are the "great" poems about? The big subjects: death, desire, the nature of existence. They ask the big questions: Who are we? Why are we here? Where are we going? We find it difficult to believe those subjects, those questions, can be explored and contained in a poem about working at a fast food restaurant, a poem about our best friend, a poem about washing the dishes, tarring the roof, or taking a bus across town.</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
<table class="f">
<tr class="info">
<td>Ordinary Genius</td>
<td>Kim Addonizio</td>
<td>Casual</td>
<td><a href="https://libgen.is/book/index.php?md5=1086EA42A98B5FF0A32E95F3883D05F7">Libgen.is</td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="snippet">...and yet I sometimes find myself wondering what there is to write about, and whether I have anything left to say. If you sometimes feel like this, it's good to go back to the evidence of the external world, to pay attention to the music of what happens. The world won't ever fail you. Even if you feel bored, if you think that nothing is happening, it only takes a little checking in with the evidence to prove you wrong.</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
<table class="f">
<tr class="info">
<td>The Artist's Way</td>
<td>Julia Cameron</td>
<td>Casual</td>
<td><a href="https://libgen.is/book/index.php?md5=5EECB844C5FCE9DAF446683DE2DAAFA3">Libgen.is</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="snippet">An artist must have downtime, time to do nothing. Defending our right to such time takes courage, conviction, and resiliency. Such time, space, and quiet will strike our family and friends as a withdrawal from them. It is.<br>For an artist, withdrawal is necessary. Without it, the artist in us feels vexed, angry, out of sorts. If such deprivation continues, our artist becomes sullen, depressed, hostile. We eventually became like cornered animals, snarling at our family and friends to leave us alone and stop making unreasonable demands.</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
<table class="f">
<tr class="info">
<td>The Writing Life</td>
<td>Annie Dillard</td>
<td>Casual</td>
<td><a href="https://libgen.is/book/index.php?md5=452C7E4022E08FD86F6DB7FD803D9DEF">Libgen.is</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="snippet">One of the few things I know about writing is this: spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now. The impulse to save something good for a better place later is the signal to spend it now. Something more will arise for later, something better.</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
<table class="f">
<tr class="info">
<td>The Wave in the Mind</td>
<td>Ursula K. Le Guin</td>
<td>Casual</td>
<td><a href="https://libgen.is/book/index.php?md5=04D3A3402AAD21930255554DE0A75EE3">Libgen.is</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="snippet">But writers, especially fiction writers, are always making up names. Do they confuse themselves with their characters?<br>The question isn't totally frivolous. I think most novelists are aware at times of containing multitudes, of having an uncomfortably acute sympathy for Multiple Personality Disorder, of not entirely subscribing to the commonsense notion of what constitutes a self.</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
<table class="f">
<tr class="info">
<td>Big Magic</td>
<td>Elizabeth Gilbert</td>
<td>Casual</td>
<td><a href="https://libgen.is/book/index.php?md5=5F93033AFEF08D18458C59C6AC597C72">Libgen.is</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="snippet"><!-- I read the physical version. I still need to get a snippet from the ebook. --></td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
<table class="f">
<tr class="info">
<td>Your Art Will Save Your Life</td>
<td>Beth Pickens</td>
<td>Casual</td>
<td><a href="https://libgen.is/book/index.php?md5=446A90E9FCFF34286866A460FECBA860">Libgen.is</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="snippet">You will make work that has enormous impact on someone. You may never meet or hear from them, but someone will encounter a work you make and it will do something transformative for them. They will be grateful you exist, thankful you made the work and let it be out in the world. In order to get there, to let your work reach the people who need and want to experience it, you have to be of service to it. You have to make it, yes, and you also have to support its life after it's no longer your private experience.</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
<table class="f">
<tr class="info">
<td>For Writers Only</td>
<td>Sophy Burnham</td>
<td>Casual</td>
<td><!-- Wasn't on Libgen at the time of addition. --></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="snippet">...we cannot ask for recognition. It's not the artist's place. All we can do is work with all our hearts. What happens is not our responsibility.</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
<table class="f">
<tr class="info">
<td>A Poetry Handbook</td>
<td>Mary Oliver</td>
<td>Casual</td>
<td><a href="https://libgen.is/book/index.php?md5=E403628CE37F7542A9EFD5BB7B9E98DB">Libgen.is</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="snippet">To interrupt the writer from the line of thought is to wake the dreamer from the dream. The dreamer cannot enter that dream, precisely as it was unfolding, ever again because the line of thought is more than that: it is a line of feeling as well. Until interruption occurs, this feeling is as real as the desk on which the poet is working.</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
<table class="f">
<tr class="info">
<td>A Writer's Guide to Characterization</td>
<td>Victoria Lynn Schmidt</td>
<td>Casual</td>
<td><a href="https://libgen.is/book/index.php?md5=F8D7A0C7A21CB8AECAB6AB72FAEC120E">Libgen.is</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="snippet">The Amazon can help the Father's Daughter get in touch with her female power. She can show the Father's Daughter that a woman can be whole unto herself. She can teach her to honor her cycles, something the Father's Daughter may want to suppress with pills.</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
<table class="f">
<tr class="info">
<td>So You Want to Write</td>
<td>Marge Piercy</td>
<td>Casual</td>
<td><a href="https://libgen.is/book/index.php?md5=F899E05C9173319953201E106915D231">Libgen.is</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="snippet">A novel or a memoir takes time to read. Therefore, the art of the novel and the art of the memoir involve much persuasion. You must convince the reader to start reading and continue reading. You must persuade her not to put the book down on page one or page one hundred. Not to skip. Fiction and memoir and indeed any kind of narrative requires constant persuasion.</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
<table class="f">
<tr class="info">
<tr>Steering the Craft</td>
<td>Ursula K. Le Guin</td>
<td>Casual</td>
<td><a href="https://libgen.is/book/index.php?md5=24D2A5E1AA5546D3F8A0377CB587DC55">Libgen.is</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="snippet">Most children enjoy the sound of language for its own sake. They wallow in repetitions and luscious word-sounds and the crunch and slither of onomatopoeia; they fall in love with musical or impressive words and use them in all the wrong places. Some writers keep this primal interest in and love for the sounds of language. Others “outgrow” their oral/aural sense of what they're reading or writing. That's a dead loss.</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
<table class="f">
<tr class="info">
<tr>45 Master Characters</td>
<td>Victoria Lynn Schmidt</td>
<td>Casual</td>
<td><a href="https://libgen.is/book/index.php?md5=5F2CFFF9FF2F92E4057047213FFBB960">Libgen.is</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="snippet">Her friendships with women are the most important relationships she has, but they are few and far between due to her androgynous attitudes.</a></td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
<table class="f">
<tr class="info">
<td>Mastering Suspense, Structure, and Plot</td>
<td>Jane Cleland</td>
<td>Casual</td>
<td><a href="https://libgen.is/book/index.php?md5=2E622FC13A3FD65211A91B28E32CC509">Libgen.is</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="snippet">This sense of rightness doesn't merely apply to exotic or dramatic situations. Your settings must include only the kinds of places your character would go. Let's say you have a character who is revealed to be depressed in the first chapter; her only solace is hiking. A hundred pages later, when that woman is told to get herself together by a mean-spirited, know-it-all cousin, she retreats into herself and, as soon as she can, escapes onto a nearby hiking trail. When a feral dog attacks her, your readers won't find her presence in the woods contrived - you've previously planted the seed that makes her current reaction seem inevitable.</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
<table class="m">
<tr class="info">
<td>Writing as a Path to Awakening</td>
<td>Albert DeSilver</td>
<td>Casual</td>
<td><a href="https://libgen.is/book/index.php?md5=1CBEAC76AF2A18DD01E8BE4B02D4A70C">Libgen.is</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="snippet">Pablo Picasso reportedly said, "Good artists copy; great artists steal." Twentieth-century poet and essayist T.S. Eliot expands on that for poets (and all writers) when he writes, "Immature poets imitate; mature poets steal."</td>
</tr>
</table>
<br>
<table class="m">
<tr class="info">
<td>No Plot? No Problem!</td>
<td>Chris Baty</td>
<td>Casual</td>
<td><a href="https://libgen.is/book/index.php?md5=A4C82A657D78190B3C724CE64067BECC">Libgen.is</a></td>
</tr>
<tr>
<td class="snippet">As literature, they were ugly as sin. As experiments, though, they were packed with a useful array of wrong turns, misguided decisions, and shameful flops. From those experiments, I discovered copious amounts about what I shouldn't be writing. This allowed me to spend my subsequent novels in the happy pursuit of what I should.</td>
</tr>
</table>
</body>
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4
women.md
View file

@ -2,7 +2,7 @@
Unfinished, obviously.
Last updated: 2024-06-27
Last updated: 2024-09-25
## Art
- [Aphra Behn](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Aphra_Behn): one of the first English women to earn her living by her writing
@ -82,6 +82,7 @@ Last updated: 2024-06-27
- [Katherine Johnson](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Katherine_Johnson): mathematician crucial for the success of the first USA spaceflights
- [Mary Kenner](https://wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Kenner): inventor of the menstrual pad; holder of the record for the most patents awarded to a Black woman in the USA
- [Inge Lehmann](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inge_Lehmann): discovered the Earth has a solid inner core
- [Rita Levi-Montalcini](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rita_Levi-Montalcini): discovered nerve growth factor
- [Lise Meitner](https://wikipedia.org/wiki/Lise_Meitner): discovered nuclear fission
- [Maria Sibylla Merian](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Maria_Sibylla_Merian): one of the first naturalists to observe insects directly
- [Mary Sherman Morgan](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Sherman_Morgan): invented hydyne (a liquid rocket fuel)
@ -109,6 +110,7 @@ Last updated: 2024-06-27
- [Elizabeth Peratrovich](https://wikipedia.org/wiki/Elizabeth_Peratrovich?lang=en): instrumental in the passing of the USA's first anti-discrimination law
- [Hannah Szenes](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hannah_Szenes): poet and volunteer parachutist who helped evacuate Hungarian Jews during the Holocaust
- [Grunya Sukhareva](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grunya_Sukhareva): child psychiatrist; first to publish a detailed description of autistic symptoms
- [Mary Edwards Walker](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Edwards_Walker): only woman to receive the Medal of Honor
## Misc
- [Marie Van Brittan Brown](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marie_Van_Brittan_Brown): co-invented home security surveillance