Workplace witticisms, job jokes and career quips; who says work can't be a laughing matter?
How To Support the Writer in Your Life
So you’ve decided to love a wordsmith. It is a daunting task considering your writer’s tendency towards self-loathing and bouts of inadequacy-induced rage while staring blankly at a Word processing screen. Not to mention the countless beta reading sessions you must partake in even though you are not interested in space-themed erotica even in the slightest.
Vocal’s Guidelines: a cross we have to bear?
Vocal is squeamish about religion, judging by the number of members whose stories have been rejected for allegedly infringing its policy on religious content.
It's Another Monday
Mondays-We All Hate Them Like Garfield, we all hate Mondays. It's the official end of that glorious two days of freedom and our escape from the grind of the world. The morning commute, waking up two hours earlier than the last two days, the inevitable rush of work, and meetings. God, the meetings. They start before we've had a chance to really get our brains going. They drag on at times, sometimes until lunch. Then bosses wonder why we didn't get anything else done on Monday.
The “Write Stuff”!
The “Write Stuff”! & The “Creativity Curse” . Why I write. Why do I write? Why Should you write? Is it for dreams of George R. R. Martin type fame?
The Saga of Broadway Lad
‘Twas at the hog fair last September. A day I well remember, And I was walking up and down with drunken pride. When me knees began to flutter
My Year Journey Back To Writing
At the beginning of the COVID-19 outbreak, I evaluated and researched the many ways to bring in an income online. Various skill sets and a creative mind led me to Graphic Design. There was something beautifully simple to me about being able to picture something in your head convert it into an actual picture.
Inside the Head
The set is moving. There are animatronics. No one told me there’d be animatronics. A rabbit with a busted plaster ear eternally chases cabbages, which are inexplicably spinning, spinning. A tiny farmer, armed with a pitchfork ( a real pitchfork, mind you, on a children’s set—madness. ) a farmer futilely tries to defend his garden. One of his arms looks like it was broken and set wrong; it sticks out at a weird angle. There is fake green grass, little white picket fences, a shed with a big ornate garden chair for kids to sit and pose with the Easter Bunny. There are no kids yet. One young guy is manning the fort.
My Career as a Lesser Child Prodigy
When I was a little kid, if you asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would have said, " a flying teddy bear." That was just because people told me I could be whatever I wanted to be, and I took them at their word. When I found out later they really didn't mean I could be WHATEVER I wanted to be, I toned my expectations down a little and said "a writer." I don't know who or what put this idea into my head, for all the good it's done me I probably should have stuck with the goal of being a flying teddy bear. Once you're out of school you don't get to make up for part of your missing work with a stunning essay. You can't pay your rent in Iambic Pentameter.
Experience Is A Must
I looked over at the man interviewing me. Well shaven. Fit. Protein shake junky. His suit is too small. I think I can see his nipples.
Introducing the Hive
All my life I wanted bees. As a child my eyes would scan the countryside on road trips, seeking out those colorful and seemingly abandoned boxes at the edges of fields. I wondered about the people in the strange white suits, the suits that made them look like astronauts and they almost seemed to float as well, in a puff of smoke and a swarm of bees around their heads. I dreamed of having my own apiary. I’d paint flowers on the sides and they’d live in the tall grass at the end of a long, foot-worn path.
More Like Deadberg
“Ladies and gentlemen, the very funny Paul Yancy!” the announcer thundered as the kid stepped onto the beer-varnished stage. He was fat, dark-haired, and starting to sweat. It was 12:35, Tuesday night.
Ice and Ibuprofen
It was dark here, before they lit the fire. On the only place to stand on this horrible little hill, it showed us that the porcelain of the floor very much matched, much to our surprise, the walls, the ceiling and our whole little world. Our faces shown back at us, eyes big like saucepans and wretched little mouths, smiling in the dim glow. Everywhere, all around us but where our shadows fell, the crowd of us, laughing.