Ink Well
Ink Well is a collaborative online showcase for emerging talent in art, creative writing, and photography organized around a central theme. We review year-round and publish six volumes a year, interspersed with other artsy fartsy content. Creative types, unite.
Now accepting submissions for VOLUME 14: POWER & CORRUPTION at submissions@inkwellmag.com.
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- About
- Submissions
- Vol. 1: Origins
- Vol. 2: Bon Voyage
- Vol. 3: Schooled
- Vol. 4: Masks
- Vol. 5: Obsession/Compulsion
- Vol. 6: Pursuits
- Vol 7: Change
- Vol. 8: Rivalry
- Vol. 9: Milestones
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29 posts tagged writer
“There is no surer foundation for a beautiful friendship than a mutual taste in literature.”
P.G. Wodehouse
(via tatteredcover)
Ah, the life of a writer. (via the PEN/Faulkner Foundation)
I just LOL’d
120 Seconds With…Cali Chesterman
Cali is the author of “Two-Millionths Sneeze”.
- Day job: High school senior.
- 3 favorite authors: Cassandra Clare, Charles Bukowski, Augusten Burroughs.
- 3 artists you most admire: Artemesia Gentileschi, Henry Asencio, Henri Matisse.
- How do you get going with your work?: Either to pass time on the bus or procrastinating an assignment.
- If we googled your name, what would we find?: An organization I volunteered for once, the online copy of my school’s cultural newsletter that I write articles for and profusely advertise, my name listed under “Honorable Mention” for pieces I had submitted to the Scholastic Art and Writing Competition.
- What’s your favorite way to waste time at work without getting caught? Daydreaming or conversing with friends… I don’t really waste a lot of time. I take my work very seriously.
- Name two words you always misspell: Definitely and conundrum.
- What’s the last song to get stuck in your head? “You Know I’m No Good” Amy Winehouse Ft. Ghostface Killah.
- What’s a movie you can rewatch or a book you can reread over and over again? Forrest Gump.
- Describe your dream workspace/studio: Near Center City, where there is a lot of hustle and bustle, cultural crossovers, varying age groups, and history, all in one convenient location. I need culture and chaos in order to flourish in art and writing. Ideally, my inner studio/ workspace will have three rooms, all with wooden floors. One room will be my living space, complete with a cabinet full of candy. One room, the largest, will be my workspace, with my desk and computer set up on one side of the room and artworks in progress on the other side. A huge stereo system will be in the middle of the rooms. There will be a few windows for ventilation and lighting, but that’s it. The third room will be a storage space.
“I feel tremendous guilt towards the books I ignore.”
Read more from Michele Filgate on the Library of Unborrowed Books here.
(via literatureismyutopia)
Vol. 13 MOMENTUM: Louis McGill - “Hypnic Jerk”
“‘Hypnic Jerk’ is a story about the momentum of life, and how it can
run off without you if you let it.”—Louis
***
It felt like a splash-down from a jump off the Golden Gate Bridge.
I woke up with a start after that half-asleep feeling like I was hurtling downward. At two in the morning, I still couldn’t get to sleep. My mind reeled after the past few days. Life felt like it was gaining speed, slipping away and I couldn’t hold on. Soon it may run off without me.
I sat up and picked a glass of water up off the bedside table.
Didn’t I just graduate yesterday? I thought.
No, that was at least two years ago, said that know-it-all little voice in the back of my head.
Quiet, I said. I graduated, moved, moved again, left everything behind, and here I am. How long have I been here?
Nearly a year, now.
When did that happen?
Well, I guess it sort of crept up on us.
Smartass. I took a sip, set the glass back down, and tried to go back to sleep. I knew sleep wouldn’t come easy. It hadn’t for days, ever since this thought latched on to my psyche like a tick.
Well it’s not like you didn’t see this coming, the voice said.
She’s getting married, I said. Everyone’s getting married. Everyone’s having kids. Everyone’s moving on, and I’m halfway across the country from anyone I give a damn about.
Wah, wah, wah. You knew this would happen when you left.
I didn’t have much of a choice, now did I?
Sure you did. You had two choices: go or stay.
Like the Clash song.
Now who’s the smartass?
Read more
The Philosophy of Style – Herbert Spencer on the economy of attention and the ideal writer, 1852.
I’m a writer, you’re a reader, I give you something – pay me back!
[…]
Creatively, success is freedom in making a great product and continuing to please your readers.
Brian Stelter talks to Andrew Sullivan about the Dish experiment – a brave new world of ad-free journalism supported directly by loyal readers. Help make it work here, and hear more about alternatives to ad-supported media here.
Tolkien’s Five Tips for Creating Complex Heroes
by Roger Colby
- Complex Heroes Must Suffer
- Complex Heroes are Rewarded for Suffering
- Complex Heroes Fail
- Complex Heroes Have Fatal Flaws
- Complex Heroes are Ordinary People
From Writers Write
Vol. 12 Home: Dan Beatty - “Roots”
I never thought I’d go back.
Never.
Not to a Homecoming. Not to a class reunion. Not for any reason.
When my aging parents moved out of that god-forsaken town ten years ago —with its closed down businesses, its pot-holed roads, its homes with boarded windows, its yards with rusted out Buicks and Mercury’s and Chevy’s and Fords, its redneck inhabitants who never cracked a book, nor read a poem, nor seen a play; who thought a good salad consisted of two ingredients: iceberg lettuce and French dressing from a plastic bottle—I honestly never thought I would go back again. In fact, the mere thought of doing so—of driving that stretch of open fields to the outskirts of town, where the most hideous sign “welcomes” incomers like a prostitute welcomes a customer—practically nauseated me.
I spent an inordinate amount of time in my childhood and adolescent years dreaming of getting the hell out of the town of Laxton, Iowa—away from the blue collars and the red necks; the bingo and beer and bowling alley; the cigarette-stained ceilings and teeth; the hair curlers and bandanas and belt buckles and 4-H Fairs. I fantasized about literally being thousands of miles away, far enough so that its long tentacles could not pull me back to that cesspool like it had so many others. Far enough away so that I could treat it as if it didn’t exist; actually, as if it never existed.
I was doing chores in the flower bed of my yard in Austin when I got the message on my voice mail asking me to go back to that mind-numbing town.
Read more
Vol. 12 HOME: J’Sun Howard - “Home”
Home
is once upon a time- transient dreams of new light,
radio, and illusory skies; an upper left hand corner
to a house too close to a yellow poplar
that if severed by a lick of lightning its branches
would retard those dreams. think something sweeter
than nightdark and transit through it: a soul maybe..?
imagine a ghost trundling, ambling in a cemetery
lying down besides all those that are gone for a perfect fit.
what he’s seeking has been lost all along, loveloss.
no hairy chest to lie his bewildered head on. just like
a monster calling home. recalling lord aizen, dear
trickster, deceiving those who knew home could be
elsewhere. deception comes as a knock on a door-
the music is too loud. dad says, “you don’t need to come
back here.” the monster hardly ever calls home.
which doctrines prove the heart ahouseunbuilt?
is this when the handgun debuts? and why would
you not keep one as you sprint down those long
red corridors? please know that when you see
“chris was here” scored into the walls deep in there
that it’s not a wound but where home should be.
for all that is known, there is no holiday for saying
goodbye; no memory joyful enough to elicit tears;
no foursided structure climbing to a peak
to imprison you from living; no dust; no porchlight
to alert when outside playtime is over; no more
sneaking out of bed to lie in the hallway to watch
wrestling with mom as she waited for dad; no more
stale mcdonald’s either; nothing; no; only
the efficacy of knowing that there isn’t a key needed
when death plugs in the nightlight and tucks you in
to sleep for foreverness once upon a time when
home lived in breath.
