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But from his wife Jamie knows that three years hence the shot heard round the world will be fired, and the result will be Written in My Own Heart's Blood ( Outlander #8) A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana ppti.info Written in My Own Heart's Blood (Hardcover) - In her now classic novel Outlander , Diana Gabaldon told the story of Claire Randall, an English ex-combat nurse. R.E.A.D. [EPUB] Written in My Own Heart's Blood: A Novel (Outlander) PDF FREE DOWNLOAD For download this book click Button below.

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Download PDF Written in My Own Heart's Blood: A Novel (Outlander), PDF Download Written in My Own Heart's Blood: A Novel (Outlander). Random House Publishing Group; June pages; ISBN Download in secure EPUB Title: Written in My Own Heart's Blood Author. The by Kass Morgan series(4 books) PDF,Kindle,EPUB Version . Novel ( Outlander, Book 7); Written in My Own Heart's Blood: A Novel (Outlander, Book 8) .

They finish a masterpiece and they are not satisfied. They want to go on and do another. So perhaps not all obsessions are bad. An obsession for peace is good. But then be peaceful. An obsession for writing is good. But then write. An obsession for chocolate is not good. I know. That will become doggerel. When it becomes an obsession, you will naturally write about it. Life is so rich, if you can write down the real details of the way things were and are, you hardly need anything else.

Even if you transplant the beveled windows, slow-rotating Rheingold sign, Wise potato chip rack, and tall red stools from the Aero Tavern that you drank in in New York into a bar in a story in another state and time, the story will have authenticity and groundedness. The imagination is capable of detail transplants, but using the details you actually know and have seen will give your writing believability and truthfulness. It creates a good solid foundation from which you can build. Naturally, if you have just been to New Orleans in the dripping August heat and have sucked the fat out of the heads of crayfish at the Magnolia Bar on St.

The bride has on blue. The groom is wearing a red carnation. They are serving chopped liver on doilies. My friend is opposite me. The booths are orange, and near the front counter are lines of cream candies dipped in chocolate. Inside the bank is a large cow mural and beautiful stained-glass windows.

Our lives are at once ordinary and mythical. We live and die, age beautifully or full of wrinkles. We wake in the morning, buy yellow cheese, and hope we have enough money to pay for it. At the same instant we have these magnificent hearts that pump through all sorrow and all winters we are alive on the earth.

We are important and our lives are important, magnificent really, and their details are worthy to be recorded. This is how writers must think, this is how we must sit down with pen in hand. We were here; we are human beings; this is how we lived. Let it be known, the earth passed before us. Our details are important. Yad Vashem, a memorial for the Holocaust, is in Jerusalem. It has a whole library that catalogs the names of the six million martyrs.

Not only did the library have their names, it also had where they lived, were born, anything that could be found out about them. These people existed and they mattered. Likewise, in Washington, D. There are fifty thousand names listed—middle names, too—of American soldiers killed in Vietnam.

Real human beings with names were killed and their breaths moved out of this world. There was the name of Donald Miller, my secondgrade friend who drew tanks, soldiers, and ships in the margins of all his math papers. Seeing names makes us remember. A name is what we carry all our life, and we respond to its call in a classroom, to its pronunciation at a graduation, or to our name whispered in the night.

It is important to say the names of who we are, the names of the places we have lived, and to write the details of our lives. This is what it is to be a writer: Recording the details of our lives is a stance against bombs with their mass ability to kill, against too much speed and efficiency. A writer must say yes to life, to all of life: We must become writers who accept things as they are, come to love the details, and step forward with a yes on our lips so there can be no more noes in the world, noes that invalidate life and stop these details from continuing.

You put them in a bowl and mix them up, but this does not make a cake. This makes goop. You have to put them in the oven and add heat or energy to transform it into cake, and the cake looks nothing like its original ingredients. In a sense this is what writing is like. You have all these ingredients, the details of your life, but just to list them is not enough.

I have a mother and a father. I am female. This is not just any father; this is your father. The character who smoked cigars and put too much ketchup on his steak.

The one you loved and hated. You must become one with the details in love or hate; they become an extension of your body. Care about what is around you. Let your whole body touch the river you are writing about, so if you call it yellow or stupid or slow, all of you is feeling it.

There should be no separate you when you are deeply engaged. So zazen does zazen.

Not Steve or Barbara does zazen. You disappear: The cake is baking in the oven. All that heat goes into the making of that cake. You accept what is and put down its truth. Katagiri Roshi has said: Timing your writing adds pressure and helps to heat things up and blast through the internal censor. Also, keeping your hand moving and not stopping add to the heat, so a beautiful cake may rise out of the mixture of your daily details.

If you find yourself checking the clock too much as you write, say to yourself you are going to keep writing until three or four or five pages, both sides, are filled or until the cake is baked, however long that takes.

There are people who try to use heat only, without ingredients, to make a cake. If you use details, you become better skilled at conveying your ecstasy or sorrow. So while you fly around in the heat of the oven, bring in the batter in the pan so we know exactly what your feelings taste like, so we may be a gourmet of them: Give us the flavor.

In other words, use details. They are the basic unit of writing. And in using them, you are not only baking cakes and buzzing around the oven. In writing with detail, you are turning to face the world. It is a deeply political act, because you are not just staying in the heat of your own emotions. You are offering up some good solid bread for the hungry.

They go along with their regular life, are as fast as anyone in the grocery store, crossing the street, getting dressed for work in the morning. The one that lives everything a second time. That sits down and sees their life again and goes over it. Looks at the texture and details. In a rainstorm, everyone quickly runs down the street with umbrellas, raincoats, newspapers over their heads. Writers go back outside in the rain with a notebook in front of them and a pen in hand. They look at the puddles, watch them fill, watch the rain splash in them.

You can say a writer practices being dumb. Only a dummy would stand out in the rain and watch a puddle. I feel very rich when I have time to write and very poor when I get a regular paycheck and no time to work at my real work. Think of it. Employers pay salaries for time. That is the basic commodity that human beings have that is valuable. We exchange our time in life for money. Writers stay with the first step—their time—and feel it is valuable even before they get money for it.

Someone comes along and wants to buy it. So it is good to be a little dumb when you want to write. You carry that slow person inside you who needs time; it keeps you from selling it all away.

That person will need a place to go and will demand to stare into rain puddles in the rain, usually with no hat on, and to feel the drops on her scalp. It has to do with sight, smell, taste, feeling, with everything being alive and activated.

You are physically engaged with the pen, and your hand, connected to your arm, is pouring out the record of your senses. Writing is a visual art!

Written in My Own Heart's Blood by Diana Gabaldon

They believed me because they know it is true. Sixth-graders are older and more skeptical. When I look around at people writing, I can tell just by their physical posture if they have broken through or not. If they did, their teeth are rattling around in their mouth, no longer tight in their gums; their hearts might be pounding hard or aching. They are breathing deeply. Their handwriting is looser, more generous, and their bodies are relaxed enough to run for miles. This is why I say all writers, no matter how fat, thin, or flabby, have good figures.

They are always working out. Remember this. They are in tune, toned up, in rhythm with the hills, the highway, and can go for long stretches and many miles of paper. They move with grace in and out of many worlds. And what great writers actually pass on is not so much their words, but they hand on their breath at their moments of inspiration.

That breath was so powerful it still can be awakened in us over years later. Taking it on is very exhilarating. This is why it is good to remember: When I heard the scores from Broadway shows on radio, I just learned the words and never tried to imitate the melody.

This was a way I received attention, though my young heart secretly longed to be Gypsy Rose Lee. After all, I knew all the words to all the songs.

But basically, the world of music was not available to me. I was tone-deaf: I had a physical defect, like a missing foot or finger. Several years ago I took a singing lesson from a Sufi singing master, and he told me there is no such thing as tone-deafness.

You have to learn to listen. A few weeks after that, I sang in tune with a friend for the first time in my life and thought for sure I had become enlightened. My individual voice disappeared and our two voices became one. Writing, too, is 90 percent listening. You listen so deeply to the space around you that it fills you, and when you write, it pours out of you. If you can capture that reality around you, your writing needs nothing else. And go beyond the door.

Take in the sound of the season, the sound of the color coming in through the windows. Listen to the past, future, and present right where you are. Listen with your whole body, not only with your ears, but with your hands, your face, and the back of your neck. Listening is receptivity. The deeper you can listen, the better you can write. You take in the way things are without judgment, and the next day you can write the truth about the way things are.

Rabbi Zalman Schachter once told a group of people at the Lama Foundation that when he was in rabbinical school the students were not allowed to take notes. They had to just listen, and when the lecture was done they were expected to know it.

The idea was that we can remember everything. We choose and have trained our minds to repress things. By listening in this way you become a clear mirror to reflect reality, your reality and the reality around you. Basically, if you want to become a good writer, you need to do three things. Read a lot, listen well and deeply, and write a lot.

Just enter the heat of words and sounds and colored sensations and keep your pen moving across the page. If you read good books, when you write, good books will come out of you. Let those patterns and forms be imprinted in you. Enter poetry with your whole body. Little by little, you will come closer to what you need to say and express it through your voice. Just sing and write in tune. There might be spaces where your mind wanders. The reader or listener becomes lost because right before that the waiter had come to the table in the writing and the listener is waiting for him to serve the food.

Also, the writer may not be clear on his true direction or not directly present with his material. This creates a blur in the writing. A responsibility of literature is to make people awake, present, alive. If the writer wanders, then the reader, too, will wander.

The fly on the table might be part of the whole description of a restaurant. It might be appropriate to tell precisely the sandwich that it just walked over, but there is a fine line between precision and self-indulgence. Stay on the side of precision; know your goal and stay present with it. If your mind and writing wander from it, bring them gently back. When we write, many avenues open up inside us. Stay with the details and with your direction.

We might really get to know the fly but forget where we are: The fly is important, but it has its place. We think writing gives us an excuse for being alive. We forget that being alive is unconditional and that life and writing are two separate entities. Often we use writing as a way to receive notice, attention, love.

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I must be a good person. A few years ago, after every reading I gave, no matter how well everyone appreciated my work, I felt lonely and terrible. I blamed it on my writing. I was going through a divorce and had very low self-esteem. I needed support—not my poetry. I confused the two.

I forgot that I am not the poem. I needed care. Tell me I am wonderful. First we should notice that we are already supported every moment. There is the earth below our feet and there is the air, filling our lungs and emptying them.

We should begin from this when we need support. There is the sunlight coming through the window and the silence of the morning. Begin from these. I had a student who sent me two short stories to read, and then the following week we had an hourlong conference.

You are exaggerating. This is terrific work. Within a month one of the stories was accepted by a very fine magazine. Aah, now that I have your attention. You have to say something positive.

You already like me. Really stop when someone is complimenting you. Feel how good it is. Build up a tolerance for positive, honest support. What Are Your Deep Dreams?

What do you want to do with it? Write for five minutes. When we write for five, ten minutes we are forced to put down wishes that float around in our mind and that we might not pay attention to.

It is an opportunity to write down, without thinking, wishes at the periphery of our perceptions. Reread them. Start to take your dreams and wishes seriously. When I was in Israel last year, I walked the streets of Jerusalem wondering what other kind of writing I should do. I was finishing my second manuscript of poetry, Top of My Lungs, and knew that I needed something, some new form.

Lots of poets back in the Twin Cities were writing novels. But I was worried.

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I had visions of my end, lying in the gutter, clutching a few last poems in my hand and, with my last breath, begging someone to read them. No one is going to be hurt.

I just want you to listen to a few of my poems. A friend who is a poet, now writing a mystery novel, suggested I write this book. I remembered that I had started it five years ago.

We might as well pay attention to them and act on them. It is a way to penetrate into our lives; otherwise we might drift with our dreams forever. Once you have learned to trust your own voice and allowed that creative force inside you to come out, you can direct it to write short stories, novels, and poetry, do revisions, and so on.

You have the basic tool to fulfill your writing dreams. But beware. This type of writing will uncover other dreams you have, too—going to Tibet, being the first woman president of the United States, building a solar studio in New Mexico—and they will be in black and white. It will be harder to avoid them. Take one of your most boring pieces of writing and choose from it three or four consecutive lines or sentences and write them at the top of a blank piece of paper.

See each one of those words simply as wooden blocks, all the same size and color. No noun or verb has any more value than the, a, and. Everything is equal. Now for about a third of a page scramble them up as though you were just moving wooden blocks around.

Your mind will keep trying to construct something. Hold back that urge, relax, and mindlessly write down the words. You will have to repeat words to fill a third of a page. Now, if you would like, arbitrarily put in a few periods, a question mark, maybe an exclamation mark, colons, or semicolons. Do all of this without thinking, without trying to make any sense. Just for fun. Say eat ice and nothing dry! Now read it aloud as though it were saying something. Your voice should have inflection and expression.

You might try reading it in an angry voice, an exuberant, sad, whining, petulant, or demanding voice, to help you get into it. What have we done?

There is a subject acting on an object. We think in sentences, and the way we think is the way we see. By cracking open that syntax, we release energy and are able to see the world afresh and from a new angle. We stop being so chauvinistic as Homo sapiens. Other beings besides human beings matter on the earth: It is a terrible burden to have to be master. We are not ruling the world.

It is an illusion, and the illusion of our syntax structure perpetuates it. Katagiri Roshi used to say: Are they things that feel?

When Buddha reached enlightenment under the bodhi tree, he said: This does not mean that from now on we should remain immobilized because we are afraid of offending the rug below our feet or accidentally jolting a glass. It does not mean that we should not use our syntax structure because it is wrong. Only once you have done this exercise, though you probably will go back to sentences, there is a crack, a place where the wind of energy can fly through you.

The more you are aware of the syntax you move, see, and write in, the better control you have and the more you can step out of it when you need to. Actually, by breaking open syntax, you often get closer to the truth of what you need to say. Here are some examples of poems taken from Shout, Applaud, a collection of poems written at Norhaven, a residence for women who are mentally retarded.

Also they are fresh in another way: Please give Marion Pinski a white. I like to white because of write my name, I could.

I know how to spell it correct. I want white to write my name with. I like to write my name. I asked in a nice way. I love white, I do. To write, to write my name, yes. I got my own money, I do. Trying to.

Written in My Own Heart's Blood

Her dress looks beautiful like a swan. The swan floats with his thin white feathers when his soft snow head floats under to be like snow again. Then I like to be a woman like the one, to be with a long wing. On the stone lies a glass of water. The water is black with dirt. The dirt is dry and dusty. The cabbage is very pleased. It was cabbage and wieners. They were big cooked wieners, the smell was cabbage ah delicious smell of cabbage out not summer noise was running water in the kitchen somewhere.

He said that he sits down at his typewriter and writes about ten different short pieces at one session. He then comes back later to reread them. Maybe one out of the ten is successful and he keeps that one. He said that if a good first line comes to him, the rest of the piece usually works. Here are some of his first lines: With Sincerest Regrets Like a white snail the toilet slides into the living room, demanding to be loved.

It is impossible, and we tender our sincerest regrets. In the book of the heart there is no mention made of plumbing. And though we have spent our intimacy many times with you, you belong to an unfortunate reference, which we would rather not embrace.

The toilet slides out of the living room like a white snail, flushing with grief. After the reading, there was the usual wine-and-cheese reception in an ugly, large classroom. I clearly remember Russell Edson in a suit sitting alone across the room. All the students, faculty, and poets stood around the crackers and thin orange cheese slices at the opposite end of the room nervously sipping wine and discussing his work.

Few of us approached him.

Though we all laughed during the reading, he touched on naked truths in us all and we were uncomfortable. Try sitting at your typewriter and without thinking begin to write Russell Edson—type pieces. This means letting go and allowing the elm in your front yard to pick itself up and walk over to Iowa.

Try for good, strong first sentences. You might want to take the first half of your sentence from a newspaper article and finish the sentence with an ingredient listed in a cookbook. Play around. Dive into absurdity and write. Take chances. You will succeed if you are fearless of failure. We will read it and feel angry. Show them the situation, and that feeling will awaken in them. Writing is not psychology. Instead the writer feels and through her words awakens those feelings in the reader.

When you are present at the birth of a child you may find yourself weeping and singing.

Describe what you see: The reader will understand without your ever having to discuss the nature of life. When you write, stay in direct connection with the senses and what you are writing about. First thoughts are the mind reflecting experiences—as close as a human being can get in words to the sunset, the birth, the bobby pin, the crocus. They can easily teach us how to step out of the way and use words like a mirror to reflect the pictures.

Naturally, when we do practice writing in our notebooks, we might write a general line: Simply write it, note it, and drop to a deeper level and enter the story and take us into it.

Some general statements are sometimes very appropriate. Just make sure to back each one with a concrete picture.

Even if you are writing an essay, it makes the work so much more lively. Oh, if only Kant or Descartes had followed these instructions. We would all be a lot happier. Several years ago I wrote down a story that someone had told me. My friends said it was boring. Otherwise it is two times removed and you are not present.

Things, too, have names. It penetrates more deeply into the beingness of that flower. It immediately gives us the scene by the window—red petals, green circular leaves, all straining toward sunlight. About ten years ago I decided I had to learn the names of plants and flowers in my environment. I bought a book on them and walked down the treelined streets of Boulder, examining leaf, bark, and seed, trying to match them up with their descriptions and names in the book.

Maple, elm, oak, locust. I usually tried to cheat by asking people working in their yards the names of the flowers and trees growing there. I was amazed how few people had any idea of the names of the live beings inhabiting their little plot of land. When we know the name of something, it brings us closer to the ground. It takes the blur out of our mind; it connects us to the earth.

I am noticing what is around me and can name it. It makes me more awake. If you read the poems of William Carlos Williams, you will see how specific he is about plants, trees, flowers—chicory, daisy, locust, poplar, quince, primrose, black-eyed Susan, lilacs—each has its own integrity.

Williams also says: Learn the names of everything: A writer is all at once everything—an architect, French cook, farmer—and at the same time, a writer is none of these things. Tell us all the details. As you become single-minded in your writing, at the same time something in you should remain aware of the color of the sky or the sound of a distant mower.

Just throw in even one line about the street outside your window at the time you were carving that spoon. Tossing in the color of the sky at the right moment lets the piece breathe a little more. If you are on a Zen meditation retreat, between forty-minute sittings you do kinhin, walking zazen. Very, very slowly, in a standing position, in coordination with your out-breath, you begin the motion of taking a step.

Written in My Own Heart's Blood by Diana Gabaldon

You can feel both knees slightly bend, your heel lift off the floor. As their passion heats up, will it be enough to knock down the emotional wall between them?

Hallmark movie fans will love this sweet contemporary romance with a touch of magical realism. Rather than idly lingering on Earth, she focuses on finding her killer. Uncovering the truth means asking for help from her psychic ex-boyfriend. High in the Rockies, she feels secure, especially when love begins to bloom with the local veterinarian, Rick. What happens when her past catches up with her? Will she find answers or simply more questions? The wait is nearly over—Claire and Jamie's story continues in the Written in My Own Heart's Blood.

Diana Gabaldon puts out another winner and unfortunately readers around the world will have to wait years for the Written in My Own Heart's Blood is the brilliant next chapter in a masterpiece of the I have been able to have written anything that Diana Gabaldon poured her heart along with some of her Apps Download. Written in My Own Heart's Blood: A Novel by Diana GabaldonMy mother dyed her hair red and polished her toenails silver.

It is also about using writing as your practice, as a way to help you penetrate your life and become sane. Even try writing in a big drawing pad. It is such basic information about trusting your own mind and creating a confidence in your experience that I have never grown tired of teaching it.

Uncovering the truth means asking for help from her psychic ex-boyfriend. That breath was so powerful it still can be awakened in us over years later. There is freedom in being a writer and writing.

CARIE from Wyoming
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