Does anyone else write from experiences?
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Does anyone else write from experiences?
- moderntimes
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Tony Vee and I were playing in a golf tourney at The Ship. Which was ironic because I’ve never actually played a round of golf in my life. Not that it matters, as we weren’t playing golf as much as we were bashing a golfball at random around the inside of a bunch of interconnected wooden buildings.
The Ship is a bar, sort of, keeping irregular hours and even more irregular clientele. The beer is cold and cheap and patrons are a fun mix of Houston oddballs—musicians, painters, newspaper reporters, attorneys, an occasional cop and even some private detective scum. The Ship is also a real life boat storage and repair shop that performs excellent work. The fact that the place is miles from navigable water seems of little concern. Owners trailer their precious cargoes for miles up the freeway just to let the shipwrights perform their magic.
The property is cobbled together from several old frame storehouses and such, indiscriminate size and purpose, connected via hallways and open gardens, a business that seems to have grown much of its own accord. The owner, Dalton Envers, is an old time jazz pianist whose family left him a lucrative boating facility. Dalton retains a small staff of loyal workers and the place’s boat repair reputation prevails.
Dalton also hosts jazz concerts and opened a bar in the front building mainly to support the music. He tolerates rock groups too, their louder music subjugated to another building to the rear of the property, but hardcore jazz musicians and buffs from all over the Southwest come to The Ship for sessions. And occasionally, to partake in impromptu and insane indoor golf tournaments that the place hosts. Nobody knows why.
How the tournament works is that you each toss a ten, maybe a twenty into the kitty and pick a club from a basket of old nine-irons. Play starts alongside the main bar, golfers teeing off from one of those rubber putting practice things, hopefully driving the ball out the back door into a small courtyard, then into the larger concert area, across to the warehouse, which marks the course turn and where everyone stops for a fresh beer. Next, down a hallway through the stoner room where jazz musicians gather to jam, play poker, and where late night smoke is green and intense, out to the courtyard again, finishing back at the bar with a putt into the cup.
Par for the one-hole course is twelve. Or ten maybe. Nobody knows that either. Nor cares. Windows are sometimes broken but there’s a fund. Players also get hit a lot but no compensation is provided for that misfortune. The winner keeps half the pot (the money, not the weed), buys the losers a round, and the rest goes into the waitress tip jar. It makes little sense but the real game of golf doesn’t make sense either and that hasn’t prevented vast sums from being spent on it annually.
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- Booknet15
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- ALynnPowers
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As my personal example:
My mother died when I was a university student, and her death affected me very much at that time. I wrote as a way of dealing with it. As a result, every story I write, always has a character whose mother has already passed away. Usually the main character. Just because I personally know what it is like to be in those kinds of shoes.
- rolandogomez
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I'm a firm believer in that, and in fact, I think it allows an author's passion to show and flow! The same is said about songwriters and musicians, in my opinion. I'm a also a firm believer in the greatest storytellers are those that tell their most interesting life events.
Just my two centavos worth. Happy New Year everyone!