Happy December! Remember how I said I was going to write a series for Home Jewelry Business Success Tips? That's going on now.
I thought someone with professional experience in writing should really do some articles about writing descriptions for handmade products sold online. Then I thought, "Dude -- I have professional experience in writing. I should do some articles about writing product descriptions for online selling."
So then, out of nowhere, I did some articles about copywriting for online jewelry and handmade-product sellers.
It's sort of like the one I wrote several months ago about tribal jewelry and how to describe it, but more technically focused. Basically I take the really common phrases and take them apart to identify why they're so common and find better alternatives. It's like tutoring but slightly more fun and I can do it alone with my laptop.
The ones published thus far:
"Authentic"
"Inspired by Nature"
"Elegant"
Showing posts with label writings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writings. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Reflecting
It was my grandmother who made a goddess worshipper out of me.
I could never say this if I thought she read my blog. My paternal grandma is Baptist now, known to almost everyone she associates with as either "Grama" or "Sister Terry," scolds my father about not keeping his family in church, is firmly teetotal with a strong aversion to any woman who wears "gothic" accessories, and is the only person in my family to date who cried bitter tears when she found out that I was planning to marry and have children with another woman. I expect she'd probably be horrified to hear me say it, but there it is: It was Grama who imparted to me the richly pagan reverence for the Goddess.
You see, my grandparents used to own a bed-and-breakfast in Mount Shasta, CA. My parents and I, and eventually my baby brother, visited them annually. The bed and breakfast is still there, although under different ownership; it was called Sisson House 1904 then, and consisted of the blue Victorian on the right. This house was where I took my first steps, made my first snowman, and experienced my first and only blizzard.
When we made our visits, in between leaping off the porch railing to get stuck in the snow, playing with the stuffed animals who lived in the old sea chest on the back porch, and making paint-with-water pictures for rescue volunteers who dug out the people trapped by aforementioned blizzard, Grama and I would take baskets to hold blackberries and walk to the place she called the Mary Grotto.
A quick Googling session later, I am nearly certain that the place she took me to must be the prayer site constructed by Mary-Ma McChristy in 1992, meaning the site was only a year old when Grama began taking me through the blackberry brambles along quiet side roads to the grotto. Given that its street address is provided online, it must not have been as isolated as I believed -- just a little public garden conveniently located off a residential street where a multifaith guru had recently placed a plaster garden saint.
But it seemed so ancient, so mysterious and sacred to me.
I could never say this if I thought she read my blog. My paternal grandma is Baptist now, known to almost everyone she associates with as either "Grama" or "Sister Terry," scolds my father about not keeping his family in church, is firmly teetotal with a strong aversion to any woman who wears "gothic" accessories, and is the only person in my family to date who cried bitter tears when she found out that I was planning to marry and have children with another woman. I expect she'd probably be horrified to hear me say it, but there it is: It was Grama who imparted to me the richly pagan reverence for the Goddess.
You see, my grandparents used to own a bed-and-breakfast in Mount Shasta, CA. My parents and I, and eventually my baby brother, visited them annually. The bed and breakfast is still there, although under different ownership; it was called Sisson House 1904 then, and consisted of the blue Victorian on the right. This house was where I took my first steps, made my first snowman, and experienced my first and only blizzard.
When we made our visits, in between leaping off the porch railing to get stuck in the snow, playing with the stuffed animals who lived in the old sea chest on the back porch, and making paint-with-water pictures for rescue volunteers who dug out the people trapped by aforementioned blizzard, Grama and I would take baskets to hold blackberries and walk to the place she called the Mary Grotto.
A quick Googling session later, I am nearly certain that the place she took me to must be the prayer site constructed by Mary-Ma McChristy in 1992, meaning the site was only a year old when Grama began taking me through the blackberry brambles along quiet side roads to the grotto. Given that its street address is provided online, it must not have been as isolated as I believed -- just a little public garden conveniently located off a residential street where a multifaith guru had recently placed a plaster garden saint.
But it seemed so ancient, so mysterious and sacred to me.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
The Woodsman's Trophy: A Clockwork Fairy Tale
Don't ask me. Really. This was inspired by one of M's polymer clay and watch part pendants. This is probably best rated PG-13 due to background sexuality and disturbing cannibalistic content, but if you can identify the fairy tale from what's before the jump, well, then, you're probably prepared for it.
The queen bade him to slay the princess and bring back her human heart. “For,” she said, “I know you will not kill your own kind, and the chit was born, not made.”
The woodsman nodded gravely with a slow, inexorable tick of clockwork, shading his eyes with their smoked-glass inner lids before the queen. She dazzled his mechanically optimized eyes as she dazzled everyone's, for her outer cladding was white gold and germanium; but through his shaded lenses he could see how the streaks of blood-red rust decorated her, and knew as few could know that the plating was thin, for the metal beneath was base in nature, and the fresh coats she demanded ever more often could only slow the wearing and tarnishing. Perhaps, in her youth, this was why the automaton lady had adopted the name Rose Red, so that she might brashly claim the rust was only her true mechanical blood showing through, but this was when she was a bolder woman and before she had fallen in love with the king.
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