Sunday, January 23, 2011

The Idea Here

This blog is different from other blogs. This is a new community writing experiment. It's not really about me but about a lot of people. For the first 100 people who email me at cellar27door@yahoo.com, I will enable you to author this blog as well. Each person who volunteers to be a member will be given the opportunity to write on a given topic, once a month. If you are uninspired about that particular topic, then just skip it, and maybe write on the next month's topic.

Take a general subject like, "Taxi Cabs." Lots of people have a story about a taxi cab. All of the different blog authors, over the course of the month, could, if inspired, relate a true story on the topic of Taxi Cabs. The next month, new topic. Mothers. Community gardens. Shooting stars. Growing up. Think the Sun magazine's "Readers Write" section. The interesting thing about the Reader's Write section of the Sun is that, even though the topic is the same for everyone, none of the stories are even remotely similar. It's amazing.

The first topic for February will be "Names".

Just write when inspired. Write once a year. Write twice a year. Write once a month.

Blogger allows up to 100 authors.

True stories.

Sign up!* Go ahead! It'll be fun.

You're still alive and not dead! Tell your story.

It's less trouble than keeping your own blog, and it may turn out to be much more interesting.

* If you want to be an author here, please email me at cellar27door@yahoo.com with the email address that you use for your blogger account. Then you can post things yourself here without my intervention.

4 comments:

  1. When I was a child I didn't like my name. It wasn't magical enough, it didn't sound beautiful when spoken aloud. My name was too connected to my life, a life that at the time, I wasn't very fond of. My parents divored when I was three and I lived 95% of the time with my mother in a sneeze and you miss it northern California town. One time when I was about seven, I was flying back from visiting my father on his farm in Pennsylvania. I was used to flying as an unattended minor. I was an expert. But this time, as chance would have it, my father put me on an earlier flight then agreed upon. While in the air during that foggy neither here nor there time a stewardess asked me for my name. Without missing a beat, I replied: Julie. When the plane landed, no one was there to pick up Julie. No one was there looking for Marla because of the flight mix up. And thus, Julie found herself in a suburban foster home with TV, and white bread, and everything that Marla wanted but didn't have. It took almost a week for my mother to track me down and convince everyone that she was a capable parent. When she came to get me pick me up, Marla was nonplused and Julie wanted to stay.

    ReplyDelete
  2. I just sent you an email, but I think I need to check my Blogger email address.

    ReplyDelete