By My Sweet Love’s Request:

What’s he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;
If we are mark’d to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.

God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.

But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more methinks would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call’d the feast of Crispian.

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian.’

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispian’s day.’
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb’red.

This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.

In Defense Of Doing It Right The First Time | mishaburnett

To Misha Burnett:

I may not have given this impression upon our first meeting, however it is true that I am a rather shy person, all things considered. I confess that, for that reason, among others, I have not been following along. With that in mind, I should say that my surmise is that this post may be in response to comments on your second book.

First, let me here state that I found it most brilliant. Thoroughly enjoyable. I have read it once and am now reading it a second time aloud for my dear Mrs. Emeron’s enjoyment. I have given your name to several of my colleagues, directing them quite enthusiastically to buy your books. One gentleman in particular I think will greatly enjoy it; and I will, in particular, hound him when next I see him if I find he has not yet purchased it. I have helped to bring him into the 21st century this last year, so he is already well-versed in these matters and should easily be able to manage the two or three clicks necessary to do so.

As far as go the minor editing mistakes, I believe it is very true that one cannot find them all on ones own. This is a function of the way our brains work. As an author, I know what is–or rather, what should be–there; this being the case, I may not be able to “see” a missing or repeated word. But truly, there are editors who specialise in this kind of work and I hear they are quite affordable.

Although this is not my profession–no, quite the contrary; I deal daily in abstract symbols and concepts–I might have helped with these minor points, had I been one of your so named “beta-readers.” But alas I am far too shy, and therefore reticent to ask for such an honoured position.

Being, as I am, possessed of a neuro-atypical brain I do tend to see small errors others will not see; but on the other hand, I will not see such errors as are seen easily by others as well, so in any case, I would never be able to compete in the editing market as a paid editor even if it were my desire to do so.

I am no stranger to pain at my age, so I do realise how ones mood and condition may colour ones perspective and, as a result, ones comments. Even given that, certainly you are correct: Everyone writes differently; I myself use a variety of techniques whether writing sonnets or fiction. Sometimes, I write in layers and sometimes I outline. Quite often, I do none of these things, preferring to write from start to finish without pausing at all for reflection.

Since you are now a published author, I would not presume to give you advice–nor would I if the case were otherwise, as I have noticed writers invariably give other writers poor advice and would not want to contribute negatively in this way. I will here state just this one thing: Keep writing. Do not stop. No matter what anyone may suggest. Keep writing.

via In Defense Of Doing It Right The First Time | mishaburnett.

Sometimes, I am truly mystified…

…by the natures of those who choose to follow my site.  It seems counterintuitive.  Once I see what they do, or write, I wonder:  how can they possible find anything of little enough value here to follow.  I write “little enough” and not “great enough” because I have, at certain times, an upside-down feeling when I visit certain sites.  As though everything that is right is called by the name “wrong;” and everything that is wrong is called by the name “right.”  What could such a man, living in such a world, possibly see in any world of mine? Continue reading

The Job That Doesn’t Exist | mishaburnett

Courage man! Just keep writing. Read what Anais Nin said about the subject. I think her words are far more elegant than my memory will paraphrase, however. In essence both these methods will “work.” The first, you write for others. Keep writing for them, and you will eventually find a market. The second, which dear Anais, thought better to follow herself, just write. Write for yourself. Keep writing. Publish yourself. Eventually people will come to you. But you must love to write more than anything else. By the time they come to you, you may not need them anymore, but still they will be welcome. The sound of opening doors is deafening. Anais wrote for decades. before any but a few knew of her work. Decades. Not years. Continue reading

I cannot get through…

…although I’ve worked on it, and thought it over for so long, the Xerex series without weeping.  I had been engaged in some tagging entries.  I decided to tag the series in such a way that it can be called up solely with one link.

Still, it is impossible for me to detach myself fully from these six sonnets.  They, the story of the myriad ways in which I’ve longed for my dearest love, are in every way inexorably entwined.

Once, upon a time there existed the possibility, perhaps the certainty, wherein the pages of one’s diary would be stained with tears; however these tears now fall upon one’s keyboard at best, and do not leave a visible mark upon one’s words.

In a few days will repost a sequence…

…which was and is essentially the catalyst to the Shakespeare project in that the insight I gained in writing these nine sonnets caused me to understand Will Shakespeare’s 154 sonnets in a way in which I could not have done had I not written these.  I have posted a link to this sequence to the right.  See the link entitled “Notes to Myself,” which I have also included here for convenience.