To market to market, to build a platform: Home again, home again, nice and warm.
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Oh where, oh where has my little plot gone? Oh where, oh were could it be? With its conflict cut short and its description cut long, oh where, oh where could it be?
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Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet, eating her curds and whey; along came an agent, who sat down beside her and she frightened the agent away.
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Old Mother Goose, when she wanted to wander, would ride through her fiction, with very fine diction.
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Little Bo-Peep has lost her sleep and can’t tell where to find it; leave it alone, and the characters will come home, wagging their tails behind them.
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Jack and Jill sold novels up the hill to fetch a right good number; Jack’s numbers fell down and broke his pride, and Jill came tumbling after.
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There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, she had so many story ideas she didn’t know what to do; she gave them some time without any pages; she kissed them all soundly and put them to bed.
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This little piggie went to market, this little piggie wrote alone, this little piggie had many tweets, this little piggie had none, and this little piggie cried tweet-tweet-tweet, all the way home.
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Star light, star bright, first book on my TBR pile I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, read the book I pick tonight.
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Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town, upstairs and downstairs like a muse, a clown, knocking at the window, crying at the boys in the basement, are your characters out of their beds, for now it’s eight o’clock?
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Humpty Dumpty wrote on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty’s bad handwriting together again.
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There was a little girl, and she had a little curl right in the middle of her novel; when her endings were good they were very very good, but when they were bad they were horrid.
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Monday’s child is fair of pace, Tuesday’s child is full of grace, Wednesday’s child is full of woe, Thursday’s child has far to go, Friday’s child is a newbie at weaving , Saturday’s child works hard for its living, but the child that writes on the Sabbath day is devoted and decided, and good and paid.
~
Oh where, oh where has my little plot gone? Oh where, oh were could it be? With its conflict cut short and its description cut long, oh where, oh where could it be?
~
Little Miss Muffet sat on her tuffet, eating her curds and whey; along came an agent, who sat down beside her and she frightened the agent away.
~
Old Mother Goose, when she wanted to wander, would ride through her fiction, with very fine diction.
~
Little Bo-Peep has lost her sleep and can’t tell where to find it; leave it alone, and the characters will come home, wagging their tails behind them.
~
Jack and Jill sold novels up the hill to fetch a right good number; Jack’s numbers fell down and broke his pride, and Jill came tumbling after.
~
There was an old woman who lived in a shoe, she had so many story ideas she didn’t know what to do; she gave them some time without any pages; she kissed them all soundly and put them to bed.
~
This little piggie went to market, this little piggie wrote alone, this little piggie had many tweets, this little piggie had none, and this little piggie cried tweet-tweet-tweet, all the way home.
~
Star light, star bright, first book on my TBR pile I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might, read the book I pick tonight.
~
Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town, upstairs and downstairs like a muse, a clown, knocking at the window, crying at the boys in the basement, are your characters out of their beds, for now it’s eight o’clock?
~
Humpty Dumpty wrote on a wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty’s bad handwriting together again.
~
There was a little girl, and she had a little curl right in the middle of her novel; when her endings were good they were very very good, but when they were bad they were horrid.
~
Monday’s child is fair of pace, Tuesday’s child is full of grace, Wednesday’s child is full of woe, Thursday’s child has far to go, Friday’s child is a newbie at weaving , Saturday’s child works hard for its living, but the child that writes on the Sabbath day is devoted and decided, and good and paid.
*photo from Flickr
