April is National Poetry Month. It’s the perfect time to celebrate poets and their versified art.
You could celebrate by hugging a poet.
Give a shout-out to a favorite poet. (Huzzah, wordsmith Mary Kimmel!)
Buy a book of poetry. Both of the following are recently published: Good Poems for Hard Times selected and introduced by Garrison Keiller and Hip-Hop Poetry and the Classics by Alan Lawrence Sitomer and Michael Cirelli.
Observe details in the world around you and discover that moments are filled with poetry.
Read a love poem to your sweetheart.
Have a conversation in rhyme. It would be a silly, fun time!
Memorize a quote about poetry. Here’s one: “All good poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility.” —William Wordsworth, Lyrical Ballads, preface (1801).
Join a poetry group. Locally, there’s Gulf Coast Poets in Webster, Houston Chapter and Poets Northwest, both in Houston, to name a few. (Go to www.texaspoetryevents.info for poetry event details.)
Go to a poetry reading. Coffee Oasis in Seabrook hosts open mic readings on the first Monday of each month. Barnes and Noble in Webster hosts them every fourth Tuesday.
Read poems at a poetry open mic.
You could come to the Spring Branch Library in Katy on April 21st at 11:00 a.m. to hear me give a presentation of Poetry Through the Ages. I will conclude by sharing a rap song I wrote called “Layin’ Down My Life,” which I’ve performed in many Texas prisons. Also presenting will be multiple-award-winning poet Doris Ferguson and Sophia Morrison.
The most meaningful way to appreciate poetry, in my humble opinion, is to write a poem.
How will you celebrate?
(published April 2007)
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Inspired by Research
I was thumbing through a book called Life in the Middle Ages as an exercise in research for this article. Reading about the vocabulary, dress, and customs of that day, I was stirred to write a sample of a period piece. What I ended up with, to my astonishment, is a viable first chapter of a novel.
Historical romance is my favorite genre of fiction. Before I became persnickety about reading nothing steamier than G-rated romance, the early works of Kathleen Woodiwiss captivated me. Favorites included Ashes in the Wind and The Wolf and the Dove. But the Christian-flavored Janette Oke series Love Comes Softly is more like the book series I dream of writing. A secret to success I learned from local author Judson Roberts is to write what I most like to read while making the enjoyment of the reader the motivation for my work. Historical Christian romance is the natural choice for me (I’m so excited about my chapter set in the Middle Ages!) and doing research is essential.
How blessed we writers are in this age of the internet. With an on-line computer, which is a resource offered at many public libraries, we can quickly find common names from a given era, historical facts, and much more.
Life in the Middle Ages, along with numerous books on writing not found at the local library, is available for checkout through membership in the Bay Area Writers League. I urge writers to make use of the wealth of available research material and study about whatever captures their interest. You never know. It could lead to the spontaneous dawning of a captivating novel.
(published March 3007)
Historical romance is my favorite genre of fiction. Before I became persnickety about reading nothing steamier than G-rated romance, the early works of Kathleen Woodiwiss captivated me. Favorites included Ashes in the Wind and The Wolf and the Dove. But the Christian-flavored Janette Oke series Love Comes Softly is more like the book series I dream of writing. A secret to success I learned from local author Judson Roberts is to write what I most like to read while making the enjoyment of the reader the motivation for my work. Historical Christian romance is the natural choice for me (I’m so excited about my chapter set in the Middle Ages!) and doing research is essential.
How blessed we writers are in this age of the internet. With an on-line computer, which is a resource offered at many public libraries, we can quickly find common names from a given era, historical facts, and much more.
Life in the Middle Ages, along with numerous books on writing not found at the local library, is available for checkout through membership in the Bay Area Writers League. I urge writers to make use of the wealth of available research material and study about whatever captures their interest. You never know. It could lead to the spontaneous dawning of a captivating novel.
(published March 3007)
Forsaking the Rutted Trail
Breaking out of routine both in thought and action has been a lift to my writing life this past month.
Exercise has hurt so good. In spite of sore muscles, my mood is elevated. Exercise seems to activate my creative brain waves, as if they’ve been in couch potato mode, too.
Poetry is currently my main writing focus, and I’m not being slack about it. I go to workshops and critique meetings, and I’ve joined several poetry groups. I’ll soon share a study I’m doing on ”Poetry in the Bible” with fellow members of the Houston Chapter of the Poetry Society of Texas. I also go to poetry readings to glean from other poets and read some of my own poems. I highly recommend the monthly poetry event “First Fridays” in Houston, which Robert Clark has been coordinating since 1975.
Work on my first book as well as a chapbook of poetry continues. These efforts to pull myself out of my unproductive daily rut are helped most by seeking inspiration and a change in thinking from extraordinary achievers. For instance, Norman Vincent Peale, author of The Power of Positive Thinking, says this in Positive Living Day by Day: “You were not made to live a dull life. You were not put into this exquisite world, filled with beauty and fascination, to be less than an interested, excited human being.”
My efforts have been fruitful. As I was running errands recently, my eyes were opened to see extraordinary moments at almost every turn. I’ve never felt more like a writer, as I filled several pages of a small notebook recording those observations before they could escape me. It seems that all of life is poetry to the activated writer.
(published February 2007)
Exercise has hurt so good. In spite of sore muscles, my mood is elevated. Exercise seems to activate my creative brain waves, as if they’ve been in couch potato mode, too.
Poetry is currently my main writing focus, and I’m not being slack about it. I go to workshops and critique meetings, and I’ve joined several poetry groups. I’ll soon share a study I’m doing on ”Poetry in the Bible” with fellow members of the Houston Chapter of the Poetry Society of Texas. I also go to poetry readings to glean from other poets and read some of my own poems. I highly recommend the monthly poetry event “First Fridays” in Houston, which Robert Clark has been coordinating since 1975.
Work on my first book as well as a chapbook of poetry continues. These efforts to pull myself out of my unproductive daily rut are helped most by seeking inspiration and a change in thinking from extraordinary achievers. For instance, Norman Vincent Peale, author of The Power of Positive Thinking, says this in Positive Living Day by Day: “You were not made to live a dull life. You were not put into this exquisite world, filled with beauty and fascination, to be less than an interested, excited human being.”
My efforts have been fruitful. As I was running errands recently, my eyes were opened to see extraordinary moments at almost every turn. I’ve never felt more like a writer, as I filled several pages of a small notebook recording those observations before they could escape me. It seems that all of life is poetry to the activated writer.
(published February 2007)
A Source of Inspiration
I’ve looked for a certain item in every antique shop I’ve visited for the past 25 years, with no luck. Then last month, on the bottom shelf of a store in Brenham, I saw it – an Underwood typewriter, just like the one Dad taught me to type on when I was 10 years old. It was a beautiful sight to me, with its circular keys and boxy shape.
For a mere forty-five dollars I could have the long-sought-after symbol of Dad, my original muse, who was a writer by profession.
But I somehow talked myself out of buying the typewriter. After all, my purpose for being in Brenham was to take my daughter Maddie shopping and figure out what I was going to buy her and William, her fiancé, for Christmas. Most importantly, my current financial goal is to pay off my debts so that I’m able to travel in a few short years.
“If the typewriter is still here next month,” I told Maddie, “I’ll buy it.” But I couldn’t believe it would be.
Reading and writing are my best helps for being a productive writer, I consoled myself.
I’m truly glad I didn’t buy that old Underwood typewriter. If I had, it would have spoiled the surprise I enjoyed on Christmas Eve. I opened a large box from Maddie and William and found that they had bought the treasure for me.
Before I can get any writing done, I require some form of inspiration. Because of that old typewriter that now sits in plain view of my desk at home, I have a feeling the days ahead are going to be very productive.
(published January 2007)
For a mere forty-five dollars I could have the long-sought-after symbol of Dad, my original muse, who was a writer by profession.
But I somehow talked myself out of buying the typewriter. After all, my purpose for being in Brenham was to take my daughter Maddie shopping and figure out what I was going to buy her and William, her fiancé, for Christmas. Most importantly, my current financial goal is to pay off my debts so that I’m able to travel in a few short years.
“If the typewriter is still here next month,” I told Maddie, “I’ll buy it.” But I couldn’t believe it would be.
Reading and writing are my best helps for being a productive writer, I consoled myself.
I’m truly glad I didn’t buy that old Underwood typewriter. If I had, it would have spoiled the surprise I enjoyed on Christmas Eve. I opened a large box from Maddie and William and found that they had bought the treasure for me.
Before I can get any writing done, I require some form of inspiration. Because of that old typewriter that now sits in plain view of my desk at home, I have a feeling the days ahead are going to be very productive.
(published January 2007)
Balancing Words and Humans
During the second week of National Novel Writing Month (Nanowrimo), Jessie came to my mind invasively. She’s a dear friend who I haven’t spoken with for a long while. I was so bent on writing my book, though, I didn’t take the time to contact her. You see, I was hurdling winningly toward being halfway finished with my first novel. I didn’t want to lose my stride. At the beginning of the third week of Nanowrimo, Jessie was in the hospital and unexpectedly died of unknown causes. This grievous event halted me and inspired me to change this article’s subject from one regrettable activity to another.
I was going to address the tragedy of wasting precious time that could be spent writing. Thanks to the impetus inspired by Nanowrimo, I learned that I can produce 1,667 written words per day.
There’s an even greater calamity than squandering our gifts and energy, though, and that’s neglecting our friends and loved ones.
The fact that Jessie died without my having expressed how much she means to me breaks my heart. She was a true friend. In fact, she was like a caring mother to me during the darkest phase of my life.
Jessie and I had in common a love for the Bible and for writing. She once gave me a Bible commentary as a gift, and I’ll always treasure it. She also gave me a copy of a poem that she wrote, and years ago I discovered that I lost it. I’ll never forget that missing poem or the lost opportunity that just preceded Jessie’s departure to heaven. Hopefully these memories will help me keep a proper balance of all that is important in life -- just one more gift from Jessie to me.
(published December 2006)
I was going to address the tragedy of wasting precious time that could be spent writing. Thanks to the impetus inspired by Nanowrimo, I learned that I can produce 1,667 written words per day.
There’s an even greater calamity than squandering our gifts and energy, though, and that’s neglecting our friends and loved ones.
The fact that Jessie died without my having expressed how much she means to me breaks my heart. She was a true friend. In fact, she was like a caring mother to me during the darkest phase of my life.
Jessie and I had in common a love for the Bible and for writing. She once gave me a Bible commentary as a gift, and I’ll always treasure it. She also gave me a copy of a poem that she wrote, and years ago I discovered that I lost it. I’ll never forget that missing poem or the lost opportunity that just preceded Jessie’s departure to heaven. Hopefully these memories will help me keep a proper balance of all that is important in life -- just one more gift from Jessie to me.
(published December 2006)
Visiting Other Worlds
On a recent cool autumn Saturday my daughter Maddie and I attended a semi-private outdoor concert in Brenham. The scenery was awe-inspiring -- we were situated on a plush and rocky hill overlooking a distant lake in a valley below.
The event commenced. All of the artists who shared seemed to get lost in the world of their passion, and they took us with them. This began with Ann, the graceful, modestly clad belly dancer who created jingling music with her artful hips.
John Hatfield, an up and coming young Christian artist, blessed my soul with his music. See www.myspace.com/JohnHatfield.
As the sun was going down in a spectacular display of wispy clouds and pastel colors, Rhett Butler took the stage. I quickly forgot about the novelty of his name as he began to play his guitars -- two at a time. Rhett doesn’t usually strum the instruments. His Superman-quick fingers evoke hauntingly beautiful music from the fret of the guitars. He also employs a tapping technique that adds to the richness of the sound.
Rhett shared about Ashley, his brother and inspiration, who has had a lifelong fight with a deadly form of cancer. Not expected to live to his third birthday, Ashley is now 27 years old and a bona fide hero.
I bought two of Rhett’s CD’s and will soon buy more via www.rhettbutler.org. I must have his joyful tune entitled January 3rd, 1999. The song commemorates the day Rhett acquired the recording equipment that helped him launch into the desired music career.
The thing about Rhett is that he has given himself over to his gift with rare abandon, and to hear him play is to know that you’ve encountered greatness.
My experience there in Brenham with Maddie inspired me as a writer that -- like all of the artists I heard and saw there as well as great storytellers of every kind -- I can also become skilled enough to transport people to other worlds.
(published November 2006)
The event commenced. All of the artists who shared seemed to get lost in the world of their passion, and they took us with them. This began with Ann, the graceful, modestly clad belly dancer who created jingling music with her artful hips.
John Hatfield, an up and coming young Christian artist, blessed my soul with his music. See www.myspace.com/JohnHatfield.
As the sun was going down in a spectacular display of wispy clouds and pastel colors, Rhett Butler took the stage. I quickly forgot about the novelty of his name as he began to play his guitars -- two at a time. Rhett doesn’t usually strum the instruments. His Superman-quick fingers evoke hauntingly beautiful music from the fret of the guitars. He also employs a tapping technique that adds to the richness of the sound.
Rhett shared about Ashley, his brother and inspiration, who has had a lifelong fight with a deadly form of cancer. Not expected to live to his third birthday, Ashley is now 27 years old and a bona fide hero.
I bought two of Rhett’s CD’s and will soon buy more via www.rhettbutler.org. I must have his joyful tune entitled January 3rd, 1999. The song commemorates the day Rhett acquired the recording equipment that helped him launch into the desired music career.
The thing about Rhett is that he has given himself over to his gift with rare abandon, and to hear him play is to know that you’ve encountered greatness.
My experience there in Brenham with Maddie inspired me as a writer that -- like all of the artists I heard and saw there as well as great storytellers of every kind -- I can also become skilled enough to transport people to other worlds.
(published November 2006)
Got Poetry?
Writing in verse is more fun than driving a mini-Cooper on a curvy road. Ever since I took the brakes off of my inner poet, my pen has been racing its ink out. And to think, I didn’t believe poetry was my cup of tea. Turns out, it’s my Route 44 of strawberry fruit slush.
The misconception about poetry that kept me – a one-time prolific songwriter – from trying it sooner was that it’s a highfalutin art form. While poems often do exceed my mental grasp, I’ve learned that straightforward poetry is equally legitimate. This poem – written by 10-
year-old Marc Duskin – is published in Miracles*:
GROWNUPS
Grownups are silly,
They never drink coffee
When it’s served
To them.
They just talk
And never drink it
Until it’s cold.
Isn’t that silly?
I haven’t grown
Since I was five
I haven’t grown at all –
Grownups are just getting shorter.
I find The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Writing Poetry to be a good poetry primer. But what has been most instructive for me is being part of poetry critique groups, readings, and workshops. The organizer of the poetry events I’ve experienced so far is our own Mary Margaret Carlisle, a member of B.A.W.L. I will always appreciate Mary Margaret for hooking me up with my favorite art form.
Poetry is an ideal match for my love of words. It’s the catalyst that has allowed me to get more intimate with them. Poet Marie Jordan says in 2005 Poet’s Market: “Poetry forces the writer to plunge deeper into the language, to examine and explore and find insight and meaning in tight places. Poetry squeezes the poet for meaning; it is an art that forces poet and reader alike into a place of breathtaking discovery.”
Since taking up poetry, more than my muse has come out of hiding, as expressed in this poem I wrote.
Quest
Was an Official Court Reporter
An instructor for a while
Administrative secretary
Years of effort
Merely trials
One day I took up writing –
Love I’d placed upon a shelf
While delving into poetry
I found
My long lost self.
For information about local poetry events, contact Mary Margaret Carlisle Sol.Editor@prodigy.net.
* Miracles is a book of poems written by children and collected by Richard Lewis
(published October 2006)
The misconception about poetry that kept me – a one-time prolific songwriter – from trying it sooner was that it’s a highfalutin art form. While poems often do exceed my mental grasp, I’ve learned that straightforward poetry is equally legitimate. This poem – written by 10-
year-old Marc Duskin – is published in Miracles*:
GROWNUPS
Grownups are silly,
They never drink coffee
When it’s served
To them.
They just talk
And never drink it
Until it’s cold.
Isn’t that silly?
I haven’t grown
Since I was five
I haven’t grown at all –
Grownups are just getting shorter.
I find The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Writing Poetry to be a good poetry primer. But what has been most instructive for me is being part of poetry critique groups, readings, and workshops. The organizer of the poetry events I’ve experienced so far is our own Mary Margaret Carlisle, a member of B.A.W.L. I will always appreciate Mary Margaret for hooking me up with my favorite art form.
Poetry is an ideal match for my love of words. It’s the catalyst that has allowed me to get more intimate with them. Poet Marie Jordan says in 2005 Poet’s Market: “Poetry forces the writer to plunge deeper into the language, to examine and explore and find insight and meaning in tight places. Poetry squeezes the poet for meaning; it is an art that forces poet and reader alike into a place of breathtaking discovery.”
Since taking up poetry, more than my muse has come out of hiding, as expressed in this poem I wrote.
Quest
Was an Official Court Reporter
An instructor for a while
Administrative secretary
Years of effort
Merely trials
One day I took up writing –
Love I’d placed upon a shelf
While delving into poetry
I found
My long lost self.
For information about local poetry events, contact Mary Margaret Carlisle Sol.Editor@prodigy.net.
* Miracles is a book of poems written by children and collected by Richard Lewis
(published October 2006)
Reading - A Great Writerly Adventure
The deadline to turn in my column was sneaking up on me but not quietly, not like the Indians in the Old West are reputed to have snuck up on people. It was more like when you see a cat getting situated in a pouncing position; you know for sure there’s about to be a pounce.
In the meantime, I’d been listening to Larry McMurtry’s Dead Man’s Walk, the audio book. Westerns aren’t typically a genre that interests me, but Mr. McMurtry’s writing style draws me in like a bronc rider to a rodeo. His characters -- not just the central figures, Gus McCrae and Woodrow Call -- seem as real as my critique partners. And the author’s scene descriptions are so effective; I’ve begun to feel incredibly blessed. I’m thankful to sit in air conditioning with food in my refrigerator -- even though there’s no roast or steak -- and a lock on my front door -- even though I don’t own the townhouse it’s attached to. My situation sure beats walking, hungry and thirsty, across vast desert plains because my horses and pack mules have been stolen -- not to mention being stalked by murderous Comanches like the Texas Rangers in Dead Man’s Walk are.
The gratefulness that the audio book awakened in me even extends to news watching. Yes, things are bad, particularly in the Middle East right now, but things could certainly be worse. British intelligence could have not recently discovered the liquid bomb airplane plot before it happened, for instance. Even hearing about the near miss, my life’s pressures, like perpetually rising gas prices, seem a lot less weighty. And at least I have a mount – er, car to put gas in.
There’s no denying it; my worldview has shifted for having read a Larry McMurtry western adventure.
Ted Dekker also has enviable writing skills. I was voraciously reading some of his books at home during the time I was listening to the adventures of Gus and Woodrow in my car. Many of Mr. Dekker’s descriptions are the freshest I’ve come across. I’m twenty-first in e-line at the Harris County Library to check out Heaven’s Wager, one of his titles. Here’s an excerpt from the first chapter that’s posted on the library website:
“An overhead fan swished through the afternoon heat above Padre Francis Cadione's head, squeaking once every rotation, but otherwise not a sound disturbed the silence in the small, dimly lit room.”
Writing about great reads, I beat my column deadline. Now perhaps the only pouncing to be done is my snatching up Comanche Moon, the second prequel to Lonesome Dove.
(published September 2006)
In the meantime, I’d been listening to Larry McMurtry’s Dead Man’s Walk, the audio book. Westerns aren’t typically a genre that interests me, but Mr. McMurtry’s writing style draws me in like a bronc rider to a rodeo. His characters -- not just the central figures, Gus McCrae and Woodrow Call -- seem as real as my critique partners. And the author’s scene descriptions are so effective; I’ve begun to feel incredibly blessed. I’m thankful to sit in air conditioning with food in my refrigerator -- even though there’s no roast or steak -- and a lock on my front door -- even though I don’t own the townhouse it’s attached to. My situation sure beats walking, hungry and thirsty, across vast desert plains because my horses and pack mules have been stolen -- not to mention being stalked by murderous Comanches like the Texas Rangers in Dead Man’s Walk are.
The gratefulness that the audio book awakened in me even extends to news watching. Yes, things are bad, particularly in the Middle East right now, but things could certainly be worse. British intelligence could have not recently discovered the liquid bomb airplane plot before it happened, for instance. Even hearing about the near miss, my life’s pressures, like perpetually rising gas prices, seem a lot less weighty. And at least I have a mount – er, car to put gas in.
There’s no denying it; my worldview has shifted for having read a Larry McMurtry western adventure.
Ted Dekker also has enviable writing skills. I was voraciously reading some of his books at home during the time I was listening to the adventures of Gus and Woodrow in my car. Many of Mr. Dekker’s descriptions are the freshest I’ve come across. I’m twenty-first in e-line at the Harris County Library to check out Heaven’s Wager, one of his titles. Here’s an excerpt from the first chapter that’s posted on the library website:
“An overhead fan swished through the afternoon heat above Padre Francis Cadione's head, squeaking once every rotation, but otherwise not a sound disturbed the silence in the small, dimly lit room.”
Writing about great reads, I beat my column deadline. Now perhaps the only pouncing to be done is my snatching up Comanche Moon, the second prequel to Lonesome Dove.
(published September 2006)
Writer on Fire!
For several years I studied about writing, and a recurring theme I found was that meeting with other writers is enormously beneficial. I was afraid, though, that mingling with gifted writers would make me feel like a mere wannabe. Ironically, it was when I finally attended a meeting of the Bay Area Writers League (BAWL) for the first time -- and not only felt right at home but also comprehended the many helpful things that were said -- that I felt like a legitimate artist. And nothing stokes my passion for writing more than congregating with other writers to focus on the craft.
Attending the monthly gathering of my writers group is like fanning my writing flames. The meetings offer informative speakers and encouraging news about BAWL members who have recently been published or have been brave and resourceful enough to submit their manuscripts to various publishers. One of the biggest boosts I ever got was the time our speaker was helplessly trapped on the Gulf freeway. To fill the gap, all of us in attendance shared something about ourselves. When I said that I wrote the BAWL column The Ready Writer, a round of applause erupted. Since then, my embers have never gone cold.
The feedback I get at critique meetings has been the most helpful tool for shaping my words into reader-friendly stories. The meetings keep my pen to the page, too, since I don’t like missing opportunities to get help with my work. Participating in critique groups is like putting fresh logs on my fire.
BAWL’s monthly workshops -- amazingly priced at $10 each for members -- have a combined benefit of leisurely networking and power learning about how to be a better writer. Going to writing workshops is like squirting lighter fluid on my flames.
Attending a writers conference is like constructing a huge bonfire. With every session I go to and writer I speak with and goody placed in my conference bag, my passion for writing is intensified.
The experience I’m looking forward to and that I hope is in the not-too-distant future is going to a writers retreat -- most ideally, the famous Maui Writers Retreat held annually during Labor Day weekend. I expect I’ll have become a veritable writer on fire after that dream comes true, whether it happens in Hawaii or Texas. But even those consuming flames would probably go out if I didn’t keep them stoked. So I plan to make it a lifelong practice to meet regularly with other writers.
(published August 2006)
Attending the monthly gathering of my writers group is like fanning my writing flames. The meetings offer informative speakers and encouraging news about BAWL members who have recently been published or have been brave and resourceful enough to submit their manuscripts to various publishers. One of the biggest boosts I ever got was the time our speaker was helplessly trapped on the Gulf freeway. To fill the gap, all of us in attendance shared something about ourselves. When I said that I wrote the BAWL column The Ready Writer, a round of applause erupted. Since then, my embers have never gone cold.
The feedback I get at critique meetings has been the most helpful tool for shaping my words into reader-friendly stories. The meetings keep my pen to the page, too, since I don’t like missing opportunities to get help with my work. Participating in critique groups is like putting fresh logs on my fire.
BAWL’s monthly workshops -- amazingly priced at $10 each for members -- have a combined benefit of leisurely networking and power learning about how to be a better writer. Going to writing workshops is like squirting lighter fluid on my flames.
Attending a writers conference is like constructing a huge bonfire. With every session I go to and writer I speak with and goody placed in my conference bag, my passion for writing is intensified.
The experience I’m looking forward to and that I hope is in the not-too-distant future is going to a writers retreat -- most ideally, the famous Maui Writers Retreat held annually during Labor Day weekend. I expect I’ll have become a veritable writer on fire after that dream comes true, whether it happens in Hawaii or Texas. But even those consuming flames would probably go out if I didn’t keep them stoked. So I plan to make it a lifelong practice to meet regularly with other writers.
(published August 2006)
A Word Smorgasbord
I imagine that a passion for speed is the impetus for racecar drivers. Chefs delight in food. And don’t all writers love words?
Michael Berberich taught a class on personal essays that I attended -- a monthly workshop hosted by Bay Area Writers League. The class was thoroughly engaging and represents one of the best ten-dollar investments I think I’ve ever made. Because of my own word fetish, what most captured my attention was that Mr. Berberich shared an uncommon word with us -- he said it’s one of his three favorites. The word is ‘omphaloskepsis,’ and its charm is economy -- it says with fourteen letters what would otherwise require sixteen words to express. I can’t find the definition of the term in any of my dictionaries at home, but Mr. Berberich said its meaning is something like navel-gazing while sitting cross-legged and attempting to achieve a trance-like state.
After class, I asked Mr. Berberich what his two other favorite words are. He said they are, “’slob’ because of the definition of the word in the Oxford English Dictionary and ‘revision,’” which during the workshop he said is equivalent to the word ‘craftsmanship’ for writers.
I’ve never come up with a list of favorite words, but I think it’s because I’m fickle. I love so many of them, to choose the top three would be like choosing the most handsome in an army of Mel Gibsons.
My 2006 daily word calendar has been a great source of both pleasure and frustration for me. I’m learning a lot of interesting new words, but I can’t bring myself to throw away the pages. So far, I have approximately 150 of them making a mess of various drawers. Because those same words are neatly listed in my dictionaries, I’ve been telling myself it’s an irrational struggle and I should throw them away. Then today -- after a lot of delicious contemplation about word smorgasbords -- I realized that there was subconscious method to my madness.
In the way that other people dream of rolling in money, I’ve often thought that it would be thrilling to wallow in a heap of words. Even if I do act out that desire with my calendar pages, I doubt it will be as fun as when I find the perfect word to express something I’m writing about. That is an adroit pleasure, which I usually achieve with the use of a dictionary and thesaurus -- incidentally, never by omphaloskepsis.
(published July 2006)
Michael Berberich taught a class on personal essays that I attended -- a monthly workshop hosted by Bay Area Writers League. The class was thoroughly engaging and represents one of the best ten-dollar investments I think I’ve ever made. Because of my own word fetish, what most captured my attention was that Mr. Berberich shared an uncommon word with us -- he said it’s one of his three favorites. The word is ‘omphaloskepsis,’ and its charm is economy -- it says with fourteen letters what would otherwise require sixteen words to express. I can’t find the definition of the term in any of my dictionaries at home, but Mr. Berberich said its meaning is something like navel-gazing while sitting cross-legged and attempting to achieve a trance-like state.
After class, I asked Mr. Berberich what his two other favorite words are. He said they are, “’slob’ because of the definition of the word in the Oxford English Dictionary and ‘revision,’” which during the workshop he said is equivalent to the word ‘craftsmanship’ for writers.
I’ve never come up with a list of favorite words, but I think it’s because I’m fickle. I love so many of them, to choose the top three would be like choosing the most handsome in an army of Mel Gibsons.
My 2006 daily word calendar has been a great source of both pleasure and frustration for me. I’m learning a lot of interesting new words, but I can’t bring myself to throw away the pages. So far, I have approximately 150 of them making a mess of various drawers. Because those same words are neatly listed in my dictionaries, I’ve been telling myself it’s an irrational struggle and I should throw them away. Then today -- after a lot of delicious contemplation about word smorgasbords -- I realized that there was subconscious method to my madness.
In the way that other people dream of rolling in money, I’ve often thought that it would be thrilling to wallow in a heap of words. Even if I do act out that desire with my calendar pages, I doubt it will be as fun as when I find the perfect word to express something I’m writing about. That is an adroit pleasure, which I usually achieve with the use of a dictionary and thesaurus -- incidentally, never by omphaloskepsis.
(published July 2006)
Writing Happens
A common piece of advice for writers -- one that I find in most instructional books on writing -- is to write something every day, no matter what it is, without fail. So today I shall write about Wit and release some pent-up emotions at the same time.
Wit is a movie starring Emma Thompson, whose acting is brilliant and who is bald-headed in most of the scenes. Her character finds out that she has an advanced stage of insidious cancer and spends months in the hospital for aggressive chemotherapy treatments. I’ll not reveal the whole story; Wit is worth watching.
Considering the narrow scope of the movie’s setting -- almost all of it takes place in the hospital -- it seems that watching Wit might have a soporific effect, but I was engrossed. That may be because I’m currently filled with concern for my mother’s and my stepfather’s health. Mom had most of a lung removed two years ago. The surgeon got all of the cancer, but Mom has had dementia ever since. Her memory is slipping at an alarming rate, but I can’t bring myself to concede that she has Alzheimer's. My 79-year-old stepfather, Bob, is scheduled for major surgery soon. It’s a serious situation. Even though a great support system is in place for them, one thing Mom is aware of and talks about is that she is terrified about what will happen to Bob and to her when he goes to the hospital for the operation.
So as I watched Wit, I identified with it. Afterwards, hours later, poignant messages that were subtly woven into the story captured my imagination as a writer and as a daughter. They invaded my consciousness in wave after wave of revelation. A most beautiful inference is that life ends with as much meaning as it begins, and everything finally makes sense.
But before the peace comes the storm, and Wit exemplifies that life is sometimes difficult beyond comprehension.
Even while hanging onto faith and trust in God -- as I do like a skydiver to a parachute that isn’t strapped on -- gray clouds of concern and anticipation sometimes fill my heart. My world is a little bit off of its orbit. Just when it would be easy for me to lose my focus on writing, well-timed reminders to write every day have come from various sources. Like fresh spring bouquets, the ticklers encourage me to breathe deeply. And keep writing as life happens.
(published June 2006)
Wit is a movie starring Emma Thompson, whose acting is brilliant and who is bald-headed in most of the scenes. Her character finds out that she has an advanced stage of insidious cancer and spends months in the hospital for aggressive chemotherapy treatments. I’ll not reveal the whole story; Wit is worth watching.
Considering the narrow scope of the movie’s setting -- almost all of it takes place in the hospital -- it seems that watching Wit might have a soporific effect, but I was engrossed. That may be because I’m currently filled with concern for my mother’s and my stepfather’s health. Mom had most of a lung removed two years ago. The surgeon got all of the cancer, but Mom has had dementia ever since. Her memory is slipping at an alarming rate, but I can’t bring myself to concede that she has Alzheimer's. My 79-year-old stepfather, Bob, is scheduled for major surgery soon. It’s a serious situation. Even though a great support system is in place for them, one thing Mom is aware of and talks about is that she is terrified about what will happen to Bob and to her when he goes to the hospital for the operation.
So as I watched Wit, I identified with it. Afterwards, hours later, poignant messages that were subtly woven into the story captured my imagination as a writer and as a daughter. They invaded my consciousness in wave after wave of revelation. A most beautiful inference is that life ends with as much meaning as it begins, and everything finally makes sense.
But before the peace comes the storm, and Wit exemplifies that life is sometimes difficult beyond comprehension.
Even while hanging onto faith and trust in God -- as I do like a skydiver to a parachute that isn’t strapped on -- gray clouds of concern and anticipation sometimes fill my heart. My world is a little bit off of its orbit. Just when it would be easy for me to lose my focus on writing, well-timed reminders to write every day have come from various sources. Like fresh spring bouquets, the ticklers encourage me to breathe deeply. And keep writing as life happens.
(published June 2006)
Inspiration Meets Limitation
One of my greatest pleasures in life is reading the books of prolific authors who break the mold and write so masterfully, their work is pure inspiration. Many such artists allude to the guidance of a mysterious force. It’s as if stories are revealed to their minds, and they write down what they see. This is how Stephen King put it in On Writing:
“When I’m asked why I decided to write the sort of thing I do write, I always think the question is more revealing than any answer I could possibly give. Wrapped within it, like the chewy stuff in the center of a Tootsie Pop, is the assumption that the writer controls the material instead of the other way around.”
I’ve lately been frustrated because, in spite of dedicated preparation for its arrival, that mysterious enabling power behind the force of the material hasn’t come to me.
Jane Austen successfully drew from her well of material, and she wasn’t lazy about it. I’ve listened to these superb books on tape by Ms. Austen: Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility, Emma, Persuasion, and Northanger Abby. She wrote about the society that she knew. The events in Ms. Austen’s books are commonplace for her time, but she wrote them with both a wit and an insight into human nature that make the books relevant and compelling in any age.
To me, reading a Stephen King book is to experience it in an extraordinary way. Reading The Shining in 1978 is a most vivid memory, as if I myself lived the terror in its pages. Mr. King has a gift, and he doesn’t waste it.
Much like the combined attributes of Ms. Austin’s and Mr. King’s works that I’ve mentioned, there is a unique society of life that I’m compelled to write about, but I’m determined to do it in such a way that it vacuums readers into the experience. My hindrance may be that I’m depending on a force beyond myself to make it happen, but I’m perhaps supposed to diligently make the effort in spite of my inadequacy.
Mr. King gives me practical advice to answer my dilemma in On Writing: “Write what you like, then imbue it with life and make it unique by blending in your own personal knowledge of life, friendship, relationships…” Note to self: Work harder at writing!
(published May 2006)
“When I’m asked why I decided to write the sort of thing I do write, I always think the question is more revealing than any answer I could possibly give. Wrapped within it, like the chewy stuff in the center of a Tootsie Pop, is the assumption that the writer controls the material instead of the other way around.”
I’ve lately been frustrated because, in spite of dedicated preparation for its arrival, that mysterious enabling power behind the force of the material hasn’t come to me.
Jane Austen successfully drew from her well of material, and she wasn’t lazy about it. I’ve listened to these superb books on tape by Ms. Austen: Pride and Prejudice, Sense and Sensibility, Emma, Persuasion, and Northanger Abby. She wrote about the society that she knew. The events in Ms. Austen’s books are commonplace for her time, but she wrote them with both a wit and an insight into human nature that make the books relevant and compelling in any age.
To me, reading a Stephen King book is to experience it in an extraordinary way. Reading The Shining in 1978 is a most vivid memory, as if I myself lived the terror in its pages. Mr. King has a gift, and he doesn’t waste it.
Much like the combined attributes of Ms. Austin’s and Mr. King’s works that I’ve mentioned, there is a unique society of life that I’m compelled to write about, but I’m determined to do it in such a way that it vacuums readers into the experience. My hindrance may be that I’m depending on a force beyond myself to make it happen, but I’m perhaps supposed to diligently make the effort in spite of my inadequacy.
Mr. King gives me practical advice to answer my dilemma in On Writing: “Write what you like, then imbue it with life and make it unique by blending in your own personal knowledge of life, friendship, relationships…” Note to self: Work harder at writing!
(published May 2006)
Maestro in Training
I longed to make beautiful music. I got a piano, took lessons, and practiced. My fingers never found the freedom to dance across the ivories, though, because nothing in me ever clicked to connect my digits to the notes on the page. As I was reading Story by Robert McKee, I grasped that writing -- which, unlike piano playing, I have an enduring passion for -- is an art form that can be learned, like the playing of a musical instrument. What McKee’s book also ingrained in me is that the principal thing for a writer to learn is how to tell a story well.
The full name of this inspiring book is Story: Substance, Structure, Style and the Principles of Screenwriting. Although its focus is screenwriting, the book is a useful guide for any form of storytelling. McKee goes into detail about each component of a well-told story. He says, “…the writer must study the elements of story as if they were instruments of an orchestra -- first separately, then in concert.”
An understanding of how to approach fiction writing clicked in me, although I don’t believe it’s solely because of what I read in Story but rather as a culmination of my efforts to learn. It’s a milestone in my quest as a writer. I’d been groping for concrete direction, though I managed to follow through on some of my story ideas. Now I see a practical way to get any story on paper; I’ll approach it as if composing a symphony of words.
There are many sections of the word orchestra that need to be included in each story -- conflict, character, controlling idea, to name a few. When all of the elements of a good story are properly placed, it is appealing to audiences of editors, publishers, and readers in general.
With continued study and practice in storytelling, I know that one day -- fingers dancing across the keyboard -- I’ll be an accomplished artist. Even now, I find that every time I write a story, it’s like realizing my dream of making beautiful music.
(published April 2006)
The full name of this inspiring book is Story: Substance, Structure, Style and the Principles of Screenwriting. Although its focus is screenwriting, the book is a useful guide for any form of storytelling. McKee goes into detail about each component of a well-told story. He says, “…the writer must study the elements of story as if they were instruments of an orchestra -- first separately, then in concert.”
An understanding of how to approach fiction writing clicked in me, although I don’t believe it’s solely because of what I read in Story but rather as a culmination of my efforts to learn. It’s a milestone in my quest as a writer. I’d been groping for concrete direction, though I managed to follow through on some of my story ideas. Now I see a practical way to get any story on paper; I’ll approach it as if composing a symphony of words.
There are many sections of the word orchestra that need to be included in each story -- conflict, character, controlling idea, to name a few. When all of the elements of a good story are properly placed, it is appealing to audiences of editors, publishers, and readers in general.
With continued study and practice in storytelling, I know that one day -- fingers dancing across the keyboard -- I’ll be an accomplished artist. Even now, I find that every time I write a story, it’s like realizing my dream of making beautiful music.
(published April 2006)
People Are Talking
“During the brief interruption of the trial, I noticed that you suddenly smiled like the cat that ate the canary. What was that about?” Defense Attorney Wilson asked Shelia, an expert witness for the prosecution.
Breathless and flushed, Shelia replied, “Oh, it was just my pager going off. I have it set to vibrate.” (Giggles were heard in the courtroom.)
The names are changed, but the above is my recollection of a bit of dialogue I once recorded on a stenograph machine in my role as a court reporter. Of course, official transcripts strictly identify speakers and words spoken, offering no descriptive commentary. That’s why the job lost its charm for me. Although I was recording or transcribing words all day long – and I do love words – being creative with them was not an option.
And learning to write compelling dialogue is not an option for anyone who wants to be a widely published author, particularly of fiction.
My years as a court reporter taught me a few things about dialogue. People don’t always use perfect English when they speak, but they do often have unique patterns of speech.
In an effort to learn how to write conversations, besides applying my experience, I’ve made it a practice to read first-rate books, including numerous books on writing. One favored aspect of good dialogue has emerged as clearly as the intention of Washington Democrats to malign President G. W. Bush on every aspect of his leadership, regardless. It is this: Dialogue should mostly be tagged “he said,” “she said.” Excessive use of adverbs interrupts the flow of reading as surely as my political comment interrupted, for some, the possibility of enjoying this article.
I’ve recently been scrutinizing the famous James Herriot books All Creatures Great and Small, All Things Bright and Beautiful, and All Things Wise and Wonderful. Not only does Herriot delightfully capture the dialect of the Yorkshire farmers, but the dialogue is flawlessly unhindered. Here’s an excerpt from All Things Bright and Beautiful in which Herriot is having a conversation with another veterinarian:
‘James Herriot!’ He said it as somebody else might have said ‘Winston Churchhill.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, this is grand. Jim, is it?’
‘Well yes, usually.’
‘Lovely. We’ve got everything laid on for you, Jim. The girls are waiting in the theatre.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Bennett.’
‘Granville, Granville please!’ He put his arm through mine and led me to the operating room.
One “he said,” and that’s it. A lesser writer like myself might tend to write, along a similar vein of conversation, the following:
“Stevie McHugh!” She ejaculated enthusiastically, as if I were a writer of the stature of James Herriot.
“That’s right,” I responded, a bit taken aback by her undue fervor.
“This is great. Your given name is Stephanie, is it?” she questioned
inquisitively.
“Well, yes,” I confessed, hoping all the while that she would call me Stevie, which is the name I’ve gone by practically since birth.
“Delightful. We’ve got editors ready to publish your every word. They’re waiting in the conference room,” she gushed without further preamble.
…You get the idea.
It occurs to me that court reporting had one more aspect that can be helpful to me as a writer. It taught me this principle: Never interrupt the flow of conversation without a very specific and plausible reason.
(published March 2006)
Breathless and flushed, Shelia replied, “Oh, it was just my pager going off. I have it set to vibrate.” (Giggles were heard in the courtroom.)
The names are changed, but the above is my recollection of a bit of dialogue I once recorded on a stenograph machine in my role as a court reporter. Of course, official transcripts strictly identify speakers and words spoken, offering no descriptive commentary. That’s why the job lost its charm for me. Although I was recording or transcribing words all day long – and I do love words – being creative with them was not an option.
And learning to write compelling dialogue is not an option for anyone who wants to be a widely published author, particularly of fiction.
My years as a court reporter taught me a few things about dialogue. People don’t always use perfect English when they speak, but they do often have unique patterns of speech.
In an effort to learn how to write conversations, besides applying my experience, I’ve made it a practice to read first-rate books, including numerous books on writing. One favored aspect of good dialogue has emerged as clearly as the intention of Washington Democrats to malign President G. W. Bush on every aspect of his leadership, regardless. It is this: Dialogue should mostly be tagged “he said,” “she said.” Excessive use of adverbs interrupts the flow of reading as surely as my political comment interrupted, for some, the possibility of enjoying this article.
I’ve recently been scrutinizing the famous James Herriot books All Creatures Great and Small, All Things Bright and Beautiful, and All Things Wise and Wonderful. Not only does Herriot delightfully capture the dialect of the Yorkshire farmers, but the dialogue is flawlessly unhindered. Here’s an excerpt from All Things Bright and Beautiful in which Herriot is having a conversation with another veterinarian:
‘James Herriot!’ He said it as somebody else might have said ‘Winston Churchhill.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, this is grand. Jim, is it?’
‘Well yes, usually.’
‘Lovely. We’ve got everything laid on for you, Jim. The girls are waiting in the theatre.’
‘That’s very kind of you, Mr Bennett.’
‘Granville, Granville please!’ He put his arm through mine and led me to the operating room.
One “he said,” and that’s it. A lesser writer like myself might tend to write, along a similar vein of conversation, the following:
“Stevie McHugh!” She ejaculated enthusiastically, as if I were a writer of the stature of James Herriot.
“That’s right,” I responded, a bit taken aback by her undue fervor.
“This is great. Your given name is Stephanie, is it?” she questioned
inquisitively.
“Well, yes,” I confessed, hoping all the while that she would call me Stevie, which is the name I’ve gone by practically since birth.
“Delightful. We’ve got editors ready to publish your every word. They’re waiting in the conference room,” she gushed without further preamble.
…You get the idea.
It occurs to me that court reporting had one more aspect that can be helpful to me as a writer. It taught me this principle: Never interrupt the flow of conversation without a very specific and plausible reason.
(published March 2006)
Uncorking the Joy
It was during the first grade of elementary school I perceived the influence of The Box on classmates and teachers alike. My definition of The Box is: Pressure to conform to the behavioral norms dictated by society. Being an inherently stubborn individualist, I defied The Box. I have remained ever faithful to my uniqueness by holding on to childlike enthusiasm like a miser with his cashbox. This philosophy agrees with that of Brenda Ueland whose acclaimed book If You Want to Write gives keys to finding uncorked joy in writing:
"…you are all original and talented and need to let it out of yourselves; that is to say, you have the creative impulse. But the ardor for it is inhibited and dried up by many things; as I said, by criticism, self-doubt, duty, nervous fear…; by anxiety about making a living, by fear of not excelling."
In years past, I’ve performed stand-up comedy; I met with limited success. Looking back now, I realize that -- although I sincerely hoped to bring joy and laughter to people -- my true aim in doing it was to unleash my pent-up enthusiasm. Acting out zeal for life in everyday circumstances had been a common practice of mine, but it was often considered strange. My new habit of releasing ebullience through writing has fashioned a change in me. I now exhibit a more natural, society-friendly posture; and I haven’t compromised my individuality.
Ueland’s book validates my experience. She wrote the following regarding William Blake, in which “Reason” exemplifies The Box:
"For this 'Reason' as Blake calls it (which is really just caution) continually nips and punctures and shrivels the imagination and the ardor and the freedom and the passionate enthusiasm welling up in us… And when a prominent citizen of his time, a logical, opining, erudite, measured, rationalistic Know-it-all, warned people against 'mere enthusiasm,' Blake wrote furiously…: 'Mere Enthusiasm is the All in All!'"
We are at our best, Euland tells us, when we write without self-consciousness -- delving into our writing, getting lost in it. We should retain a childlike freedom and carelessness. Euland urges us to be original, which is to be our true selves. Most importantly, if writing is the creative gift that brings us joy, we must write on; and do it in utter defiance of The Box.
(published in February 2006)
"…you are all original and talented and need to let it out of yourselves; that is to say, you have the creative impulse. But the ardor for it is inhibited and dried up by many things; as I said, by criticism, self-doubt, duty, nervous fear…; by anxiety about making a living, by fear of not excelling."
In years past, I’ve performed stand-up comedy; I met with limited success. Looking back now, I realize that -- although I sincerely hoped to bring joy and laughter to people -- my true aim in doing it was to unleash my pent-up enthusiasm. Acting out zeal for life in everyday circumstances had been a common practice of mine, but it was often considered strange. My new habit of releasing ebullience through writing has fashioned a change in me. I now exhibit a more natural, society-friendly posture; and I haven’t compromised my individuality.
Ueland’s book validates my experience. She wrote the following regarding William Blake, in which “Reason” exemplifies The Box:
"For this 'Reason' as Blake calls it (which is really just caution) continually nips and punctures and shrivels the imagination and the ardor and the freedom and the passionate enthusiasm welling up in us… And when a prominent citizen of his time, a logical, opining, erudite, measured, rationalistic Know-it-all, warned people against 'mere enthusiasm,' Blake wrote furiously…: 'Mere Enthusiasm is the All in All!'"
We are at our best, Euland tells us, when we write without self-consciousness -- delving into our writing, getting lost in it. We should retain a childlike freedom and carelessness. Euland urges us to be original, which is to be our true selves. Most importantly, if writing is the creative gift that brings us joy, we must write on; and do it in utter defiance of The Box.
(published in February 2006)
Emulating Charlotte Bronte
It is an excellent British book-on-tape series; I have been listening to Charlotte Bronte’s unabridged Jane Eyre. As I write to you, dear Reader, I find in myself gravitation toward emulating C. Bronte’s style.
I am reclining in my book-laden, ornament-strewn bedroom. Although this article is slated for January publication, I am writing it in early December; Christmas preparations are well underway. There is a distinct chill in the air, but not from air-conditioning, as you might well suppose, since Houston tends toward a hot and humid climate time without end. In the out-of-doors at this moment, the air is whooshing in great gusts, ushering in near-freezing temperatures. My neighbor – the same one whose husband offered and did artfully hang an abundance of outdoor lights on both levels of my townhouse and whose thoughtfulness was rewarded with a homemade apple pie – has a collection of decorative wind chimes which hang from their back porch. The wind instruments are performing a melodious concert, directed by their jubilant maestro.
Frigid blasts are especially welcome to me this year, for I have a true coat, not a mere jacket, as in all of the years past. It is with consistent delight that I frequently pull it on and take my dog, Evian, for a walk.
I say that Evian is a dog; she is, in fact, an adorable little shih-tzu, though more child than canine in this house. All of her golden tan hair was once black-tipped, as are her ears, still. I myself am her faithful groomer. I keep her hair rather short, purposefully affecting a punk style, especially on her head, though I stop short of applying spiking gel. Evian is approaching her 5th birthday – 35th, of course, in dog years. Though undeniably spoiled with kind attention, she has mellowed so that I can finally enjoy having company without a frustrating interruption by a display of persistent barking, as though Evian were chastising me for failing to teach her how to speak English in order that she might contribute meaningfully to the conversation.
You, Reader, are, in effect, my current visitor. While you may not find appeal in the style in which I now write, I hope you can glean something useful from the purpose of my rambling. It is to both affirm and demonstrate that emulating the style of the author whose work we’ve been reading is perfectly natural. Nothing to be concerned about in the doing of it, experts have said in many volumes on writing that I have read. In time, as long as we are honest and true to ourselves with our prose, our own unique style will eventually emerge. It will be as refreshing as both a wind chime symphony in winter and the brand new start rung in by a fresh calendar year.
(published January 2006)
I am reclining in my book-laden, ornament-strewn bedroom. Although this article is slated for January publication, I am writing it in early December; Christmas preparations are well underway. There is a distinct chill in the air, but not from air-conditioning, as you might well suppose, since Houston tends toward a hot and humid climate time without end. In the out-of-doors at this moment, the air is whooshing in great gusts, ushering in near-freezing temperatures. My neighbor – the same one whose husband offered and did artfully hang an abundance of outdoor lights on both levels of my townhouse and whose thoughtfulness was rewarded with a homemade apple pie – has a collection of decorative wind chimes which hang from their back porch. The wind instruments are performing a melodious concert, directed by their jubilant maestro.
Frigid blasts are especially welcome to me this year, for I have a true coat, not a mere jacket, as in all of the years past. It is with consistent delight that I frequently pull it on and take my dog, Evian, for a walk.
I say that Evian is a dog; she is, in fact, an adorable little shih-tzu, though more child than canine in this house. All of her golden tan hair was once black-tipped, as are her ears, still. I myself am her faithful groomer. I keep her hair rather short, purposefully affecting a punk style, especially on her head, though I stop short of applying spiking gel. Evian is approaching her 5th birthday – 35th, of course, in dog years. Though undeniably spoiled with kind attention, she has mellowed so that I can finally enjoy having company without a frustrating interruption by a display of persistent barking, as though Evian were chastising me for failing to teach her how to speak English in order that she might contribute meaningfully to the conversation.
You, Reader, are, in effect, my current visitor. While you may not find appeal in the style in which I now write, I hope you can glean something useful from the purpose of my rambling. It is to both affirm and demonstrate that emulating the style of the author whose work we’ve been reading is perfectly natural. Nothing to be concerned about in the doing of it, experts have said in many volumes on writing that I have read. In time, as long as we are honest and true to ourselves with our prose, our own unique style will eventually emerge. It will be as refreshing as both a wind chime symphony in winter and the brand new start rung in by a fresh calendar year.
(published January 2006)
Miracles and Other Essentials
While preparing this second installment of “The Ready Writer,” something sort of miraculous happened. I wrote a first draft about essentials of the writing life. I then immediately read, for the first time, Stephen King’s penetrating volume On Writing. The points I had just written about were affirmed in the pages of his intimate book. King also uncovered a crucial issue that had eluded me.
I’ve found it vital to purposefully steer clear of every distraction, television being the worst.
King’s affirming words were, “For any writer, but for the beginning writer in particular, it’s wise to eliminate every possible distraction.” And he wrote, “TV…is about the last thing an aspiring writer needs.” I love how King exposes the heart of my own problem with television when he further says, “Reading takes time, and the glass teat takes too much of it.”
The other necessity I had written about in my draft was energizing the flow of creativity by reading.
King wrote, “Reading is the creative center of a writer’s life.” He states plainly, “If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot.”
Although I am guided by a mountain of instructive books and was invited to write this column, I had secretly longed for a sign that it is not presumptuous of me to publish my journey as a writer. On Writing gave me that sign.
While I read King’s book, I felt as though I was in a sweaty locker room during halftime of the big game of life and best-selling author Stephen King himself was my up-close, personal writing coach. He got right in my face and gave me permission -- urged me -- to gut out this life as a writer, to believe in myself and in the creative gift inside of me. After being on this earth for 47 years, I finally, miraculously comprehend that I am a writer -- this is an essential that I had been missing. Thanks, Coach.
(published December 2005)
I’ve found it vital to purposefully steer clear of every distraction, television being the worst.
King’s affirming words were, “For any writer, but for the beginning writer in particular, it’s wise to eliminate every possible distraction.” And he wrote, “TV…is about the last thing an aspiring writer needs.” I love how King exposes the heart of my own problem with television when he further says, “Reading takes time, and the glass teat takes too much of it.”
The other necessity I had written about in my draft was energizing the flow of creativity by reading.
King wrote, “Reading is the creative center of a writer’s life.” He states plainly, “If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot.”
Although I am guided by a mountain of instructive books and was invited to write this column, I had secretly longed for a sign that it is not presumptuous of me to publish my journey as a writer. On Writing gave me that sign.
While I read King’s book, I felt as though I was in a sweaty locker room during halftime of the big game of life and best-selling author Stephen King himself was my up-close, personal writing coach. He got right in my face and gave me permission -- urged me -- to gut out this life as a writer, to believe in myself and in the creative gift inside of me. After being on this earth for 47 years, I finally, miraculously comprehend that I am a writer -- this is an essential that I had been missing. Thanks, Coach.
(published December 2005)
You Must Wake!
I dreamed of being a writer. It got to where story ideas swam around in my head almost all the time. It was really frustrating because truth was, I didn’t know the mechanics of writing fiction.
An artist friend of mine, Ramona, recommended a book to me that she thought might help: The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity by Julia Cameron. I checked it out at the library. What I like best about it is that insightful quotes are interspersed throughout, such as: “Undoubtedly, we become what we envisage. – Claude M. Bristol.” I believe anyone can benefit from reading the book, since we all have some sort of creative talent that brings us joy -- if and when we use it. The Artist’s Way is like primer for human creativity pumps.
I still didn’t write beyond personal journal entries, though, because the primer I needed was a “how to” device. What I did was check out every book I could find about writing from the awesome Harris County Freeman library. There were hundreds, and I read many of them over the course of three years. I figured that at some point, things would start sinking in.
Inspiration really came alive when I read Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott. Her bold honesty and her style struck a chord with me. I started believing that one day, the reservoir of words would begin to burst forth through my pen like water from the Old Faithful geyser. But I didn’t start writing quite yet.
It was only after my youngest child, Maddie, graduated from high school that the rumbling began. I had been long divorced at that point; I realized that, when I wasn’t at my day job, I was free to give myself to the next thing: a writer’s life.
That’s when I woke up -- as if I had been in a coma -- and began living the dream. I sit down regularly at my writing table, and the words flow onto paper.
I am a writer -- a ready writer on a journey to become a great one.
(published November 2005)
An artist friend of mine, Ramona, recommended a book to me that she thought might help: The Artist’s Way: A Spiritual Path to Higher Creativity by Julia Cameron. I checked it out at the library. What I like best about it is that insightful quotes are interspersed throughout, such as: “Undoubtedly, we become what we envisage. – Claude M. Bristol.” I believe anyone can benefit from reading the book, since we all have some sort of creative talent that brings us joy -- if and when we use it. The Artist’s Way is like primer for human creativity pumps.
I still didn’t write beyond personal journal entries, though, because the primer I needed was a “how to” device. What I did was check out every book I could find about writing from the awesome Harris County Freeman library. There were hundreds, and I read many of them over the course of three years. I figured that at some point, things would start sinking in.
Inspiration really came alive when I read Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott. Her bold honesty and her style struck a chord with me. I started believing that one day, the reservoir of words would begin to burst forth through my pen like water from the Old Faithful geyser. But I didn’t start writing quite yet.
It was only after my youngest child, Maddie, graduated from high school that the rumbling began. I had been long divorced at that point; I realized that, when I wasn’t at my day job, I was free to give myself to the next thing: a writer’s life.
That’s when I woke up -- as if I had been in a coma -- and began living the dream. I sit down regularly at my writing table, and the words flow onto paper.
I am a writer -- a ready writer on a journey to become a great one.
(published November 2005)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)