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)
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
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)
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