Abecedarian Poetry

An abecedarian poem is one in which the first word of each line/stanza begins with the first letter of the alphabet and follows the correct order of the alphabet until the last letter is reached.  A writing colleague of mine posted one today and I was intrigued and inspired.  I fiddled around with the style and came up with two poems. They are modifications of the style - I followed my colleague's lead and opted to use a letter for every word instead of the start of every line/stanza.  Hope you enjoy them and thank you, Mr. Fishman, for the inspiration.

Musical Juxtaposition

Allegro
brazenly cascades
Dancing elliptic forces
gyrate happily inside
Jumbled, karaoked, lip-synced
media noise
oscillates
quavers
resonates
slides through
Unstoppable vicissitudinous
Wanting Xanadus
yearning
zealous


Brilliant Child

A brilliant child
drawing endless faces -
grinning, happy, illustrious.
Kids laughing,
music,
nature,
orchestrating quintessential resolve
solidarity throughout
unwavering
verily withstanding xenophobia
yielding zest.

~ Peace and poetry

NaNoWriMo

National Novel Writing Month - better known as NaNoWriMo - started Sunday, November 1. The general idea behind it is to encourage writers to write - with abandon, sans criticism - for an entire month with the goal being a 50,000 word novel. This is both a thrilling and frightening task. To actually write that much in 30 days sound impossible, yet if you calculate it out it comes to about 7 double-spaced pages everyday - or roughly 210 pages by 11:59pm, Monday, November 30th.

To participate in NaNoWriMo you must be starting a novel from scratch or from a preexisting idea. You should not have written anything about this novel before November 1st. That, unfortunately disallows me from the "competition" since I am uneasy stepping away from my novel so completely for such an extended period of time. I use NaNoWriMo, instead, as a motivator for serious focus on my novel - write everyday, as much as I can, and by the end of November I should be significantly further along. That’s the plan anyway.

So today - Monday, November 2nd, I am committing to that goal - to write everyday, as much as I can, in order to make forward progress on my novel so that I might complete this 1st draft before the end of the year.

What will you do this month? Keep me in your thoughts and I will keep you in mine.

~ Peace and forward momentum

Resistance

I am a delinquent. I admit it. I should be writing in my novel, and instead I am drafting a new post for this blog. This isn't getting me any closer to finishing. It certainly isn't bringing me closer to a book deal, yet here I sit, writing something else.

I’ve been avoiding my novel for weeks. I visit it reluctantly. I stay a brief time and then I leave via a back door, looking cautiously up and down the street, pulling my hood down so my face can’t be seen. What am I ashamed of? Why can’t I sit comfortably at the keyboard and play in the world I’ve created without feeling uneasy and irritated? Why am I avoiding the characters that I love and know so well? What the hell happened? Am I blocked? Have I written myself into a corner? Am I bored? Is the story lame? Will anyone else enjoy it? Have I wasted my time?

As it stands, my novel fills 1 and ¾ of two 5 inch three-ring binders. I have lost track of how many pages that works out to be, and not every page I’ve written has been printed. It's safe to say that I have played a role in the death of at least one tree during my lifetime as a writer; one entire branch was devoted to printing my novel. Am I proud of this? I’m not sure.

Even this post is hard to write. I type and then I stop, sit leaning on the arm of my desk chair and twist my lower lip. The words are not coming easy, the fear or shame or denial or apathy or inertia, whatever it is that is gnawing at me, is fighting hard against the movement of my fingers across the keys, the flashes of creative electricity along neurons, the snap of an idea across the synapse.

This feels like war. Like I’m the general staring at a battlefield map and pondering troop movements, calculating casualties, anticipating counter attacks, attempting to orchestrate a reversal of fortune. I’m not pleased with the current outlook. At the moment it feels like there will be more troops lost, more energy wasted, less gained for the effort. I feel like I’m dug in at the base of the hill and the enemy is situated behind strong fortifications at the top, with a clear field of view and a mile of barbed wire between “them” and me; whoever “they” are.

Lives are going to be lost. In this war that translates to pages, scenes, narrative, and characters. I’m not feeling very good about being the general and choosing the battalion that will lead the charge up the hill and pay the price for the capture of a strategic target. I don’t want to be the one to choose who might perish and who might survive. What if I choose wrong? What if I make a colossal mistake and we all die? It would be so much better if someone else made the choice. If nothing else, I wouldn’t bear the responsibility if it all goes to hell. But can I accept another person’s decision, another person’s belief or idea about what stays and what goes? No. At the core of it all I know I have to do this - me and me alone.

Sacrifices must be made. Pages must be cut. And I must do it.

~ Peace, perseverance, and resilience

A Taste of Memory

Memoir is the retelling of moments in the life of the writer. Accuracy is often a concern for both the writer in the telling and the reader in the receiving of the moment given. Because memoir is, by its very nature, of the mind and memory, it is reasonable to say that only so much accuracy can be expected. Writers are human, humans are far from perfect, and, as such, their memories can be anything from quite accurate to down right wrong. This said it can make one wonder if a memoir is worth reading if the accuracy of the recounted moment(s) is questionable.

I would suggest that memories are subjective and fallible. They really can only be known truthfully from the point of view of the one relating the memory. Even when memories are shared by more than one individual it is hard to say whose is correct and whose is not. A varying degree of both accuracy and inaccuracy on behalf of all involved is really the only "correct" answer. I remember the first time I met my husband one way, he remembers it another. We will share similar details, but we will differ on others. Does this make his recount wrong and mine right? What if I remember wearing a black turtleneck sweater and he remembers a red one? How important is it that he was shy or that I was?

It is in the telling of the memory that the truth ultimately lies. The writer wishes to share some aspect of his or her life with the reader and in the honest retelling of those moments that truth is given. The key is the honest retelling. Adherence to the truth to the best of the writer's ability as the writer understands it is what the reader is seeking and what the reader expects.

Two versions of the following memoir piece exist. To me both are accurate, though I know they have different details. Perhaps it is not in the details (which most likely have been conglomerated over time into a few strong memories), but rather in the theme, emotions, and general feel of the memory that the truth of it lies. What I am giving you is a glimpse of what I remember as a seven year old child during the summer between first and second grade. It is the truth as I remember it some thirty-odd years later. Does the fact that I may not be relating 100% accurate memories affect how you read it? Do you worry that I am handing you something of less value because I am admitting my fallibility? Or, do you read what I offer with human eyes that know your own fallibility and, instead, find the truth of the piece within your own experience?


Juicy Fruit® Summer


Allen and I walked along Grand River Avenue, buckets in hand, carefully stepping over the cracks in the sidewalk like all seven and eight year olds do in order to keep their mothers safe from injury. It was early June. School was out and the summer was ours to do with as we wanted. At the top of our list was crayfish hunting.

The Grand River wound around the backside of our neighborhood and called to us like a siren. There were thousands of fossils to be found all along the waterline, the imprints of seashells and small, many-legged things that had died in the prehistoric mud that eventually became the shale in the river’s bed. Spotted salamanders lurked under the rotting forest debris, snails and any number of strange bugs, those more exotic than the common ones on our backyards, hid under the bark of fallen logs and beneath the low leaves of plants we didn’t know the names of. And there were crayfish. Miniature freshwater lobsters hiding under the flat river rocks and shooting out backward to escape capture, their claws extended and ready to snip fingers.

Our buckets were plastic. Mine the half-gallon ice cream variety, Allen’s the institutional-sized peanut butter kind, although the smallest version of something so large. His bucket had a white plastic cylinder at the apex of the handle to make carrying it more comfortable. Mine didn’t. Allen’s could hold a dozen crayfish easily. Mine, about eight. His bucket was white and the peanut butter label had long ago peeled away leaving behind the tenacious adhesive residue that collected and retained dirt no matter how many times you scrubbed it. The body of my bucket was orange and still had its lid, the imprinted label telling everyone to “put a tiger in your tummy”.

We kept the buckets at Allen’s since his house was closer to the path to the river. Keeping them there also made it easier to go to the river even when I wasn’t supposed to. We went several times in a month with my mother, but we also went many times without her, covertly, like spies.

I had permission to play at Allen’s that day, but not to go to the river. So we played and fooled around for as long as we could stand before the idea of the river and the thrill of catching crayfish finally won out. We gathered our tools – the buckets, some cookies, a canteen of water – and decided how to sneak away.

Sneaking away from Allen’s house wasn’t hard. His mother was never there to stop us and his older sister was so tired from working that she would actually give us gum as a bribe so we would go away. We trooped into his house, collected our payment, and trooped back out again, Juicy Fruit® gum filling our mouths with saliva and sweet fake fruit flavor. On our way out of the yard we grabbed our buckets, two good long sticks, and set off down the path that would lead us to Grand River and all its treasures.

The forest between our neighborhood and the river was not really that deep, nor was it dark or scary or truly dangerous. But to us it wase all those things and more, especially when we were making the trip alone. For some 500 feet we were surrounded on all sides by trees and low brush, chattering squirrels and screaming blue jays. Starlings and sparrows flew across the path, and once in a great while one of us might see a raccoon or a red fox. More often then not we would see a few cats from the nearby houses out hunting for mice, voles, or shrews. They would give us irritated looks, like we were intruding on their territory, and then hurry off into the woods.

Allen and I would carry our buckets in one hand, our long sticks in the other. One of us would carry the cookies and the other the canteen of water. We were prepared for anything. And you needed to be prepared. We had been told many times to be careful of snakes and loose dogs. The sticks would protect us from these. We watched the ground, careful not to step on any leaves in clusters of three. If we had to we could swing our buckets at anyone who tried to kidnap us or take our provisions away. Allen led because he was older. I brought up the rear since I had really good hearing and could tell if we were being followed.

As we walked we imagined our buckets into birch bark containers, sewn together with rawhide lacing and waterproofed with pine tar. The sticks we carried were tipped with strong spear points like the ones made by the Erie Nation that lived here so long ago. We were on a quest for food to feed our families and to gather anything else we could find that might be useful. We were savvy, skilled, and fearless. Until something behind us broke a few too many sticks as it walked through the woods. That’s when we started running.

I remember stopping for a second, swallowing and tapping Allen on his shoulder with my stick, now suddenly too small and lacking a sharp spear point. He turned and looked at me, his eyes wide. I remember the entire forest growing silent so that all we could hear was our own breathing and being startled at how loud it was. I watched Allen’s eyes grow wider and wider as he looked past my head to the path behind me. My skin crawled at the strange high-pitched fore-whine that came before he shouted and then turned and ran.

I was a year younger than Allen and about eight inches shorter, but I had no trouble following him at high speed down the trail to the river. I ran so hard and so fast that when Allen stumbled over a root I careened into him and we both fell down. We scrambled back to our feet and ran, clutching the handles of our buckets, our sticks left behind on the path. We came bursting through the last line of trees and into the sunlight bathing the river’s edge. The sand spit slowed us down abruptly and we both fell to our knees, our legs and feet unable to keep up with our terrified forward momentum.

I turned and looked at Allen. His face was red and covered in sweat and sand. He was breathing hard and staring at the ground where he had fallen. He glanced at me and blinked.

“What did you see?” I asked him between huffing breaths.

He shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? I saw you’re eyes! You screamed.”

The strangest sound came snorting out of his nose. “Yea. It was a pretty good scream, wasn’t it,” he laughed and then grinned at me. “But yours was better.”

“I didn’t cream,” I snapped.

“You did, too. All the way here. Eeee! Eeee! Eeee!” he mimicked and then snorted into a fit of the giggles. “And your face! I bet you thought a bear was after us!”

I sat down on the sand and gave him a dirty look. “No I didn’t,” I said and then pushed myself up from the ground and picked up my bucket. “I knew you were joking.”

“You did not,” he replied and got up, brushing sand off his legs.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “I did, too,” I growled and chewed my gum hard.

He looked at me funny for a second, then I could see his tongue moving around inside his mouth, pushing out his cheeks and lips. “Hey, my gum's gone,” he muttered.

“Ha! You swallowed it. See, you too were scared.”

“No, I wasn’t,” he said shaking his head. “How come you still have yours?”

I thought about it for a moment and could feel my cheeks get hot as I remembered. “Eeee. Eeee. Eeee,” I said softly, my back teeth clamped tightly down on my gum so I wouldn’t swallow it.

Allen started laughing all over again.

“Shut up,” I muttered. “At least I still have mine.”

He wiped his eyes and grinned at me. “It was worth a piece of gum to see the look on your face. Double to hear that scream.”

“Good, then you owe me a piece of gum,” I snarled and stomped off to search the shallows for crayfish.

For the remainder of that summer I heard “Eeee, eeee, eeee” a lot, but I also walked to the river behind Allen on many occasions with two sticks of gum in my mouth instead of just one, the extra sweet fake fruit flavor nearly dripping down my chin.

~ Peace and nostalgia

Absence

Fourteen days is a long time to be absent. Two weeks of non-communication and silence. Do I apologize? Do I list my reasons, my excuses? Do I stop altogether or slink back and offer up my belly in submission? Or do I simply pick up where I left off and continue?

I have encountered what every writer on the planet encounters – the encroachment of life into the refuge of my imagination. It is amazing how this happens. It is, in some ways like a cancer – insidious, undetected for at least a period of time, relentless, non-repentant, and sometimes, fatal.

I teach beginning writers. I know better than to let this happen. I advise them not to allow the world to waltz all over their dream, press it into the grain of the floor until it no longer resembles what they have started. And yet, here I am. Absent due to the world.

So I will now follow my own advice and push out the walls of my space until it fits me well once again. I will drag in the good chair and the snappy keyboard and the sharp monitor so that I can clearly see what my imagination is feeding me and I will write.

I will honor the need and the urge and the desire. I will put the words on the page, extend them until they blend seamlessly into the images they are cultivating, until they become nothing more than the fine silken thread connecting one moment to the next within the story. I will begin…again…like I have countless times before, because being absent is simply not an option I can choose.

The Compelling Blank Page

I sit here at my desk, the keyboard staring me in the face – yes, I look at the keys. I have no clue how to actually type – and the screen casting a white glow over the letters and I wait. Inspiration is a real b*tch. It often hits me when I can’t reach the computer, like while I’m washing the dishes, driving the car, using the..uh…facilities. My mind fills with a multitude of things, related and unrelated, that I can hardly contain, begin almost immediately to lose, and I ache for the keys to save my thoughts from the void that exists just this side of the screen.

Then there are moments like this one. Moments where it almost hurts not to write, not to compose, not to tell some tale, any tale, and I can’t. The words, even though they must be there somewhere, refuse to come. And I sit, fingers on the keys, the right ones only because I know to put certain fingers on the letters with the raised spots, and wait. It’s like having restless legs in your head and your fingers. I want to write. I need to write. If I don’t write something I am pretty sure I’ll do some thing desperate in order to make the words come.

I will let the dishes pile up, the laundry go unwashed, unfolded, and scattered on the couch. I will forget to buy groceries. I will sit in an awkward position at a non-ergonomic desk and torture my back waiting. I will snarl at my kids and growl at my husband and foam at the mouth with this need and I will not apologize.

It’s like needing to breathe. I’m quite certain that brain cells would die if I were forced to stop writing, made to refrain from trying. To refuse this drive would be akin to suicide. Is that too strong a comparison? I don’t think so. My creative drive is such an essential part of who I am that if I were stripped of it, stripped of my ability to express it, then I don’t know how I could put one foot in front of the other on a day-to-day basis. It would be like trying to breathe without lungs. Impossible.

~ Peace and passion

What's in a Name

My brother got married a week ago Saturday and his fiance has taken his surname. A friend of mine took his wife's surname and dropped his own, and another friend dropped her middle name and slid her surname into the vacant spot while adding her husband's surname to the end. My husband and I added each other's surnames to the ones we were born with, but we use these new additions in very different ways. My in-laws only have an initial for a middle name and another friend simply has space in that position. All of this makes me think.

In Romeo and Juliet, Shakespeare wrote: "... a rose by any other name would still smell as sweet", but I wonder - how many of us would smell the rose, if robbed of our ability to see its beauty clearly, if it carried the name of, say, bog posy? Would we risk our sense of smell, allow the possible lingering scent to invade our sinuses for hours after the experience, if the item in question carried such a less than pleasing moniker?

Perhaps I am wrong, though. One of the most visited flowers in the world, when they are blooming and filling the surrounding air with their fragrance, is the Corpse Flower. It cannot be possible that anyone seeing this name, hearing this name, could mistake the probable outcome of an olfactory encounter, and yet, thousands of people will flock to the plant to experience it for themselves.

Do we search for the things because of their names or do we search for the names because of the things? And once we have the name and the thing, do they fit together?

It took my husband and me 24 hours to be sure of our first child's name. It took 2 1/2 days to settle on our second child's. How long did it take Gwyneth Paltrow and Chris Martin (whom I both adore) to decide on Apple as their first child's name? I am certain that our children are named correctly. My second lives up to the name given on a daily basis, much to our joy, irritation, delight, and amazement. I cannot imagine another name that would suit. Perhaps Apple does this as well, is the apple of their eye, is showing that she does not fall far from the tree, so to speak.

I sat forever trying to name this blog. Not only could I not find the right name, when I thought I had it was already taken by someone else. This frustrated me greatly. Not only could I not find the right words to say what I wanted, but when I stumbled upon a few that might do the trick they were no longer mine to have. It is an evil thing to be a writer without access to words, yet filled with words that need release. And so, trying to think clearly about what I want to say while I hear my husband reading to my children before putting them to bed, I type in what I want - a writing life - and begin to play with the words that I love.

~ Peace and words