Query Critique Contest

Elana Johnson is running a contest this week for a query critique. If your query is ready and your ms. is shiny as a new quarter enter her contest. Yes....you really can win a query critique from a top literay agent.

Plugs and Bloopers, Dancing with Myself

Some of the worst mistakes of my life have been haircuts. - Jim Morrison


Because I've been accused of being self-deprecating, I'll throw modesty to the wind and tell you I have a short piece up at the Bloody Bridge Review. I'm pretty happy to share the company of the writers they've featured thus far.

While at it, I'd like to plug LBJ, a literary journal from the University of Nevada that encourages environmental literature. They're currently considering poems, fiction and creative nonfiction on an avian theme for upcoming issues.

Another one of my favorites is the New Ohio Review Follow the link for Stephen Dunn's A Discreet Charm and you won't be sorry.

let’s drink to an evening as solemn
as Eugene Debs demanding fair wages—
his smile the bent arrow only the best men
can point at themselves.

Their reading period is September through May and they're running an awesome contest.

Inspired by Monkeybicycle, I've been experimenting with the one-sentence story. For every one I write, I throw one away.

While the teacher was at the beer garden they tied her in her chair and when he returned smelling of his lunch, she was punished for being lazy.

Should I throw it away? Should I write of funny things or of what the full moon suggested to me? Should I write of his flat stomach or her naked back, bent by disease for which there is no cure? What would your rather read about?

I have a suggested lyric for the albino Muslim rapper:
no . . . I don't
. . . changed my mind

I'm taking President's Day off to write and I'm not telling anyone. A day for writing, browsing my blogger friends and literary journals, corn chowder, music and dancing with myself.

Flash Friday Photograph

Because Friday is the day for other things, like Happy Hour, it's a good day for shorts. I was inspired to participate in Flash 55 Photograph by C.M. Jackson. This particular Flash Friday idea was started several years ago by Susie the Boss. Check out her link for the reasons behind why and to read the most amazing flash ever by Ernest Hemingway.

Finally, if you can say it in 55 words, let the G-Man know.

My 55-word photograph:


MAKING ROOM AT THE BEDSIDE

We'd gone home for sleep when the phone rang, calling us back. The monitor was turned off, and the machine that had heaved oxygen into her lungs lifting her shoulders and chest off the mattress was gone. The sheet was tucked under her chin, and her mouth was closed. She’d waited until we were gone.

Fred Bear

How do I describe the big lake to you in the face of a hard north wind that waters my eyes and takes my breath away? How can I even begin to show you what I see? OK, I’ll try, because it’s worth trying. And please forgive me if my efforts fall short, for even a picture doesn't capture the feel of a place-the magnetic pull, for instance, at a certain location by the Dead Sea called Jericho, or the aura of the Grand Canyon at sunset. I can look at pictures in the National Geographic where the best are published, but will I feel the depth of the gorge in the pit of my stomach?

Lake Huron is a shimmering mirage, a frozen landscape of jagged ridges and valleys—waves caught in the freeze-frame of February. At first glance it appears solid, like a snow-covered field, but then the undulating movement of the surface in sync with the swells below it, captures the eye. Like the sands of Dune, the whole thing is heaving with the power of what lies beneath. It mesmerizes like the head of a cobra. I cup my mittened hands around my eyes to block the wind and stare. Further out, in open water, jagged ice floes peak the horizon like sailboats. This monster of a lake with the reach of an ocean has always amazed me.

One lone ice fisherman walks the bank with his backpack and his pail and walking stick. He tramps carefully in cleated boots. He is prepared, bundled up like a Sherpa guide. I am not. I don’t have my camera (so you’ll never believe this), I don’t have my long underwear, and I don’t have my boots. What I am is crazy, and what I have is a new haircut with caramel highlights still damp from the salon, hidden by the scarf wound tight around my head for this impromptu walk on the breakwater. When I realized I was only three miles from the lake, I knew I would keep going. How does anyone turn their back on this water? I’ve never been able to figure that out. I’ve never been able to do it.

I wrap my scarf over my mouth and walk along the railing of the breakwater to where the sand turns to ice, afraid to go further, afraid I’ll slip or my scarf will blow away and I’ll be tempted to chase it, afraid I’ll fall off the edge onto the shifting ice.

He is Fred Bear. It says so on the back window of the pickup truck I parked alongside. Just drill that hole his bumper sticker encourages his fellow fishermen. With the bad economy, ice fishing is on the uprise. It doesn’t cost anything and you can bring dinner home. I like a man bullish on winter, one who can bring dinner home. There are only the two of us out here. If I get in trouble, will he save me? If I get frostbit, will he unthaw me?

I start back for the car. I can’t keep up with him. I walk past park benches and frozen fountains. I walk past the restaurant that used to be the summer hot spot. The view was destroyed when they built the marina and extended the breakwater and now it’s shuttered, like the dancehall and the roller rink. Only the lake is still the same.

I walk past his truck with the bumper stick innuendo and hop in my little Ford and turn on the heat. I shake out my hair and laugh. The damp tendrils on my neck are frozen stiff. Oh, Fred, if I had my long underwear on I’d go out with you and help drill that hole.

The Winter Submission Season

"So what are you doing with yourself nowadays?"

Do you dread that question as much as I do?

or...

“Whatever happened to your “book”?

I especially love that one as the room goes quiet and everyone turns to listen.

"It isn't a book!" I want to shout. "It's a manuscript!"

Two different animals, as an agent at the Columbus Writers Conference pointed out to me several years ago in a breakout session. “Your manuscript isn't a book,” she said, “until it has a Library of Congress ISBN number.”

That's an important distinction and one I've never forgotten.

But what I wanted to tell you is that I've just found a way to answer these innocent questions truthfully without sloaching into a corner. Thanks to a wonderful article by Cecilia Ward Jones, The Art of Perseverance, in the current issue Poets and Writers, I know now to proudly say, “I'm editing my novel. Yes, the one you read (insert appropriate number) __years ago.”

I must say, the weight of expectation shifted when I read the story of her writing experience, one so similar to my own. Not everyone goes to college right out of high school, making the seamless transistion to an MFA program and publication of their first novel before they're thirty. Most aren't even lucky enough to do it before they're forty. It's OK to have gotten married and had children first. It's OK to realize accidently that what you've really wanted to do all along was write. And it is especially OK to spend years editing a novel.

At the same time, however, it is not OK to cower in a room with the door closed, past the time when your manuscript is ready, mindlessly editing for the sake of editing, afraid to put yourself out there and move onto the next step, afraid to hit send. So how do we know when our manuscripts are ready? How do we make the distinction between jumping the gun and procrastinating our life away? I suspect that when you reach the point where you're only making minor changes, you're close, and when you’re satisfied that it's as good as you can get it, send out a round of queries,then immediately start a new writing project. I’m convinced it’s the only way to survive the inevitable rejections that will start pouring in, because they will.

I know. I've been there. I queried before I was ready and paid the price. Unable to make the distinction, I ignored the don't rush advice from those I should've listened to.

But I persevered. I survived a move, a broken computer and lost pages. I survived rejection and discovered the pleasure of editing. Cutting and polishing a manuscript is addictive. Reducing that word count instead of increasing it is highly addictive. As Andrea Cremer wisely advised, you have to take word count literally . . . make sure that every . . . word . . . counts.

And one day you and I will get “the call”. One day you won’t see the hated “however” in the first sentence of an agent’s reply. I’m convinced of that as well. For myself and for all of you who refuse to give up.

In the meantime I’ve rediscovered I can write short stories. Even Flash Fiction. I’ve dug out a few rough drafts from college. They don't pass the cringe test but they contain ideas. And that’s a start. An idea that becomes character, conflict, and resolution.

There are dozens of literary magazines and university presses out there calling for submission of poems and short stories. Some even pay you. Winter is the season to submit. There’s even a call for submission of one-sentence stories from Monkeybicycle. (Wrap your head around that one.) I gained confidence after having a short story accepted by Bloody Bridge Review for a February issue. (They’re a new online journal seeking submissions.) So while I’m editing my manuscript, I’m going to start submitting shorts like crazy. And poems. Like crazy! Tis the season.

One final note, don’t forget about Simon and Carolina's contest. Rules. Prizes. You have until the 31st (midnight tomorrow!!)to polish those thousand words and the prizes are tight. Don’t be square and miss out.

One final note as I say goodbye to January, I’ve noticed a lot of bloggers have been listing five things that make them happy. I like to be different.

I give you five things I wish I had, from the absurd to the just-out-of-reach.

A lemon tree
A parachute
A widow’s walk
An agent
A telescope

What are yours? And where are you submitting??

The Art of Doing Nothing

We had to put our dog to sleep last week. I wasn’t going to write about it but then I thought about how she liked to sleep curled up beside my chair with her nose on the heat register, content to be doing nothing, which brought to mind a book my son gave me one Christmas called The Art of Doing Nothing which inspired a long forgotten poem in which I mention this same little dog when she was still a puppy and I thought about another writing room and another time . . . and so it goes.


Sunny was twelve but still spry until the week after Christmas when her belly suddenly bloated and overnight she could scarcely walk. It seemed her legs would no longer support her stomach. After a couple days of this we thought she was constipated (too many Christmas treats?)and our local pet store said to give her pumpkin, and if she wasn’t better in a couple of days to call the vet. We gave her pumpkin. She ate it; she would eat anything.

She had lost weight but with her long hair we didn't notice it(we never cut her hair in the winter) until she got into a briar patch and had burrs from behind her ears to between her toes, and we had to take her to the groomer and they ended up shaving her to get them out, and we were like....My God! You can see her backbone! But this was two weeks before Christmas and with the chaos of the approaching festivities we neglected to do anything about Sunny because she was acting the same. We put her sweater on and forgot about the weight loss.

So we went with the pumpkin experiment, but she didn’t get better. She used to bound up and down the porch steps, but now she could only manage the down. When she finished her business she just stood there looking up with her mournful little shih tzu eyes. So there we were, carrying her inside and out, up and down, like a puppy.

My laptop sits on a table beside that heat register I told you about (her favorite place), but now she wouldn't get out of bed. I put a fried egg in her dish. She ignored it. Yeah. A very bad sign from a dog who used to eat everything.

The next morning, she lost control of her bladder, legs splayed in a widening pool of discolored urine. I looked down at her in horror. My husband called the vet and put on his coat. He told me to take a picture.
The prognosis? Possible kidney failure or a tumor or any number of other age-related ailments. The cost? $120.00 for a diagnostic blood test and $80.00 for an X-ray, and this just to find out what was wrong. Surgery, recovery . . . who knows? The vet said she could still die in six months. Our other option was $58.00 for euthanasia and $120.00 for cremation if we wanted the ashes. If not, they would do a “group” cremation for $50.00.

“My God!” my daughter said. “That would be like Auschwitz!”

The kids didn’t want her cremated. They want her buried on the farm with a marker.

My husband carried her home in a bag while I was at work. But we had a problem. The ground is frozen.

This dilemma made me think of the burial-delayed funerals in the U.P. They have a no-shovel season from November 15th to March 1st. Digging into the ground would be like trying to penetrate 8 inches of concrete. Cemeteries have thinly-walled buildings that rely on Mother Nature not refrigeration to keep the corpses cool. The caskets are tagged and slid into storage racks until spring. They’re used to this up there. There’s a large Finnish-American population in the U.P. Back in the old country, bodies were stored in the church’s bell tower until the funeral.

We don’t have a bell tower but we have mounds of rich, organic compost, freshly spread from the barnyard, snow covered but not yet frozen. So as of now she’s nestled under a mound of compost,
and next summer she’ll be spread around the farm. Is that so bad? Do the kids know this? No. They want her buried with her blanket and stuffed animal and a cross over her head, or a marker on which could be inscribed: Here lies Sunny, a good dog. She never peed on the floor until the day she died. She liked carrots and biscuits, eggs and pumpkin. She liked people.

I've subjected you to the tale of her passing, so I may as well subject you to the poem as well.


THE ART OF DOING NOTHING

The mercury outside my window
is covered with ice.
Even the inside of the window is frosted.
I scrape it off with my nail—
it falls into the sink.

The furnace drones without pause
and my summersick dog lies on the register.
A draft runs through the house.
It sets chimes ringing and makes her nervous.

I inventory things not to do.
It’s in a book—The Art of Doing Nothing.
Meditate and you can see things that aren’t there . . .
brandied cakes and a bottle of wine
set out on the sideboard as if for a friend.

I look behind doors and pause at the stairs
Come full circle to see myself sitting there—
in the old winged-back chair.
It’s a special friend.

Can They Be Stopped?

Everything is connected on planet Earth. It is said that the flutter of a butterfly wing in Thailand affects a thunderstorm in Wisconsin. Because of a century-old mistake, this ugly, inedible, aggressive fish is within striking distance of Lake Michigan. If it reaches the lakes the fear is that it will destroy the Great Lakes fishing industry, harm the drinking water that 40 million people depend on, and make the lakes unsafe for swimming and boating.

Asian Carp have been moving up the Mississippi River into the Illinois River for years, and now they’ve reached the canal that connects the infested Illinois River to Lake Michigan. This canal was dug over a hundred years ago for ease of moving barge traffic into the lakes, and all that separates the carp-infested Illinois River from them is a single, electrified barrier. If that barrier needs to be shut down for maintenance—and occasionally, it does—there's nothing to stop the intruders from making their way into the freshwater paradise.

Asian Carp were stocked in Louisiana fish ponds to clean them, but during a period of flooding they escaped into the Mississippi River. This ill-conceived idea combined with a century-old mistake has now endangered our nation's most precious natural resource.

We are not talking about common carp, which are eaten in many places. The creatures in question here are the silver and bighead carp. Even if they didn't taste terrible,

they have interlaced, "floating bones" that make them a nightmare to eat. While they are not good to eat, they are very good at eating. They can get up to 100 pounds in size and eat 40% of their body weight daily. The climate of the Great Lakes region is similar to their native Asian habitats and they would have no natural predators. They would simply out-eat and out-breed the others.

The fear is that the carp will transform the Great Lakes ecosystem into something unrecognizable. One need only look at infested sections of the Illinois River where environmental officials say that carp now comprise nine out of every 10 pounds of living material—plant or animal—found in the water. That’s 90% of the total biomass! "Sooner or later, those carp are going to find a breeding home" in Lake Michigan, said Joel Brammeier, acting president of the Alliance for the Great Lakes, a Chicago advocacy group. "And once that happens, there's going to be no stopping the Asian carp in the Great Lakes."

For the Great Lakes, already taxed by the invasion of other non-native species, it could be the last straw. "Once in the lakes, it would be very difficult to control them" say the Fish and Wildlife Service

One would think that the Great Lake States would unite on this issue, but Chicago business and political interests do not want to lose easy use of barges for shipping. So there's a fight. In an urgent effort to close down Chicago-area passages that could allow the unwanted fish to reach Lake Michigan, the State of Michigan is suing the State of Illinois. Minnesota, Ohio and Wisconsin have filed documents in recent days supporting Michigan’s move, and Indiana says it will soon do the same. But it may be too late. They shouldn't have waited until Asian carp came within striking distance before getting around to suing the very negligent and irresponsible state of Illinois.

“Officials need to put a cork in the connection between the Mississippi and the Great Lakes built more than a century ago. The end point clearly needs to be biological separation," said Marc Gaden, spokesman for the Great Lakes Fishery Commission in Ann Arbor, Mich., which focuses on protecting the lakes' fishing industry. “Commerce will find a way to move cargo. The commodities will still move. And move efficiently. Until we slam the door, this problem will not go away.”

We must separate the Mississippi River from the Great Lakes basin, as Mother Nature intended. But will it happen? Michigan had taken their suit directly to the Supreme Court, but, sadly, the court declined to consider the suit.

Please pass the word, blog about this, call the White House, or leave an email in the nice little comment form. It's easy and you'll feel good about it. Michigan's Attorney General, Mike Cox, has requested that President Obama use his executive powers to close the locks and wouldn't it be cool if the Whitehouse was inundated with demands that he do just that? Even if you don’t rely on the Great Lakes for your drinking water, or eat fish from them, swim in them or vacation on them, what happens to them will eventually affect you, like the flutter of a butterfly’s wing.

Passing the Torch

It is time for me to acknowledge a few fellow bloggers who have been generous to me with their time and support. First, a special thank you to Carolina Valdez Miller at Carols Prints for being my 30th follower. She is hosting a contest with Simon Larter at Constant Revision to celebrate their each passing the 100-follower threshold. The rules are at Simon’s and the prizes are at Carolina’s. The prizes are very fine indeed. Don't miss this one.

Next, I would like to pass my Honest Scrap Award to my final three recipients. (See post below)
Jean Oram, who blogs here
K.T. Richardson at My Writing Masquerade
and Nisa at Wordplay Swordplay .

I won't repeat the guidelines except to say please don't feel bound by them. I think some of these "rules" may have been lost in translation, but all three of you define scrappy for me.

Next, I am passing on my Superior Scribbler Award (see sidebar) from Tricia O’Brien at Talespinning. To have received this from someone of your writing ability, Tricia, is truly humbling. I think one is supposed to pass it on to five fellow writers in the online community. But at this time I would like to gift it to:
Amber Tidd Murphy who blogs here
Catwoods at Words From The Woods
and Rebecca Bush at Just A Thought ,
three writers of unbelievable writing stamina. I wonder when any of you sleep.

Finally, I’ve come to my Humane Award.(Again, see sidebar.) Andrea Cremer at A Blurred History gave me this one. It was the first blog award I received and because of that and because of what it stands for, in some ways it means the most. I never properly thanked you, Andrea, and now you’re off to New York to meet your agents and editors, (sigh) so I hope you see this. I didn’t know what I was doing six months ago. I didn’t even know how to post a link, but I’ve sat on this long enough, and let it go I must. I can’t think of five more worthy blogging buddies to give the Humane Award to than:

C.M. Jackson at States-of-Mine
Rebecca at Just a Thought
Tongue Trip at Scentlessness
Mary Anne Gruen at Starlight Blog
and, finally, Jemi Fraser at Just Jemi
All of you are up front and amazing with your concern for others, doing your part to make this a better world.

Finally, a huge thank you to everyone who follows my blog or drops in for an occasional visit. I appreciate all of you and am constantly humbled by your generosity. The writing is for myself but also, more importantly, for you.

"All art has this characteristic—it unites people."
-Leo Tolstoy

And, finally, because Haiti has been on my mind, I'd like to share this haiku based on a true account and written to honor all those involved in the rescue effort.

THE PLANES CAN'T GET IN, BUT STILL . . .

Rescued from rubble
the girl danced
in joyful flip flops.

Honest Scrap (The Writing Edition)

I recently received the Honest Scrap Award (writing edition) from Jemi Fraser. Thanks Jemi! I love this award because I don’t think there is anything harder than writing.



As a recipient, I’m supposed to tell you ten things about my reading and writing life and then pass the award on to seven other writers. I’ve ignored rules in the past. But here we go…

1. I first realized I had a way with words when I was in college and a classmate asked me to compose a letter for her disputing an unjust decision, telling me, “You have a way with words.”

2. I used to read comic books and I read every Zane Grey book in the library.

3. I like to read the dictionary.

4. I know how to milk a cow and have taught a calf to drink out of a pail with my fingers in its mouth. (I just had to throw that in.)

5. I do most of my writing on my laptop but I have to print out a page before I can see what needs to be changed. Something about seeing the words on paper slips the editing process into gear. It’s like the saying . . . How do I know what I think until I see what I say?

6. I and my siblings grew up without television but had a first rate collection of World Book Encyclopedias, library cards, two daily newspapers, and a bookmobile. (Though all we really wanted was a television!)

7. I once wrote an Ekphrastic poem for a poetry class, (a poem based on a painting) and a sestina (nightmare!) in the same week.

8. I've been known to read and edit my work while driving.

9. I often get up in the middle of the night to write.

10. I believe you can ignore the rules as long as you first know how to observe them.


So without further fanfare, I would like to pass this on to (drumroll...) Charlie at Approaching Utopia , Travener at The Big Litowski, Amy at She Writes Here Now, and to Paperback Writer, who are four very scrappy writers. Check out their blogs and you'll see what I mean.

I reserve the right to pass Honest Scrap on to three other writers in another post. (See #10) And thanks again, Jemi, for this honor.

THE TRAVELER

He was slim and well-dressed with a nice haircut, not too short, not too long. He wore a black tailored jacket and well-made jeans. His black leather shoes showed no sign of the slush outside the airport. He could have stepped off the pages of an Eddie Bauer catalogue.

But he had something he shouldn’t.

He mopped his face with a white linen handkerchief as he put his shoes back on, and I wondered if he was sick. He didn’t look sick. His face was tanned with no sheen of perspiration. I’d never seen anyone perspire so politely. His handkerchief was the size of a large dinner napkin with embroidered edges. I didn’t know anyone other than my father still used them.

I had to search his belongings—two Apple notebook computers, one purple and one green, a black leather satchel for compact electronics, a shopping bag full of gifts, and a gallon-sized bag of small toiletry items of the type one would collect from hotel rooms. From the looks of the assortment he’d been around the world, and as he patted his forehead dry, I wondered what else he’d collected in his travels.

The suspicious item was a bottle of water. It was from Neiman Marcus and it wasn’t plastic. It was sturdy cardboard of the type cartons of milk are made out of. The only plastic on it was the screw-on lid like they put on cartons of half and half. It was quart sized. Too big.

Who buys fancy bottles of Neiman Marcus water? Maybe a better question would be why aren’t all water bottles made of this material? Maybe a better question is why do we continue to allow Nestle to siphon water out of the Great Lakes aquifer to ship around the world in single-use plastic bottles that end up in landfills and waterways and the ocean where there is a growing plastic dead zone the size of Greenland? Yes, Nestle has diversified into something more profitable than candy bars. How about a bottle deposit on water bottles? The politicos won’t do it. They won’t even take the steps necessary to keep Asian carp out of the Great Lakes, so how would they gather the will to keep plastic out of the oceans? But I digress.

Back to my traveler. He was polite about my having to throw away the eco bottle of water (though I wished there'd been a way to put it in a display case). He shrugged and mopped his face again. He slipped his belt back through the loops on his jeans and his watch on his wrist, then patted his forehead dry and wiped his neck. With each step of putting himself back together he had to wipe his face, and he was well put together. I stepped back and watched.

He dropped his bag of toiletries into the large shopping bag of gifts, wiped his face one last time and put his handkerchief in the pocket of his jacket. He threw a laptop bag over each shoulder and went off to find his gate. I changed my gloves and watched him out of sight and couldn’t help but wonder at the story of his life.

I filed him away in my character memory folder, fodder for the basis of a short story or maybe a larger piece, a snippet of a life on the edge. Do you do that with interesting people you encounter? All these innocents who don’t know they might be written about as they go through the motions of daily living? Have you ever recognized yourself in a novel or short story? They say that friends and family members of writers are doomed to a loss of privacy, their tightest-held secrets revealed under the thin disguise of fiction. How many families have been torn asunder by the writer in their midst? How many friendships broken? I, myself, have done it. I couldn’t help it. And I’d do it again. Have you?

The Rebel You

With the New Year I find myself going back to my poetry roots. I’m often reminded that there is no money in it, but as John Gardener said, The rigors of writing generally bring no profit except to the spirit. For those who are authentically called to the profession spiritual profits are enough. I admire Gardner and everything he said. But sometimes a little coin in the pocket would be nice.
Poetry was my first love so a relapse into the embrace of its rhythms is like the comfort of a secret hiding place, a letter from an old friend, a spiritual pick-me-up after a fiction fall.


The Rebel You

Remember when we walked barefoot across the grass
for a better view of the Big Dipper?
You lost your lighter and I tried to block
the neighbor’s yard light with my hands.
We pulled chairs off the porch and watched for shooting stars.

Remember when we traipsed back to the pond
to see what the “kids” were up to because the adults were boring?
We sidled up to the campfire and they tried to hide their bottles
behind their backs. As if we cared?

Remember when we lip-synced
in front of the mirror to love songs
and dressed up in long gowns and wondered
what it would be like to kiss a man and own a wardrobe?

My first kiss was a clear miss at the top of the hill
and I don’t own a little black dress.

I’m still the kid in front of the mirror
and this summer when you visit I want to set up camp
on the lawn with a cooler so we don’t have to go in the house
and whisper over the contents of the refrigerator,
afraid to wake those who sleep at night and miss meteor showers.

This time I’d like to smoke one of your cigarettes
and watch the sky turn pink and judge time by the heavens,
not by what we’re supposed to be doing
and haven’t accomplished.

A Day in the Life of a Writer

Nathan Bransford is running a contest. I entered and you should too.

This is an offshoot of that. Here's to strong bones and healthy bodies and finding your muse.

Coffee and cream, my savior.
Bacon, cheese omelet, onions . . . satisfied.
Cereal for fiber and milk for skin.
Yogurt for bones and orange juice for sex. (I read it in a book.)
An apple for longevity, chili for protein, crackers cause I’m weak.
Red wine for low blood pressure and high sex drive. (When the work is good the sex drive escalates. It’s a win win situation.)
Water for heartburn. Tea for warmth.
Bourbon and soda for the doldrums and a wedge of lemon for memory.
Beer for courage.

The Year of Kissing

I think it only fitting to start out 2010 with a post about kissing—almost, unconsummated kissing, because maybe 2010 begins the decade of possibilities, an era of blue, concern for the earth, and sustainable living, and much, much consummated kissing!

With that in mind, I'm participating in Frankie's No Kiss Blogfest in which writers are encouraged to share an "almost kissing" scene they've written. Check out Frankie's blog where everyone participating is linked and read some steamy, spine-tingling encounters.

Without further ado I add my entry to the fest. I couldn't choose, so I post two, one from a WIP and one from a short story.

#1

He opened a bottle of beer and threw his arm across the back of the seat, breathing in the scent of her shampoo and studying her neckline and the wisps of hair that curled around her ear. Her captivating nipples pointed their way out of her blouse, and as the city lights disappeared behind them, he dropped his arm around her shoulders and she relaxed against his side. The conversation kept flowing out of the front seat, and he added an occasional comment just to let his buddies know he was still there.

When they hit the gravel she jostled against him, and there it was—an opportunity. He dropped his mouth to hers in motion with the road, but they hit a pothole and his mouth only met the soft indentation below her bottom lip. And he might have taken her by surprise, but that was nothing compared to what her reaction did to him.

She jerked away and her hand flew to her mouth as if she’d just gotten a mouthful of rotgut whiskey she couldn’t swallow.

Well, Jesus Christ. Talk about a blow to his ego. He pulled his arm in and stared at her. Swallow baby. It’s OK. Swallow it down.

“Where do we drop you?” His buddy was looking at him in the rearview mirror.

“Ah, just pull in my driveway. You can turn around. We’ll take it from there.” He looked at her. “I’ll walk you home, okay?”

They watched the taillights out of sight and started walking. There were night insects singing from both ditches and an owl called from a distant tree. Her place was dark. No lights. He halted, suddenly not wanting to go any closer. The house has eyes. He put his hands in his pockets waiting for her to say something.

“Your friends are nice.”

“Yeah.”

“I better go in before he gets home.”

“Is he really such a mean sonofabitch, or is it just for show?”

“He says you gringos are soft and naïve.”

“Why? Because we don’t carry knives up our sleeves?”

They stood there a minute, and he waited for her to say something else. Should he make a lame joke? He guessed a kiss goodnight was out of the question.

She stepped away. “Thanks for tonight. I had fun. I’d do it again, anytime.”

Really? He was considering a smartass reply but she was gone, disappearing into the shadows around the house. He waited until he saw a light come on in the back; then he walked home, remembering that little indentation.

#2

He was brown-skinned and lean. We baled hay together and I rode on the tractor with him. He wore T-shirts with the sleeves ripped out, but I was too young to appreciate his muscled forearms and the way his jeans fit his thighs. But I do now. I was too naïve to realize he wanted to kiss me. But I do now.

“Walk me home,” he said.

I walked him up the dark gravel road, and at the crest of the hill I stopped, reluctant to go further, and he joked about hearing the heavy fall of my footsteps when I left him, and now I know he was only nervous but I was afraid and when he leaned over to kiss me I pulled away and there was only the faintest feel of his breath against my lips.

Would his mouth have tasted like the black walnuts he kept in his pocket? Like the beef jerky he favored and the cigarettes he smoked? I’ll never know. Was the moon out? Was it blue? I didn’t notice. Were the stars brilliant above us? I don’t remember. But I know now that the stars are not just overhead, they are everywhere around us and underneath us. And at times the moon really does turn blue.

Blue Moon

As the year comes to a close I must post one final missive in 2009. Tonight there will be a blue moon, an astrological phenomenon. The term "blue moon" generally refers to the second full moon in a month and occurs just once every 2.7 years. But the last blue moon to shine on New Year’s Eve was 19 years ago, in 1990. So, you could say that a blue moon on New Year’s Eve happens only once in a great while. While I’m not one for resolutions, one can’t help but think it a good time for a fresh start, on a personal level and on a national level. “America needs a break,” a friend at work said. And I agree. It’s once in a blue moon, and America deserves a break. Of course, he could have been referring to another invasive, humiliating, random drug test Americans are being increasingly subjected to. So, yes, Americans need a break. And I think we are all looking forward to a better decade ahead.

I already like the sound of 2010. Off years bother me. I like even numbers, colors that match, and straight rows. In the year two thousand and ten, I’m giving away the rest of my cookies and pulling out my yoga mat. I’m going to earn my Superior Scribbler award from Tricia O’Brien (thanks Tricia!) and I will pass it along after serious thought. I will also pass on my Humane Blog award from Andrea Cremer in the coming year. It’s only once in a blue moon one receives such honors. We don’t pass these out like cupcakes . . . do we?

I am thankful for all my new blogger friends. I am thankful for my new Christmas books—A Prayer For Owen Meany, Men Who Stare at Goats, A History of Love, and Gathering Blue, and—from one who knows me well—a vintage copy of early poems from the voice of a generation, The Lords and the New Creatures, by Jim Morrison....

"What sacrifice, at what price can the city be born?"

He was an environmentalist before his time- "What have they done to the earth? What have they done to our fair sister?" And I think it amazing that someone had those thoughts in the sixties with everything else that was going on.

But here we are on the eve of 2010, and I’m thankful for heat and blankets and cranberry daiquiris and people with whom to share them. I’m thankful for a chance at a Blue Moon. May the new year bring peace to the world and reward to all those who work hard and do good things.

So here's to all of you.

Like Phone Tag Only More Fun

There’s this thing going around the blogosphere called Blog Tag and I’m it. Jean Oram tagged me before I could duck, and now I get to tell you a few things about myself. I’ve procrastinated long enough so here we go.

1) What's the last thing you wrote? What's the first thing you wrote that you still have?

The last thing I wrote was a short story which might be the foundation for a novel.

The first thing I wrote was a poem for children about farm animals; somewhat embarrassing now.


2) Write poetry?

Oh, yes, (see above) long before I started writing novels. I love structured poetry and had the most fun writing a villanelle for a college course . . ."She bought a sarong in Venice, where everyone is beautiful"

I like the power of haiku, the challenge of the sestina and the immortal sonnet but sometimes a subject calls for free verse.


3) Angsty poetry?

Oh, yeah. But hopefully it’s tucked away where no one will ever read it.


4) Favorite genre of writing?

I like to write about serious themes that inspire passion, layered with intrigue and sexual tension for emotional impact.

5) Most annoying character you've ever created?

The spoiled city girl who slept around and drove a Smart car.


6) Best plot you've ever created?

How a body is disposed of organically and the murder weapon is entombed under water.


7) Coolest plot twist you've ever created?

When the bad guy surprisingly shows up in a place where a man can just disappear.


8) How often do you get writer's block?

I really don’t get writer's block. Lack of time is my block.


9) Write fan fiction?

No.


10) Do you type or write by hand?

I type everything on my laptop unless I’m not at home, then it’s in a journal or on a bar napkin, or if a flash of inspiration strikes while driving, I write on a notepad or the palm of my hand while I steer with my knees. (I really do that. Don't you?)


11) Do you save everything you write?

Yes, I even have the first draft of my first novel. And early poems that make me cringe now. I’m funny about that. Boxes under my bed . . . in the closet. . .


12) Do you ever go back to an idea after you've abandoned it?

I haven't yet.


13) What's your favorite thing you've ever written?

My #1 novel which is in the final stage of revision.


14) What's everyone else's favorite story you've written?

The same.


15) Ever written romance or angsty teen drama?

I love a good sex scene but I’ve never written a strictly romance novel per se, but my stories always have a hint of romance. Angsty teen stuff? Maybe. I think most great novels have a romantic relationship at the core of the story and many times the climax is the romantic payoff.


16) What's your favorite setting for your characters?

In the bedroom! Seriously, it’s where they are most comfortable. It might be a ship at sea or a cabin in the woods in the north country, or night fishing with friends on the big lake, or skinny dipping in a pond.


17) How many writing projects are you working on right now?

Editing the #1 novel (getting the word count down) and finishing up the first draft on a second novel. And always poetry bubbling beneath the surface of every situation I encounter.


18) Have you ever won an award for your writing?

Yes. I’ve received awards for my poetry.


19) What are your five favorite words?

Cozy. . . because it’s an onomatopoetic word. (The sound of it imitates its meaning.)

Melancholy . . . because it too unites sound with sense, plus it’s a downright beautiful word.

Chocolate . . . no reason necessary.

Comfortable . . . because I like the way if rolls off the tongue.

Frock . . . because it reminds me of my grandmother.


20) What character have you created that is most like yourself?

I suppose the female protagonist in #1 novel shares some personality traits with me. But she is braver and more daring.


21) Where do you get your ideas for your characters?

From my past and from my imagination.


22) Do you ever write based on your dreams?

No.


23) Do you favor happy endings?

Let’s just say I want some modicum of hope at the end. Ambiguity is okay. The Giver is a good example of that. A bad ending is so unsatisfying. As a reader it makes me feel cheated to have a novel end dismally after having invested so much time in it. I personally don't want to do that to my readers, and I try to be generous and empathetic with my characters. I don't want or expect happily-ever-after but one can only take so much Shakespearean tragedy.

24) Are you concerned with spelling and grammar as you write?

Absolutely. To do otherwise is lazy.

25) Does music help you write?

Yes, depending on what I’m writing, music can actually inspire. When I was writing my first novel, I bought every Doors CD I could get my hands on and cranked it up.

26) Quote something you've written. Whatever pops in your head.

“Everyone was afraid of him, but not her father, which made her proud but didn’t give her courage.”


OK, I've bared my soul. Nah, it wasn't that bad (nothing like running naked to the mailbox). Hope I didn’t bore you. I could’ve kept my answers shorter but that felt like cheating. Now it’s my turn to pass along this opportunity and I’m tagging Rebecca Bush. Rebecca has a beautiful blog that I've been following as long as I've been blogging. And one more, C.M. Jackson, another prolific writer who manages a great blog. If you haven't already done so, check them out. I think I'm supposed to tag three people so I might add another victim if I can catch them.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

And The Ones That Mother Gives You Don't Do Anything At All. . .

“It was almost December, and Jonas was beginning to be frightened.” Thus begins The Giver, Lois Lowry’s Newberry award novel about a futuristic world of fragile perfection where there is no pain or suffering, no hunger or cold . . . no pleasure, color, or choices to be made.

During Banned Books week I made a commitment to read as many banned and challenged books over the next year as I could. I’ve recently finished The Giver, and I have Jemi Fraser, writer and teacher of the talented and gifted and Jean Oram, writer and chat moderator over at Agent Query here to discuss this complicated, brilliant novel about what it means to be human and how easily we can be molded and conditioned into “sameness”.

All memories of the past are retained for the community in one person, the Giver. He appears very old, but is he really that old, or is it just that the burden of memory has aged him? At the beginning of the book he is about to be rid of some of these burdensome memories. At the age of twelve Jonas is singled out to be the new Receiver. Do you think Jonas’s relationship with the Giver is dangerous after what happened to Rosemary, the prior “receiver”?

JEAN... I kind of wondered about that, too. Has the burden of all that knowledge prematurely aged him? Or is he actually that old?

JEMI...I think the memories have aged him, although he must be middle aged at least. It takes years for him to become the receiver, then years to do it before training Rosemary 10 years before. I don't know if the relationship is dangerous or not - Receivers have been doing this for generations. But because both Jonas & the Giver are questioning the status quo it becomes dangerous for both of them.

JEAN... It is definitely dangerous for Jonas's innocence and naivety. I did get the impression that the Giver had learned his lessons with Rosemary and that he was a lot more careful with Jonas. I didn't fear that the same thing would happen to Jonas, although it did seem that Jonas had fears that he would follow Rosemary.

The death of Rosemary is never really explored but she evidently asked to be “released” and then injected herself. The Giver watched. She was his daughter. But was she his biological daughter? If so, how could that have been possible?

JEAN... I doubted that he was her biological daughter. I think in a way, everyone was family and everyone was biologically connected, but I didn't get the impression that she was a direct descendant. They never did say where they got the males for reproduction though, did they? He didn't take his pills--maybe he's everyone's father. :)

JEMI... I think the eye colour strain is very dominant in the genes. Because they all have similar eyes, they probably are all related, although that's never really explained. We also don't know how the birthmothers are impregnated - I would assume sperm donors because of the pills to eliminate the stirrings. In that case, they could assume Rosemary is his daughter & Jonas is his son.

What was the meaning of the opening flashback when the jet overflew the community? What is this greater power that everyone is afraid of? Something or someone holds sway over the community. Does the community itself have a military? It seems they had the capability to shoot the fighter jet down, but the Giver advised them to wait.

JEMI... I think the opening was a way to set the scene - make it obvious from the beginning how different this society is from ours. My students always look around at each other for reactions when I read that part. They're wondering if it's just them realizing it's different. I think they are afraid because it is against a major rule - and they worry the status quo is being changed -jets would be a rarity. They have advanced technology, but there would be very few trained to build/fix etc. They've eschewed it to go to sameness. I don't believe the community has a military at all - war is too far removed. But there is never a satisfactory explanation for why they have planes at all.

JEAN... I think the community feels vulnerable. There is a primitive fear and awareness--an instinct that is still alive--to protect the ones they care for. I think there is also a natural reaction to lash out at things we don't understand. And things that we don't understand can feel threatening.

The sterile nightly conversations at Jonas’s dinner table and the “sharing of feelings” really irritated me. I wanted to reach across the table and shake them. I suppose this was Lowry’s intent, that we would realize how important it is to the human psyche to have real emotions. To feel real feelings. My impression of the family unit was that the mother is the enforcer…should father ever slip she’d have his head. What do you think? They don’t use the word love. “Do you love me?” asks Jonas at one point. Jonas’s mother corrects him. “It is much better to ask, do you enjoy me. Yes,” she says, “I enjoy you.” Why is it so important for the community to have what they call “precision of language”?

JEAN... I think if people become too real or feel too much, then things have the capacity to get messy. They also are not allowed to touch, something that is a basic human need. It builds connections, too. If they are to create real, deep, meaningful connections, then everything could come down like a house of cards. People might question things. Couples may fight to stay together instead of be separated and placed in the home for the old.

JEMI... There is no reason for love in their society. The parents do what they do to produce capable citizens. They are just following community expectations. Jonas' first experience of love is through the Christmas memory. All real emotions are eliminated because of their desire for sameness. They must have wanted safety in order to choose sameness. Emotions aren't safe, so they've been eliminated. The rituals are to ensure the children grow up and fit in, to ensure their reactions are acceptable.

JEAN... As for language, emotion is difficult to put into precise language. Just look at any little kid. They know happy, sad, angry. But try something more fuzzy like self-conscious, or even embarrassed. I would argue that 'love' is actually, a rather general word in the English language. For example: I loved that movie. I love chai tea. I love it when snowflakes fall on my tongue. I love you. Those are all different contexts for love, and we feel different degrees of emotion in those contexts. It isn't precise. True emotions often aren't. I think that keeping language precise is way to keep the citizens in their numb boxes, to keep them from those confusing emotions that cannot be fully (precisely) expressed.


When the first receiver (Rosemary) died and memories were released into the community, the Giver called it chaos before the memories were assimilated. What I wondered is that if one, say Jonas’s father, received memories, even fleetingly, then how could he not retain some of that knowledge about death and pain and sex and all those things related to the human experience?

JEAN... Good question. I have no idea, because The Giver didn't get them back. You would think they'd have retained some of it.

JEMI... They wouldn't retain them because they didn't want them. They would pretend they didn't exist. They would have been terrified of anything causing them to feel. They would have been desperate to return to sameness. Remember Jonas' memories of colour take a long time before they become permanent. One memory isn't anywhere near enough. I think it would be like understanding a small phrase of an foreign language, but having no context, no way to interpret it. You'd have a very slim chance of remembering it for long at all. These people are cowards. They would push the memories away as quickly as they could. One of their greatest worries is that they won't be like the others. They want to be part of the whole, and you can't if you're unique. Every ritual is geared towards being like everyone else.


Imagine how different we’d be without our memories. “People know facts,” the Giver says, “they know scientific things, but without memories, they know nothing.” Once a memory is given, it is lost to the Giver. Why is that? Like the first time Jonas gives a memory to the child Gabriel to get him to go to sleep, he can barely recall it himself. And why does Gabe have such a hard time sleeping? Could he have been born with memories? Is a child like Gabe, one who can’t or won’t conform to their narrow expectations of behavior, a danger to the community?

JEAN... I was curious about that, myself. Reincarnation? Just a colicky type who needs that connection with others, that attachment, etc? Some babies need a lot of holding to be happy. They need a connection that isn't viable in that community.

JEMI... I think Gabe is of the same genetic strain as Jonas & the Giver. They are all aberrations/throwbacks. There is something "wrong" in them that causes them to ask questions, to wonder. Even before the training, Jonas is questioning sameness. I think memories need to be repeated, built upon in order to be kept. The Giver probably wants to give them away - can you imagine being burdened with generational memories? You wouldn't have room for your own thoughts. We understand blue because we've seen it, heard it called blue and connected the colour/word over and over again for years and years and years. They don't have that advantage.

JEAN... Yes, it breaks their idyllic little scene. They might have to think and feel and try. Despite the sameness, everyone is very individualistic in that they are insular and in some ways, independent. They aren't to depend upon each other emotionally. They are not to lean on each other, ask difficult questions or question things. Someone who is on the fringe threatens their world. Look at a conservative person with rigid attitudes when they face a skinhead. They don't know what to do and feel uncomfortable. It threatens their 'world' views. They might have to question things.

Shortly after this, Jonas stops taking his “pills”. How did you feel about that?

JEAN... Rock on, Jonas!

JEMI... Not taking the pills is one of the reasons Jonas is able to perceive emotions. The pills are emotional suppressants. These people never go through emotional puberty. They never mature. They are stuck at the preteen emotional stage - the importance of rules, the stress on sameness (equal not fair).

Jonas has a gift…the ability to see colors. At first I didn’t realize that that was what it was—I think when he was tossing an apple back and forth to his friend, Asher—then I realized that no one sees colors. How much are our perceptions and feelings formed by colors? At what point does sameness become unbearable? No blue sky….no red apples….

JEAN... If you know nothing else, how can it be unbearable? I think for Jonas, the more he knew, the more unbearable it became. Plus, it isolated him. He couldn't share color or discuss his new world and experiences. People who are colorblind do see shades and tones, so I imagined it would be the same for the people in this community.

JEMI... I love the way the book has no color words until that point. What an awesome concept! Hard to even imagine. My students spend a lot of time discussing how this could happen. Same with the sun - how do they not see it? Are they in a dome - nope, unless it's big - the jet. It's a powerful message about the human capacity to only see/believe what we want. How we can ignore something until it no longer exists. I think the human brain is incapable of staying in this mode for long. We could retreat there for safety, for escape, but our desire to really live would pull us through. It reminds me very much of Hitler's desire for sameness in the world, and I believe Lowry used this as her basis for the story.


With his first memory of pain, Jonas automatically asks for the release-of-pain pill, but it is refused Jonas by the Giver. Is this part of his “lesson”?

JEMI... Definitely - again, these folks want no emotions at all. They don't want to learn from experience, they don't want to experience. Jonas must learn to deal with small pain before he takes on so much more.

JEAN... I think it was. He wanted to numb himself from the truth, but the whole truth is important to being the one holding the memories. How would be become a good consultant for the community if he blocked the true feelings with the memories he was holding?


There is a ban against books in the community. Only the Giver is allowed to have books and if Jonas were to decide to apply for a spouse, they wouldn’t be able to live together because the spouse could not have access to books. The community would collapse into chaos if people read books. So many things in this novel saddened me, but is that what Lowry intended? To make us think about the value of pain and suffering? This ties into the religious idea of suffering for redemption though oddly enough no religiosity is mentioned in this novel.

JEMI... Yes!!! Lowry wants us to fear ignorance. She wants us to embrace diversity and emotional growth. I can't comment on the religious aspect (no knowledge in that department). I think people need to suffer (hopefully in small doses) in order to enjoy the joys as well. We can't block off one part of the spectrum without blocking off its opposite. That's what this society has done - reduced the pain, therefore reduced the joy, until there is no rollercoaster of emotion - just a plain boring highway. No chance for growth or maturity at all.

Jean… I think youth often feel overwhelmed by the world and its sadness, its truths (heck, adults too) and the idea of making everything fair, even, and the same is a tempting thought. I think by showing how different life would be and how things we take for granted would be taken from us can serve as a real eye-opener. If you want sameness, then you have this whole cascade of effects. No books is one of them.


A turning point for Jonas is when he watches his father release a newborn. As father inserts the needle into the soft spot in the head, Jonas realizes that his father is killing it. Why do you suppose they always released one of a set of identical twins when they celebrate sameness?

JEAN... Because people would confuse the two and cause them embarrassment and other feelings.

JEMI... I think they would regard twins as an aberration. They don't want anything outside of the usual pattern.


The Giver and Jonas plan for Jonas’s escape to find the Elsewhere they both are sure exists. He lies to his parents and they lie to him the night before this is to take place, but then the plan goes awry when Jonas finds out that the child, Gabe, is set to be “released” the next morning. He leaves that very night and takes Gabe with him. Herein lies the biggest question for me. As the landscape changes and Jonas starts to see wildlife and birds and then rain for the first time and then snow, does he or does he not really get to a better place where there is love and music and people waiting? With the special knowledge deep inside him he finds the waiting sled he’s dreamed about and starts down the hill to reach those waiting for him. Or does he? Is Jonas only reliving the memory imparted to him by The Giver? Is the sled real or is he simply hallucinating as he falls into unconsciousness?

JEAN... I don't know. That's the beauty of the ending. You can imagine that he has escaped and found a family. Possibly even people he 'knows' or is related to. Maybe there is a higher order at work. Or maybe he passes out. Maybe he freezes. Maybe he's caught and released. It is a bit fishy that this is a memory that he is reliving. Unless The Giver has memories of the future that are to be lived/fulfilled and those to be avoided/unfulfilled.

JEMI... I love this ending - and my students almost always hate it! They want a cut and dried answer. They want to know - and they want to know NOW!!! I love the "what if' aspect of it. If you haven't done so, you must read Gathering Blue, then The Messenger. Although I didn't find the 3rd one as strong and more than a little weird, it's interesting to watch where Lowry takes us.

In the end, what answered this question for me was when the word "baby" is used for the first time...when Jonas becomes aware that the people at the bottom of the hill are waiting, not just for him, but for the baby too.

JEMI... Yes, it's a powerful image. I don't know if most people catch it. Many of Lowry's messages are hidden in nuances of her writing. She is a master!

JEAN... What does it answer for you?

I think it tells me that there is an Elsewhere and Jonas and the baby find it. I think this is what Lowry herself believes.

The book received awards for Best Book for Young Adults and Notable Book for Children, yet as an adult I enjoyed it, so it has a wide range of appeal. I was interested, Jemi, in how your students received it. Wow….there’s an unintended pun.

JEMI... LOL :) My students can't wait for me to read more. We are just past the point where Jonas learns of war. Complete and utter silence in the room when I read that part! Students generally don't like the book right away. Most of them would probably put it down if they were reading it alone. Older, more mature students might continue - they'd have to be strong readers. It entices them slowly with its bizarre society. They can't understand why anyone would want to live like that. They tend to get more interested during the ceremonies. There is limited discussion during the first few days when I read. Now, they groan when I stop, but keep talking about it during lunch and recess. It's very powerful. I think it's great for kids 10 and up - mostly if someone reads to them for the younger kids. Kids of this age are obsessed with fairness. My very first talk of the year is about how equal is not fair, and fair is not equal. By this point in the year, they are beginning to understand it. This book really helps them make connections and grow as people.
I also get caught up and can ramble on when I'm passionate about something. I am passionate about this book and its themes. Hopefully I didn't bore you to tears :)

On the contrary, this discussion has given me a deeper understanding of the book and all its subtleties. I want to thank you both for joining me in this conversation. I love talking about serious books and their hidden meanings, and I look forward to future discussions about other banned and challenged books on your respective blogs.

And to all my readers, thanks for staying with us during this indepth discussion. Now do yourselves a favor and check out Jemi's blog here and Jean's here.

The Well-Lived Life

We woke to a sheet of ice on everything, but the power held. We only seem to lose power in the summertime from the drain of air conditioning on the electric grid. But what a day—trees to cut and trim, cookies to bake, presents to wrap, bales of straw for the manger and some for the well pit so the pump doesn’t freeze, and wood for the furnace to keep Mum’s house toasty and Dad's arthritis at bay. And now an ice storm to set us back.

I moved my manuscript pages to make room for the Dickens Village (a huge inconvenience) and now they're stacked on my windowsill, stacked on my printer, stacked on my writing table, but I don’t want anyone looking at them. It feels raw, like running naked to the mailbox. No, I didn’t do that. I just don’t want unexpected company out for Christmas cheer walking in the back door and eyeing my stacks of manuscript pages in their disheveled state of revision. The curious questions, or worse, the weighted silence. I've just told you a secret. I'm putting it out there. I don’t want to be read. I want to be read.

Fig tree displaced from the Holy Land.
A nativity scene blown into the ditch
Everyone complains about time.
The end, she says, is near.
So bequeath me a blanket,
the one you just took off your bed.
That's all I want.
And the candle with no wick
in the bottom of the box of ornaments,
like a life well lived and now tucking itself in.
The old Christmas ornaments to a thrift shop?
That’s like pictures of other people’s ancestors
stacked in a corner at the local Goodwill.
Nobody wants that stuff.
Who are they without their frames?
It’s slowly dying without the heat of the Holy Land.
I throw a blanket over it at night
when the sun goes down
but this isn’t the Holy Land
and fig trees can't live on an unheated porch.
Here, holy is clean ground
and the No Toxic Spraying signs
we store in the milkhouse
for winter.

The Secret Life of Words

I'm thinking of words this morning and their secret meanings and how all writing requires at least to some extent a trancelike state. There is a very good post on this exact subject over at the literary lab

John Gardner's little book, On Becoming a Novelist, has become my new bible. And don't let the size of it fool you. It contains a wealth of information, inspiration, and writing exercises, with help on everything from dealing with the probing questions—“but what do you do?” to writer's block (which he says, theoretically there's no reason one should get.) "If children can build sandcastles without getting sandcastle block the writer who enjoys his work should never be troubled by writer's block." But of course nothing is that simple. "The very qualities that make one a writer in the first place contribute to block."

He says a serious writer is sensitive to language and will find vivid metaphors never before thought of, "not just because he's been taught not to use clichés but because words and their varied meanings fascinate him. For instance how “discover” means “to take the cover off.” "

Are you a born writer? One sign that you may be is if you have a gift for inventing authentically interesting language, a gift for using your own odd words and spying out their secrets.

Monsters

In regards to the bizarre Twilight frenzy, this is an interesting blogpost on Bella and her abusive boyfriends from a feminist viewpoint, of which we see too little of.

Captain's Log - what do you see in him again?
And, yes, I changed the title of this post because...just because.

Fun With Words

I'm always wet
but never rust.
Go on and wag me,
if you must.

What am I?




I just felt like a little fun tonight. Any takers?

One more....

What's greater than God
and worse than the devil,
a starving man eats it
and a healthy man never.

If no one figures it out, I'll post the answers tomorrow.