You Never See Them Coming

*free photo courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net

How do you learn how to say goodbye when they're different every time? There's the stretched out goodbye. Watching until you can no longer see the waving hand, or seeing 86-year-old Baba run to the other side of the bus station to see you one last time. Other times it’s a missed goodbye, like Grandpa getting to the departure gate too late, or your whisper-shout not being heard in the hall.  And then there’s the incomplete goodbye, when you put off writing that last letter until it was too late to send, or when you were too shy to go back to the kitchen for one last hug. And then the indefinite goodbye when soon miles of land or sea will separate you, and every word or handshake might be “last.” They're all different; they’re all the same. Like the unexpected knob at the end of the banister they make you bleary-eyed and somehow you never see them coming.

Walking and Rhyming: Resources to Share

(free photo courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net)

    Did she perambulate? Did she sashay? Did she traipse? Walking style tells a lot about a character's mood, motives, and personality. "60 Synonyms for Walk" on dailywritingtips.com is a handy article you can bookmark for reference.

     Is your goose obtuse, or is it a sleuth in a waterproof booth? Perhaps it's aloof toward the youths. Rhymebrain has plenty of perfect and near-rhymes to help you decide.

Guest Poetry

Near the Pond That Used to Be

by Rina S.

Near the pond that used to be,

There's an old, old hickory tree

My siblings and I used to sit in and occupy.

The sweet morning air

Made me think of a prayer.

The twittering birds

Always gave me the words.

And then I would pray

For the rest of the day.

Though old was the bark beneath me

My safety it could guarantee.

But now I see that same old tree,

Lonely, near the pond that used to be

* "Near the Pond That Used to Be" reproduced with permission from author

Ghost-Writing Revisited: Point of View

      A while ago I wrote a post about ghost writing. I'm still not sure how I feel about it, but just this past week I found myself working on a ghost-project.  I did it this once as a favor for some friends. As far as I can remember, I always write main characters who are a lot like me but imbued with the good qualities I lack. But for the ghost-project I wrote in a male, first-person voice. It felt really strange, and it was kind of hard. I never write stories with male main characters! I think it turned out pretty well, though, and it was a good exercise.

So, if you want to challenge yourself, try this: write a first person letter directed to anyone but written from the perspective of someone totally unlike you (Opposite gender, opposite end of the age range, opposite personality, etc.).

*Free photo courtesy of freedigitalphotos.net

Ekere Tallie: Poet

Courtesy of Ekere Tallie

   I met a poet this semester, at the "playshop" she led in our Jazz Lab. Her name is Ekere Tallie, and she's such a bright, open, thinking person.  Although she looked young and girlish with her green headband and brown leggings, she seemed so wise. Not only did she give good advice, but also she really seemed to value and see a deeper meaning behind the writing that we workshoppers shared.

 Of all the things that Ekere said, what stood out most to me was that:

-the job of the writer is to see and to hear
-writing is about details and coming up with your own unique angle on a subject
-smells and other senses bring up memories

    To practice those three things, Ekere brought a lopsided little apple for us to hold and to look at. For five minutes everybody wrote a description of it, and then we shared. For one girl, the fruit brought back memories of grocery shopping with her grandma. One man used his description to ruminate on human nature. And two others could only think of all the germs the apple had collected from being passed around! My on-the-spot paragraph wasn't very good, but I took one of the principles behind the exercise and used it in my story. Here's that bit:

  Eleanor let out a shaky breath and tested the cider. It was cool enough to drink, and she took it in sips. The warmth in her throat revived her, but the taste brought back a memory of picking basketfuls of cherries with her siblings in the summer.

That detail provided a little bit of character history and made her, I think, a tad more 3-D.
How can you use your own take on details that you sense, together with your own experience, to broaden your writing?



If you're interested to learn more about Ekere, you can visit her website!

Cartography

   One of the fun things about writing is that you get to wear a lot of different hats (as the saying goes). I wore a cartographer hat for my Thibault story! Here's an in-progress map of the continent of Lurith, where he lives.

Sorry it's not finished. Here's a little key:
Big green/yellow country=Fauldland
Bottom left-hand country=Atlace
Bottom middle w/ trees=Ruvin
Rightmost long=Boronovia
Cluster of countries=Lowlands
Little land beneath Lurith=Ferfeith

So, what hats do you wear?

Lemonade & The Lark

   I have a confession to make. In January, (in my post "An Ailing Imagination & Ghost Writing") I set a goal for myself to write 100 pages of the same story by May 2013. Well, I didn't. BUT! On Monday I did finish writing my first draft of the Thibault story, thanks to my class deadline. The three days before our short story was due, I worked furiously on it--I got a total of 11 hours of sleep.
   I turned it in 16 hours late, and it was 28 pages long, but my gracious classmates read it and even seemed to enjoy it. They were duly rewarded by cold lemonade (really good for a summer day like today), cinnamon crumb muffins, coconut macaroons, homemade Scotch tea things, and sweet early cantaloupe.

   I won't be posting the entire story here, but in the next few posts you can expect some juicy morsels like excerpts and maps. Today's treat is the full version of a poem that appears in the story.
Photo: courtesy of Rina

“The Lark”

Tinnin with the flaxen hair

Was called away to war

“The enemy's advancing and

We're running out of men.”

A lark, a lark, a yellow lark

Saw Tinnin's boyish tears

It beat its wings and sang a song

Of courage to his heart

So Tinnin left his lady fair

and fishnets at the door.

His only knife was in his hand—

He faced the lion's den.

A lark, a lark, a singing lark

Assuaged young Tinnin's fears

And though the fighting lasted long

He stayed to play his part