Night Rain
I love listening to the sound of rain when I’m in bed. It raises a sense of nostalgia, a feeling of melancholy–but not in a bad way.
The night saturates
the land
Dark fat drops
plink and plonk
before settling into
a steady drumming
beating a rhythm
the lyrics full of
longing, burgeoning
with desire and
melancholy
the notes rise
like trout to a
fly floated down a
dark slick of water
just there and then
swallowed.
This poem isn’t finished–time got away from me today–but I had fun playing with the senses.
If only I had known
The weight of silence
hangs from my shoulders
like the wet wool coat
I wore that
dark November day
You stood next to me
Tight lipped
Droplets of rain
Jeweling your hair
The ground gaped open
sodden dark earth
bleeding into pale grass
while pouring rain
drummed a mournful tune
on hollow wood
If only I had known
The taste of regret
sours my mouth
like the black coffee
I drank from
a flimsy paper cup
In the hospital
You slept buried
Under mounds
of sterile blankets
hair winging across pillow
The curtains hung open
White moonlight
Shining into dark room
while monitors
beeped the sad echo
of a broken heart.
If only I had known
The smell of missed opportunities
A Morning Job
This is a poem I could probably write on most days ….
Waiting for coffee
a morning job
to shake me loose from
dreams and sleep
inspire action - not reaction -
to start on the list
of chores and should-dos
but instead I sit
pondering the warmth in my cup
the meaning of life and words
and the necessity of
putting life into words
to experience it fully
to live -- or to know
that I am alive
as I sip the bitter
elixir of life
This poem was actually started some time ago. We’d had a sermon or two on Daniel and his friends, and I had jotted a few lines at the time wondering (like I do with most survival stories) whether I would have been able to do what they did. Would I –say in a school shooting situation–be able to stand up for what I believed if it meant death? Of course, whenever I think this, I quickly throw in a “Please God, let me never have to find out.”
But there are all those little moments–standing up to bullies, racists, haters of any sort–or even harder, those who profess to believe the same things I do. Sure, maybe it only involves anger, social disgrace, ostracism–but do I stand up? Small things build, so where do I draw the line? What do I stand for?
Would I, Could I, Should I?
Would I stand up
when all else bowed
legs strong, backbone straight
furnace flames licking heels and thighs?
And when challenged on that upright pose
would I collapse
knees buckling like
a mighty oak
felled with nothing but an axe?
Could I kneel down
when law denied
bow my head and pray to God
while lions roared in nearby den?
Or would I hide my godly pose,
afraid discovery's fangs
might rip and shred
my heart and soul
until I'm nothing, almost dead?
I confess,
I hope I never know.
But should I encounter
no furnace flames or lions' den
but merely tests within, without
and trials in my daily way
Remind me then, oh Holy One
to whom I owe my everything
of Daniel and his mighty friends.
Though knees may quake
and fear course wild through my veins
place Your hand on me
and still my mouth
if that will close the lion's maw,
or help me speak
to put out hatred's fiercest flame
for I am Yours
though small and weak.
Angel Sighting
This poem is essentially a prose poem, but since I’ve never written a prose poem before, I wasn’t sure what the structure should be. When I have more time, I’ll revisit and try it in paragraph form.
The content came to mind during the last several sermons we’ve had in church, where people shared a personal experience they’ve had with God. It reminded me of a time (way back) when I was visited by an angel–or so I do believe.
I met an angel the other day,
downtown, in the rain, by the swollen river.
I was supposed to be scavenger hunting
with a group of teenagers from my friend’s church,
but they were clean and bright, and alive,
—it was April and almost everything except for me was coming to life—
searching for a statue, a stained glass window, a pigeon,
and a playground with a slide.
I didn’t fit in, so I told my friend
—a good, long-suffering friend who didn’t deserve
to be saddled with someone searching for meaning instead of a statue,
for peace instead of a pigeon,
for a window, stained or otherwise, out of the pain—
I had to leave
and that’s how I ended up untethered by all that rushing water
offering peace
—or at least an escape from pain.
I watched a branch twirl,
spin, go under, and re-surface,
dancing in the current that bore it inexorably away
until it was no more.
And it looked easy,
like I could jump in
and disappear,
that water delivering
a cold hard slap to startle in a breath
like a doctor to a new born babe,
but instead of air and cries,
water and silence.
It would be like going backward, I thought,
like being unborn,
taken apart until there was no more known or unknown,
no more pain that ate and ate and ate
chewing through heart and soul until one was consumed alive
but still ravenous.
I thought all these things,
growing numb in the downpour,
leaning a bit farther over the riverwalk edge
to peer at the welcoming waters below.
And that’s when the angel appeared
—although maybe he was there for quite awhile and I just never noticed,
too engrossed in beating back thoughts of failure,
the words never get better
clashing in my head with always feel this way,
supposed to be fixed,
and can’t stand this anymore.
“Whatever you’re thinking,” he said, voice calm and tug-boat steady,
as if we were friends in the midst of a conversation,
“It’s not the answer.”
Solemn faced, brown eyes clear and direct,
he held my gaze.
“Ok,” I said,
nodded and polite smiled,
looking back at the water which churned indifferent below,
wondering what he saw, what my face could possibly have shown.
“How—" I turned back
—whether to plead or question, I’m not sure-
but he was gone.
Not just walking away gone,
—the open area had nothing to block my view, no place for him to hide—
but disappeared.
Gone.
Sure, you might be skeptical
might think I made it up
or maybe even imagined it.
He certainly wasn’t how I would’ve described an angel before
—no wings, no bright light—
but how else might you explain what happened?
Thank God
I sought a different answer
than what the river offered that day.
This year I’m giving up Facebook for Lent. With the time I would have spent perusing social media, I’m going to write. My goal is a poem every day for the 40 days of Lent. Mind you, I’m defining poem very loosely here. It might be as simple as a list, and idea, a sentence, whatever. I don’t claim to be a poet–I just like using that format to reflect on life, the universe, and all matter of other things.
I’ll create a page called Poetry for Lent under the Poetry tab, and you are welcome to check back throughout the days leading up to Easter to see how my goal is coming along. It might very well be a bit like wandering in the desert, but hey, I hope to stumble across some new life somewhere in the midst of it all. I tend to find that if I show, my muse will meet me half way.
School’s out, which means I’m able to be more of a writer. This summer, as I revise my novel, I Feel For You, I’m studying how to be a story genius. The “textbook” I’m using is Story Genius: how to use brain science to go beyond outlining and write a riveting novel.
According to author Lisa Cron, a story is basically “about how someone grapples with a problem they can’t avoid, and how they change in the process.” (pg. 30) Story is, therefore, the internal struggle and change–compared to plot, which is the external events. The book not only talks about why our brains crave story, but it also helps provide what the author calls “a blueprint” for your novel. The blueprint talked about in Story Genius “is not a general outline of the things that happen in the plot; it’s a fully realized synthesis of the internal and external layers of your story from beginning to end.”
Throughout the book there are sections the author calls What To Do. I stop and work on those in my IFFY novel notebook — which is just a notebook (see above picture) where I put ideas, thoughts, diagrams, drawings, explanations… whatever has come up in the course of writing I Feel For You. For me, it is easier to allow imperfection when I write on paper. Something about switching to Scrivener (the writing software I use) makes it feel more like it has be to be… well, good. So I do the brainstorming on paper.
Story Genius would be great for those who have an idea, but haven’t started writing yet. 
I’m revising, but it is still helpful for that as well. The shitty first draft has been written, but I knew I needed to ratchet up the tension. Unfortunately, I wasn’t exactly sure how. Working through Lisa Cron’s book allows me to pin-point WHY the lack of tension, the absence of urgency–and it is also helping me know how to build that urgency into my manuscript.
I’m far from finished, but I definitely have a better handle on what my STORY is — and a blueprint for the plot events that need to happen to create that story.
Utilizing setting to deepen your story
Last night I met with my writing group, and it brought home yet again why writing groups are so important. As a writer, I don’t always realize how much is in my head, but not on the page. My writing group is very good on pointing out what is missing–or what is leading them a down a different path than where I’d intended the reader to go.
In our group, the author reads her piece of writing while the others follow along on their own copy. Then the author sits back like a fly on the wall while the “readers” talk about the piece of writing. So last night after I read my scene, the very first comment went something like this: “I can’t see them–I mean, I can’t picture where the characters are–and that makes it difficult for me to visualize what they are doing.”
Oops, I did it again (to quote a popular but definitely not favorite song). I knew where the characters were, but I forgot to look around and describe it for my readers. The scene started with this sentence:
After school, we headed back to what I called the training room, having finished eating hummus and chips in the kitchen. Grandma Lange led us through the practice of Grounding, and I dutifully imagined roots growing into the floorboards beneath me…..
So okay, we have a time of day–after school–and we have a place–the training room. But that didn’t give my readers enough to see what the characters were doing. Were they sitting? If so, on what? Maybe they were standing–and if so, were they close to each other? Far apart? We can’t SEE them, and that makes what follows confusing.
Not only did my lack of description of the setting make the scene confusing, but I missed an opportunity to deepen the story.
So what can setting do for your story?
In The Urban Setting Thesaurus: A Writer’s Guide to City Space by Angela Ackerman & Becca Puglisi, setting is described as “a powerhouse of storytelling description that deepens every scene.” Not only does it root the reader in the events–or fail to do so, in my case–but it also, if chosen carefully, can “help characterize the story’s cast, deliver backstory in a way that enriches, covey emotion, supply tension, and accomplish a hot of other things to give readers a one-of-a-kind experience.” (p. 1)
In The Rural Setting Thesaurus: A Writer’s Guide to Personal and Natural Places also by Angela Ackerman & Becca Puglisi, setting is described like this:
They’re places that hold meaning for the character and evoke emotion. They provide opportunities for conflict and personal tragedy and growth. As such, birthplaces, bedrooms, schools, workplaces, hangouts, and vacation spots play a pivotal role in shaping who a character is and who he will become. [ ] Written effectively, this emotional connection reaches out to include the reader too.”(p. 1)
Setting, done right, can help a writer:
Let’s look at another example where I think I did a better job making the most of my setting.
After bundling up in winter gear, I stepped into a blinding world. Wherever the sun struck the snow, it sparked a million different colors, like diamonds in the firelight. Wiping watering eyes with the back of a mitten, I headed down the street. My breath plumed out clouds, and the cold air stung the tip of my nose.
In the neighborhoods closer to Lake Michigan, the houses grew bigger. Not that the Williams lived in a mansion, but it doubled my house. The sidewalk ended, and I headed across the street to where it picked up again on the other side just past the entrance to the Lake Forest cemetery. A blanket of untouched snow covered the ground and tucked around the gray and black tombstones and mausoleums.
Once, I’d admitted to Eva that those little stone houses both creeped me out and fascinated me because I imagined someone opening the door and coming out.
Eva had rolled her eyes and said with mock chagrin, “Only you bleeding heart religious sorts believe in anyone coming out of the grave. Stick to scientific fact, you’ll sleep better, I promise. Cemeteries are a waste, just dead space. I plan to donate my body to science. My mom tells me it’s hard for the university medical program to get enough cadavers for student use.”
That’s Eva in a nutshell, I thought, turning to walk the rest of the way to her house. If she can’t test, slice, dice, or document it in some way—it doesn’t exist.
I’d like to think that in this passage, I used setting (the neighborhood and the graveyard) to do more than just help the reader visualize what is happening in the scene. The description of the houses in the neighborhood inform the reader that Eva’s family is richer than Jane’s family.
Having Jane walk past the graveyard allowed me to practice what Fleda Brown (a poet who was a speaker at a writing conference I attended) called going out from where you are. This means using something in the story (in this case, the mausoleums) to travel somewhere else–or some when else. Think about it–our memory often works by association. So a writer can provide backstory in a way that seems natural by using something a character sees, hears, smells, does, or tastes to trigger a memory. In my example, the sight of the mausoleums reminds Jane of a previous conversation she had with Eva.
Adding this bit of backstory triggered by the setting created (or at least, indicated) a source of tension, setting Jane’s view of the world against Eva’s. That tension hints at the larger conflict involving the struggle to accept that which cannot be scientifically proven.
Could my setting do even more? Maybe. I’ll keep working on making my settings multi-task. That’s the joy of re-writing.
Is your setting doing all that it could for your story?
Bedroom Bookshelf
Being a reader, a writer, and a librarian, I have a lot of bookshelves in my house. So many in fact, that you’d think I’d have plenty of room for the new book I’d recently purchased—it wasn’t even a thick book, only 249 pages. But no, when I attempted to squeeze it on the bookshelf in my room, it wouldn’t fit. Nor would it fit with the books on the top of my husband’s dresser. No room on the living room bookshelf either — and certainly not on the shelves downstairs, crowded three times deep.
As I dug through my books, wondering if there were any I could bear to get rid of, I pondered what would be gained, and what would be lost if we went to all ebooks. Obviously, on a virtual bookshelf I could have thousands of books and never run out of shelf space. But on the flip side, bookshelves instill character and personality in a room. If books aren’t a Feng Shui thing, they should be. All those stories, ideas and possibilities create good mojo—I’m sure of it.
When I go over to someone’s house, I love to look at two things — what they hang on their walls, and what is on their shelves. I don’t like to think I’m judgmental about bookshelves, but I probably am—just a little. Mostly if the person doesn’t have any books at all on the bookshelf. I mean really, that’s as sad as having an ice cream cone with no ice cream.
So take a look around you. What does your bookshelf (or bookshelves if you are like me) say about you?
Maybe it should be a new type of personality test. All Fiction on your shelf? You’re an F: a dreamer, an escape artist, and a traveler. You are empathetic and can often see multiple ways of looking at an issue.
All Non-Fiction on your shelf? You’re an NF: a realist, someone who believes in the here and now—as well as in the power of the past. You feel more comfortable with facts than with possibilities, and you believe the more you know, the better off you will be.
Does you bookshelf host a number of both fiction and non-fiction books, like mine? You’re an FNF. You don’t believe you can really dream, reach for the stars, or try new things until you know the facts about this life, this world we live in. You are a realistic dreamer or a dreamy realist. Start where you are and go from there.
Stay with me here, I’m just warming up.
How about Literary or Genre reading? An L type of bookshelf says the reader is well educated (or striving to be), likes to go beneath the surface of things. Often more reserved, this reader tends to observe and analyze things before jumping in. L readers appreciate the story and the language as a form of art. A G reader, on the other hand, likes to get what they want, and quickly. They tend to be action-oriented, and don’t believe in beating around the bush.
Office Area Bookshelf
How am I doing so far? Look at those shelves. Do I know you yet?
Some people like their bookshelves arranged in a certain order. Organized—or O bookshelves—have some sort of orderly system. Books are arranged by size, color, theme, genre, author. This person is efficient, organized, and likes to have things make sense. Being a librarian, I know all about this dewey decimal (or should I call it OCD?) mentality—but my shelves at home? Not so much.
Basement Bookshelves (top shelf)
Random–or R people–accept that life can be random. Their bookshelves are a mishmash of titles, genres, sizes, knick-knacks, and treasures of all sorts. No particular order means searching for things, but the R person believes life is all about the journey.
Sparse bookshelves speak of a thoughtful person who believes the value of something lies in the quality of that item, person, or experience—not in the quantity. For S people, less is more—if that less has meaning. They easily let go of that which does not serve them (to use my yoga teacher’s words—and yes, I hear those words a lot. Maybe eventually they will even sink in.)
Basement Bookshelves (middle shelves)
Cluttered bookshelves on the other hand, speak of an energetic person with multiple interests and curiosity. An idea person, this bookshelf displays a multitude of attempts, successes, and failures. Oddly enough, even though to an outsider there does not appear to be any sort of systematic arrangement of the books and other things on the shelf, C people will often notice if something is moved. (Not that I go moving things on someone else’s bookshelves… at least, not often.)
Basement Bookshelves (bottom shelves)
Then there are the Trinkets versus the No Trinkets. The NTs are purists at heart. Like the O bookshelf people, they like things to make sense, to have a clear purpose, and to do that purpose well. T bookshelf people are those who like to mix knick-knacks or trinkets in among their books. They are typically good at multi-tasking, and tend to be big-picture people rather than detail orientated.
Living Room Bookshelf (I’m not allowed to overfill it)
Does your bookshelf contain mostly new books? Or do you love that old book smell and feel—yes, they do have a particular smell and feel about them. No doubt because of the paper used. OBs are seeped in tradition and NBs actively seek out the next great thing, the next experience.
Paperback or Hard-cover? PB people are frugal. Often they read to be entertained, and therefore want the freedom to travel far and wide, to read whatever suits their fancy. HC book lovers are the loyal, committed sort. Certain authors are like members of the family, and HC people want that relationship to stand the test of time.
Living Room Bookshelf
There are the Self-Help book people (SH = independent, over-analyzers), the How-To manual sorts (HT = Detail people who like to follow the rules), the Memoir/Biography/Autobiography collectors (MBA = a people person, this individual is fascinated with how others live), the Inspirational book readers (I = those looking to deepen their spiritual experience), and the TextBook people (face it, TB people are either students who paid way too much for their books and consequently don’t want to sell it back for a fourth of the cost, or teachers who are never sure where or what they will be teaching).
And finally, any good bookshelf analysis would be incomplete without mentioning the people who collect (and even sometimes read!) Poetry books. P people are deep—or want to be anyway. They are always looking for the essence of things, of life. Emotional—though they may not show it—these are your dreamers, your artists, your never-take-anything-at-face-value sorts.
Living Room Shelves
So what do my bookshelves say about me? That I’m a FNF, L, G, O, R, C, T, NB, OB, P,B HC, SH, I, TB (only the Shakespeare book, I swear. It cost me half a year’s worth of meals.), and yes, a P.
Although, now that I think of it, it might just be easier to say I’m a reader and a writer.
Husband’s bookshelf down in the man cave.
Summer Reading (from 1 of my libraries) — kept in a bag because there is no room on the bookshelves.
Distraction is common experience for me. Granted, more often than not, I am trying to write and real life distracts me. The opposite is more rare, but does happen upon occasion. For instance, this Saturday I had every intention of getting many things done, really, I did. I even started off good, getting up early (though not by choice) to drop my daughter off for drama practice.
The writing distraction part happened on the way home. Driving in the car is a little like showering for the writer me–the monkey in my mind is busy, so my other thoughts can be heard. I got thinking about the novel I’m working on, I Feel For You. (maybe because I was listening to the playlist for that novel.) Specifically, I got thinking about the protagonist and the way she views the world. Jane has grown up in an unpredictable home. Because of that, she has developed a fascination of disaster scales and safety rules in an attempt to predict and stay safe from the storms in her house.By the time I arrived home, all thoughts of doing laundry or vacuuming were gone. Here’s what I did instead –
If Jane is obsessed with it, then I need to know enough about natural disasters and storms to be able to use the correct terminology when sprinkling in her examples and metaphors.
