Goodmorning? Maybe…

Its early; too early, I think, for the time I went to bed last night.  This being the summer, my internal clock has reset and my body has decided that I should be awake from 11 a.m. to 3 a.m.; tough hours to stick to when you have three kids. Now I’ve got a bit of a headache and I’m drinking my first cup of coffee, reflecting on the day ahead of me. I actually feel somewhat guilty that I didn’t do the Friday5 last Friday; the questions didn’t suit me.  Instead, I worked on my WIP and on Saponifier, which is what I’m working on today.

I’m using Google’s new Task List, a part of Gmail.  As a serial email-checker, every time I look for new messages, I am now confronted with a list of things I need to accomplish by the end of the day.  I’m hoping that the little notes will remind me of all the things I have needing done, thus making me more effective as both a writer and Managing Editor, but we’ll see.  I have superhuman powers to stubbornly procrastinate.

I snapped a picture that I want to share with you;  I thought it might help generate a little inspiration for someone.  Its a picture of the sunset and the moon, as seen from my driveway at about 8 p.m. on July 23rd.  Being of the sort that needs inspiring, I’m also going to share a poem, one that seems to fit the mood I’m in today.

The Moon
by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 – 1822)

I
And, like a dying lady lean and pale,
Who totters forth, wrapp’d in a gauzy veil,
Out of her chamber, led by the insane
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,
The mood arose up in the murky east,
A white and shapeless mass.

II
Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

And with that, I’m going to finish my coffee (and perhaps a Blueberry Pop Tart) and start on my day.

How do you define a story?

sto⋅ry: noun, plural -ries, verb, -ried, -ry⋅ing.

1. a narrative, either true or fictitious, in prose or verse, designed to interest, amuse, or instruct the hearer or reader; tale.
2. a fictitious tale, shorter and less elaborate than a novel.
3. such narratives or tales as a branch of literature: song and story.
4. the plot or succession of incidents of a novel, poem, drama, etc.: The characterizations were good, but the story was weak.
5. a narration of an incident or a series of events or an example of these that is or may be narrated, as an anecdote, joke, etc.
6. a narration of the events in the life of a person or the existence of a thing, or such events as a subject for narration: the story of medicine; the story of his life.
7. a report or account of a matter; statement or allegation: The story goes that he rejected the offer.
8. news story.
9. a lie or fabrication: What he said about himself turned out to be a story.

Recently, there has been some discussion on one of the lists to which I belong surrounding the controversial topic of stories.  I hadn’t thought this to be a topic open to debate, but much like the art -vs- craft issue facing those who produce creative handmade goods, it seems that there are battle lines demarcated and ammunition being stockpiled by those on each side of this literary battle.

One fervent believer argued that poetry is glimpses, not a story; that without a well defined plot, there is no story.  Another replied that as long as you met with progress throughout the piece, such as the development of a character’s personality, then it would indeed be a story. They fired a volley of frantic messages between them, many of us merely observing from the sideline.  Others joined in, tossing their own choice grenades into the fray, comments like, “if it doesn’t have a clear beginning, middle and end, it isn’t a story,” and, “you can’t define a story unless you know the context you’ll be defining it in.”

As the messages continued to roll in, first five, then twelve, thirty now, I tried my best to ignore them.  I sent most to the trash without reading them, but couldn’t help seeing words in the mail preview as I hit delete.  And it left me wondering.

Why all the fuss?  Why not just write?

There are things in life that we’ll never be able to explain, never be able to quantify or pigeonhole.  Things that are subjective, like beauty, pleasant scents, and apparently what the definition of a story is.  So, as they continued their debate, I continued to write, adding another 5,000 words to the work in progress.

Out and About

I went to the beach today, taking along my camera and my new journal.  Its pages are getting filled with rather messy lines of black writing, and I’m proud to say I’ve collected all those random thoughts and vague ideas that tend to get lost when we’re in the throws of life.

I snapped a picture to share with you…

I’ve been writing a lot lately.  In the past week I finished one 8,000 word piece and am already 10,000 words into another.  I’m not sure if its just a phase, or if I will be able to keep it up- and I’m certainly not sure of the quality. We’ll see…

Anyway, here’s a poem to make your Sunday better.

Somewhere

by Linda Harnett

Oh, to be lying,
On a beach,
Somewhere,
With sand in my toes,
And the wind,
In my hair.

And only the sound,
Of the seagulls,
On high,
On a beach,
Somewhere,
Under sunny blue sky.

The gentle caress,
Of the waves,
On the shore,
And you close,
Beside me,
Could I ask for more?

A soft sandy beach,
That goes on,
Forever,
You, me,
And a beach,
So happy together.

Long Day

It was a long day. Fun, but long.  Got some writing in; not nearly what I wanted, but enough to keep the creativity going.

We had some errands to run today. Before we left, I went out to check the mail and was pleasantly surprised to see a group of White Ibis snacking on the lawn.

I didn’t bother checking the mail; I didn’t have the heart to disturb them.

One of our errands took us to the bookstore.  I continued my trend as a notebook addict and purchased a new one.  It has a hard back and spiral binding.  The inside is lined, and has already been christened with both writing and a picture.  Here’s what it looks like:

My husband also found a pretty interesting looking book which has been added to my ‘To Read’ list:

I have a pretty full work day tomorrow, so I’m off to bed. I thought I’d leave off with a poem tonight.

Last Boat

By Betsy Sholl

We were waiting for the ferry,
lolling on the lowest ramp, on floats,
shifty with wave slush, dip and sway.

We were sun-seared, sapped, soaking in
the latticework, wooden scaffolding,
stacks of lobster traps, pilings stained black

from creosote and tar, green with seaweed
combed out on receding waves, swirled back
by water’s slap and curl: levels and lengths

of working docks, creaky planks, crossbars
of tacked asbestos for stopping the slip
on slick days–the whole wet rush,

the gleaming run-down fertile place.
We were sitting on a dock of the bay,
watching how matter melts into

quivery silks of light, a brilliant seethe,
a glittery tease of there
and not there, such dazzling manna.

We were squinting through shadows
at little flamelike fish flickering
among weeds–a whole world it seemed

flaring under the ramshackle,
barnacled, rock-bottom dock, all flow
and flown, and we were resting in

the brevity, the breve, breviary,
the never-ending not-me: waiting
for the ferry, wishing it wouldn’t come.

Treasure Hunt Tuesdays

I’ve decided that Tuesdays need a theme here and, in a rare moment of decisive action, I’ve chosen one.  Treasure Hunt Tuesdays, in case you hadn’t guessed from the title of the post.  The idea is simple; I’ll go through some of my favorite books, poems, blogs and articles and randomly choose a gem of an excerpt to share.  If you feel like playing along, you can do the same.

And now to kick off Treasure Hunt Tuesdays- my first gem:

“Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt! May your eyes never shed such stormy, scalding, heart-wrung tears as poured from mine.  May you never appeal to Heaven in prayers so hopeless and so agonized as in that hour left my lips; for never may you, like me, dread to be the instrument of evil to what you wholly love”

(Jane Eyre, Chapter 27)

How can you not love this piece? Talk about conveying an emotion…whew!

blaspheme

pschyidelic colors bloom
caress the recesses of my mind
the vampire touch

slowly

draining my life

on demand
instantly gratified
electric currents licking

sucking

drowning out my voice