Posted on

It’s Wednesday. Wake up.

Every Wednesday, I write a post based on Today’s Word at Wordsmith.org. You can find past essays or flash fiction pieces under the Wednesday’s Word topic on the sidebar.

From Wordsmith.org, Today’s word:

callithump. noun. 1. A noisy, boisterous celebration or parade. 2. A mock serenade with pots, pans, kettles, etc., given for a newly married couple. Also known as charivari or shivaree.

And, as we near the end of National Poetry Month, I dare to write a poem and end this post with a song.

*****

Wake Up.

I am nudged awake
By the snout
Of my black lab.
Whose chin,
Wet from her morning drink,
Shocks me
And ensures
I don’t drop off
To sleep again.

She demands her walk.

Eyes barely open,
I slip into last night’s jeans,
A crumpled shirt,
My crocks.
And, I turn to see
She’s holding the leash
In her mouth-
A sign that I
Am moving
Too slow.

“It’s early yet,”
I whisper,
And, I hope
For a quiet walk.
But my sleek, dark friend
Has a different plan.

She pulls me along
Through a cacophony of music,
The sounds of a city
Revving up its day.

Squeaky brakes from a bus
Pitch an off-key tune,
And a jackhammer
Down the block
Sets the beat.
Bada-dum.
Bada-dum.
Bada-dum.
I am pulled by my dog
Until my pace falls in line.

I hear sounds from the left
And noise from the right
Like instruments, I think,
And I swear
People must be
Hiding
In alleys,
With cymbals
And triangles
And maybe a wood block.

They play a song
Of the city
Coming alive.
A tune
That culminates
When we reach
The fountain.

She stops,
My four-legged guide,
And looks right at me
With a grin. She’s sly.
I cock my head
As the water rises
And falls
Like the sound
Of applause
From an audience
Unseen.

*****

And, the song that woke me up this morning and reminded me to look around and listen and breathe. Happy Wednesday, folks!

On a side note: In an effort not to confuse anyone who knows me well enough, the poem is fictional. I don’t have a black lab. But, if I did, I wouldn’t need an alarm clock.

[tweetmeme]

Posted on

The Mother, The Writer: History repeats itself.

When I was pregnant with my first child, experienced parents approached me and my rounded belly and always smiled an empathetic smile.

One by one, they hinted at what I was in for once that baby arrived: no sleep, life as I knew it would be over, and the crying…oh the crying.

I heard them, but I didn’t heed their words, because I was riding high on the excitement of holding a baby in my arms. Sleep is underrated, I thought. Life is boring anyway, and a baby’s cry? Like the sound of sweet music.

But after my son was born, I realized the crying of which they warned me were the sobs of a new mother. Cries from me, falling apart after several sleepless days and nights and battles with feeding and a moment in the hospital when I feared I would never be a good mother.

“I told you that you’d feel this way,” my sister said, through her own tears, as she tried to comfort me.

My recent attempt at fixing my WIP brought with it a similar flood of emotion and self doubt.

I’ve read over and over how novel writing is hard work – the first draft may come out easy, but the real challenge comes in rewriting. I nodded each time I read those words, because the logistics made sense. A first draft is never perfect. I got it.

Then, I pushed those wise words aside and set my gaze on a dreamy image of me holding a published novel in hand. I told myself, I can do this rewrite thing, chapter by chapter. And, character development (my latest issue)? That’s easy enough. I’m the author. I can make up whatever I want.

But, that’s not exactly true. While I, the author, control all the variables, those variables must make sense in relation to the real world. As Larry Brooks says it in his book on character development*, a character’s “…major behavioral tendencies and specific actions need to be in context to psychological truths, and if [they aren’t] your story will suffer for it.”

After a few days of scribbling notes and typing frantic details into a new document, I stared at my WIP with wide eyes and climbed aboard that same roller coaster that new mothers ride. My head swelled and my stomach fell and soon enough I said out loud, I’m not so sure I can do this. What if I get it all wrong? What made me think I could ever write a novel?

As I write this post, it all sounds so dramatic. But, that’s the way I felt in the last few days. And, I don’t think I’m alone.

Ray Bradbury was talking to some self-doubting writer when he said, “You fail only if you stop writing.”

And, Amy Tan was easing the fears of another writer when she said, “I started a second novel seven times and had to throw them all away.”

Whether I start over completely from scratch, or I get back into the ring with my main character and wrestle her into confession, I’m not sure. Regardless, I have a WIP in my hands, a story that needs finishing, and I am the only one who can do it.

~

* Brooks, Larry. 2010. The Three Dimensions of Character Development: Going Deep and Wide to Create Compelling Heroes and Villains. [e-book] Larry Brooks, available at www.storyfix.com.

[tweetmeme]

Posted on

Red Velvet Sunday

Every Wednesday, I write a post based on Today’s Word at Wordsmith.org. You can find past essays or flash fiction pieces under the Wednesday’s Word topic on the sidebar.

*****

This week on Wordsmith.org, each word of the day is paired with a pictorial representation. Yesterday’s image for Old Man of the Sea (yes, five words combine to make one word of the day) made me laugh, especially after I read the definition:

Old Man of the Sea. noun. A tiresome burden, especially a person, difficult to free oneself from.

I give you my inner editor who, when I stare at my WIP on my laptop screen, demands “more character development and less exposition!”

Too bad these posts aren’t filed under Tuesday’s word.

On to Wednesday.

You might want to do some speech warm-ups before you try to pronounce this word; it’s a mouthful:

Pygmalionism. noun. 1. the state of being in love with an object of one’s own making. 2. The condition of loving an inanimate object such as a statue or an image.

What immediately came to mind for me, after reading that definition, were three words: red velvet cake. A home made red velvet cake – with its magical red chocolate middle hidden under creamy white icing – says, You are special.

A red velvet cake is so extraordinary that one bite will take you out of the moment and into a dream.

*****

Red Velvet Sunday

When Bethany awoke, the sun had already positioned itself behind the top branches of the tree outside her window. Rays of light shot through leaves that glistened and reflected and pierced her sleepy eyes. She looked at the clock. Eleven thirty. As she sat up in bed, she heard a thud, like something hit the wall of her parent’s room next door. She held her breath. The rumble of her father’s voice made her heart race.

She turned to her window, and a cardinal popped into view. He sat on a branch, cocked his head, and called out a song to her.

On her way to the bathroom, she passed her parent’s door.

Her mother yelled. “Why even bother to come home!”
Her father shouted back. “I pay for this house. I’ll come home when I damn well please!”

Bethany closed the bathroom door and put her hands on the sink. She looked up at her reflection. Her index finger followed the brown shadow that still remained under her right eye – a consequence of her last attempt to break up her parent’s fight.

“Stupid,” she told her reflection. Stupid to get into the middle when their voices raged. But, she couldn’t stand her mother’s screams that day.

She brushed her teeth, went back out into the hall, and raised her right hand to her ear as another barrage of words exploded behind their closed door.

He set her straight. “It’s none of your damn business where I go!”
She threatened. “I won’t lay down for you anymore!”

As their voices crescendoed, Bethany disappeared into the kitchen. She closed the swinging door and turned on her father’s transistor radio. Across the AM waves, a man sang about branches in a tree and reaching for freedom.

‘Cause there’s a place in the sun
Where there’s hope for ev’ryone

She opened the kitchen cabinet and pulled out the flour, sugar, cocoa, and a bottle of Mrs. McCormick red food coloring. While other girls her age spent their babysitting money on cds and t-shirts, Bethany spent hers on concealer and bottles of food coloring. One four ounce bottle was the exact amount she needed for a two-layer red velvet cake.

Continue reading “Red Velvet Sunday”