Concrete Poem

Just a little concrete poem I wrote a while back.

Hope you enjoy it!

                  The Call of the Whale

My name is Dylan,                                                                      “Lover of the Sea.”
    Or so my mother                                                                hoped I’d always be.
    The palm fronds swayed                                            the day that I was born.
        And sea gulls screeched their                            welcome from the shore.
          A family of simple needs raised            me. Our livelihood was eked out
            from the sea.  From babe to boy,      my playground was the beach;
                Observant ocean never failed to teach.  But I, unwilling student,
                    would not hear and dreamed instead of arid west frontier.
                    Two years of misery in desert quest; I searched for verve
                        but found I was depressed. ‘Neath empty skies and
                          cacti's harsh embrace, the ocean ebbed and
                                  pulled me from that place.  Thalassic
                                          prodigy returned at last, at
                                            ocean’s edge I stood and
                                              viewed my past: I was
                                              the whale compelled
                                                to breathe fresh air,
                                                  an orcan idealist
                                                  lunged, unaware.
  In reckless flight I'd faced a basic fact. A  whale lives under
     contract most exact. I’m from the sea and  it’s a part of me;
                  My salty tears were proof and guarantee.









Have a wonderful day!

                                    

On Submission...again

Image snagged from Source

I spent the afternoon revising and spit-shining a short story for submission. It's amazing how much easier the editing process is when you've put the project aside for a couple months.

I hadn't reread this particular story since early spring when I submitted it to a literary magazine called Independent Ink. That market generally takes 120 days to notify authors of acceptance or rejection, although they state on the website that if the story is of interest to them but not right for the issue they're currently preparing, they may take longer to announce the acceptance, to coincide with the issue it will appear in. I've now been waiting to hear a 'yay' or 'nay' for 139 days...A good sign or not, I can't guess.

At any rate, I decided to submit the story to other markets. If it is accepted someplace else, I'll withdraw it from Independent Ink's consideration.

I hadn't forgotten what the story was about, but I had become distant enough from it to enjoy it as a reader would. I wasn't skimming the words like I did when it was well-rehearsed in my writer's brain. I actually read it.

And, naturally, I found places where a tweak was in order. After some minor adjustments that, I think, strengthened the flow and overall emotional impact of the story, I sent it off. I don't think I'll ever get over the nervous, flip-flopping jitters I feel when I push the "Submit" button. It's a gulp from a big glass of exhilarating terror. Makes me sort of drunk, every time.

Now I have to settle in for another 90-day wait, on average. Plenty of time for cramps to take hold of my tightly crossed fingers. Going to try to put it out of my mind and just write.

Just write.

Just.Write.

 

                                    

Facing the Fear

On a warm spring day this year, my daughter opened a canvas camping chair and settled in to read a book in the shade of our small front porch. That evening, instead of hauling the chair back to the garage like she should have, she pulled up on the four corners of the chair back and seat front, collapsing the chair up into a vertical bundle. She stood it in the corner next to the front door and then went into the house.

A week later, we noticed the nest.

A mama Bewick's Sparrow had discovered the hammock-y nook that the seat bottom created, sheltered on all sides by folds of stiff canvas. She'd deemed it the perfect spot to nest, and before long we spied six speckled eggs atop a bed of woven twigs and straw.

Try as we did, remembering to use an alternate exit from the house proved difficult, and the regular traffic of neighborhood kids ringing the doorbell in search of playmates increased with the lengthening days. Each time someone drew near, Mama Sparrow took panicked, sputtering flight, several times smacking into the porch eaves in her haste to flee.

Then one day, she just never returned. Without her attention, the abandoned eggs succumbed to the elements, their precious contents surrendering to the chilly spring air.

As a novelist I am like that Mama Sparrow. I build a story nest. I outline on paper, weaving character sketches with plot points, constructing something tangible from the ideas floating in the quiet safety of my imagination. A new project excites me; it consumes my waking thoughts. As I wash the dishes, the characters speak. When I fold the laundry, scenes play out. Driving the car, I see setting landscapes rise on the horizon of my mind. All the eggs are laid. Nothing left to do but roost and write.

Something happens to me at this point in the project. I get spooked. I stare at the blank screen. I begin the first chapter, but wind up scratching the first scene. I start over with a different character, or put him in a different room, outdoors, three days before, one month later...

I give myself time off. Sometimes, I'm told, stepping back from the project gets the creative fires burning again. I try anew, and the same thing happens. I jump back again in panicked, sputtering flight.

And I've learned that when I flee often enough, the fragile ideas sense impeding abandonment. They cool off and perish, like unattended eggs in a nest.

For whatever reason, I don't struggle this way with my short fiction. And I question whether I'm just being stubborn in my desire to write a novel. Then I recognize, again, the fear lingering in-between the words in that sentence. The urge for flight is strong, but my love for writing and faith in the process must be stronger. 

And the moral of this story is this: Story ideas, like any artistic inspiration, must be acted upon in the heat of that initial, stimulating enthusiasm. How many times have you been driving down the road and a brilliant idea for a character comes to you? And how many times have you later gone to your computer to write about her, and her essence has evaporated from your mind like mist in morning sunlight? Writers can't put off inspiration. Not for a busy schedule, not for lack of sleep, and certainly not for fear.

[The above article was originally published on June 15, 2011 in my monthly newsletter at Writing.com.]

As I face my fears and embark on my second attempt at a full-length novel, I wish all of you the same inspiration and perseverance for your current writing endeavors that I'm beckoning for mine.  Write on, friends! 

                                    

An "O-less" Short

Miss Match

         I’m hardly a girly-girl. I live large and in charge, and my tats, spiked hair and perverse jewelry keep any inquiring men at arm’s length when I’m in public. Still, as I rambled up the sidewalk flanking the Sunset Strip, I realized I was taking a risk. This late after dark, the freaks always emerged.

         I didn’t care. Fierce anger brewed in my gut. The fight with my beau, Dennis, lingered, eating away at me. Defiant, I trudged ahead, raging silently, turning excuses in my mind even as the actual argument slipped away. He’d dared utter that language at me, dared challenge my sincerity. Unbelievable.

         I raised my gaze and saw a man dressed in full Dracula regalia heading my way. His cape lifted behind him with haunting grace, as if in the still nighttime air an ethereal headwind blew just at him. Steps away, he halted right in my path. Drawing in a breath that puffed his chest, he tasted the air between us like a dégusteur sampling a fine wine. Leveling his gaze, he addressed me.

         “Excuse me,” he drawled with an authentic Transylvanian accent, “but I seek asylum in a lieu rich with helpless victims.”

         Strange as it was and despite the dark, deserted street, I didn't feel alarmed. Instead I laughed, surprised at the sudden lightness I felt. My anger had seemingly vanished. I jutted my hip. “Where’s the party, dude?” I asked, letting my eyes finger his face. He had exquisite facial features, dark and beautiful in a gleaming, buffed marble way. Mercy, I suddenly felt drunk.

         Dracula’s red-rimmed eyes emitted an eerie light. “Party?” His lips curled, until they became a measured, sickle-shaped smile. Was that a fang?

         Chill bumps tickled my skin.

         “Yes, magnificent idea, my dear girl. Where is party?”

         Dennis (the Dick’s) stupid face entered my mind. I glanced at my watch; it’d be a while until Dennis started fretting, regretting what he did. Screw him. I was fine with him suffering all night, after what he’d said earlier.

         “Yeah, let’s party. There’s a wild dance club three streets that way.” I indicated with a skull-ringed finger. “I’ll lead the way.”

         As Dracula fell in silent step beside me, I asked, “Incidentally, why didn’t I seem like a--” I drew reference marks in the air with knuckle-bent fingers, “--helpless victim?" I jabbed him playfully in the ribs. "I’ll bet it’s my wicked attitude and punk attire, right?”

         He chuckled, a vibrating hum that encircled my head and rattled my essence. “It isn’t that.”

         I bristled. What else made sense?

         “Just aren’t my type, my dear,” he said airily.

         “And what type is?” I challenged.

         He turned and smiled, extended fangs sparkling in the streetlamp’s glare. “My preference, dear girl, is A-negative.”

 Thanks for reading!!  Hope you have a fantastic weekend!

                                    

~PAUSE~

The time has come for me to admit to myself and all my online friends that I need to push the cyber 'Pause' button, even though doing so will halt most of my daily Web adventures.

I love this blog!  And I adore all of you, my friends who have taught me so much about a writer's journey by sharing yours.  I never want to lose touch with you!  I'm not unplugging for good, just pausing. J

Here's the thing:  It's summertime in Georgia.  My kids have been out of school for a week, and time management has become a knife juggler's act.  Daily workouts (that I sooooo need!), regular housecleaning (bleh.), trips to the neighborhood pool (yeah, life's tough...), and spending quality time with my kids (they are the best!) leaves very little time for me.


When I sneak away to the computer, I want to write.  But instead, I read blogs, update my own, Facebook my friends and family, and tweet.  Also, I'm a moderator at Writing.com, and I have responsibilities that go along with the title that include submitting a monthly newsletter and reviewing member stories and poems.  By the time I actually open my WiP document, the kids are accusing me of being 'boring' again, and would I please come down and hang out with them.


So, clearly something's gotta give.  Although this decision wrings my heart, I've decided to change my blogging goals for the summer.


Instead of using this platform to network, learn, and enjoy the awesome writing community you have all provided me, it will become my writer's journal.


About once a week, I'll update my progress, give voice to my frustrations, and simply validate my writing efforts.  I don't expect anyone to read these posts, especially since I won't be leaving comments on many other blogs.  I will read posts during writing breaks, but my presence will be like the scent of honeysuckle on a spring breeze, sweet but barely perceptible.


I hope my wonderful followers won't drop me, but if some decide to unfollow I'll understand.  So much of blogging is reciprocation; this I know and respect.


I plan to stay connected through the convenience of Android (I love you, new phone!!).  I tweet regularly, something I can do away from my computer.  If we haven't found each other on Twitter, I'm @NicoleDwrites.  I follow back! 


I'm also on Facebook: Nicole Ducleroir.  If we're not friends yet, send me a request pleeease!  I want to know how your writing is going and cheer you on.


If you'd like, leave me your twitter ID and facebook name in the comments, so I can find you.


I will miss regular blogging, but let's face it: what do I need a platform for if I'm not WRITING??  Time to put the horse back in front of the cart.  (Ick, a cliché *shudder*)  Man, can I do this?  I already miss blogging, and I haven't clicked publish yet!  Okay, deep breath.  Here it goes...

                                    

Sneaky Red Sock GIVEAWAY Winners!

The winners of The Sneaky Red Sock Giveaway are:

Monica Mansfield @ Storytelling and Me

Susanne Drazic @ Putting Words Down on Paper

Linda H. @ Lind-guistics

Whoot!!!!  Each of you have won a signed copy of Ali Murdoch's poetry collection entitled The Sneaky Red Sock.  Congrats!  I'll be in touch via email to gather your mailing 411.

Thanks for playing along, everyone!

                                    

Sneaky Red Sock GIVEAWAY!

[Don't miss the Giveaway details at the bottom of this post!!]

A couple months ago, my sister's brother-in-law contacted me about a book his colleague wrote titled The Sneaky Red Sock.

Ali Murdoch is the creative mind behind this eclectic collection of poems.  Murdoch's sense of humor permeates everything he pens, including his Amazon Author Central author blurb:

Ali Murdoch is an entrepreneur turned author, who had to rely on the business route when his sporting career was cut tragically short by a lack of any real talent. The father of three very troublesome children he lives on Long Island, New York and does his best to keep control by threatening to recite poems at night unless they go to bed. It even works some of the time!

What I loved about this book:

Murdoch's clever prose reminds me of Shel Silverstein's work.  Like Silverstein, Murdoch crafts poems with a wonderful melodic quality and canny humor.

Every poem illustrates the sharp, witty way Murdoch perceives the world around him.  This book is full of smart plays on words and observant imagery that brought a smile to my face again and again.

The comic drawings by illustrator Simon Goodway were brilliant and heightened the humor of each piece.

The website Murdoch created to promote his book is wonderful!  Check it out here --> www.sneakyredsock.com

Here's an example I loved from the book:

Committed
by Ali Murdoch, The Sneaky Red Sock, page 24

I was given a quiz, which I think I've solved
To explain the difference between Committed and Involved.
I was eating my breakfast, when the analogy fitted,
The hen was involved, but the Pig was committed.


Some Criticisms:

This book is self-published -- which I think is fantastic!!  However, a publisher may have cautioned against a couple things, such as:

The Sneaky Red Sock looks like its target audience is children.  The cover art is bright and cartoon-ish, something I would expect to see shelved in the children's book section.  And, the back cover blurb begins with, Welcome to a world where booby traps are successfully sprung, ghosts frighten teddy bears, and sneaky red socks turn everything in your washer a nice salmon color.  -- All this suggests to me that it is appropriate for children.

And in fact, many of the poems are.  But many aren't.  In the back blurb's second paragraph, Murdoch says, Misbehaving children and even grandparents' rowdy parties are all dissected with a moral scalpel...  -- I think a traditional publisher would have taken greater care to market this book to one intended audience.

Also, a publisher would have used a professional editor who would have found and fixed the mechanical issues throughout the book, starting perhaps with the punctuation typo on the back cover:  This eclectic mix of poems, cartoons and ditties brings you face to face with the US Army's most secretive of weapons, "the Bunny Blaster" and their all new "Think Tank".


Above all else, though, Murdoch's wonderful sense of humor captures your attention and keeps you turning the pages to see what ingenious and entertaining observations of life's absurdities he tackles next.  The Sneaky Red Sock truly has something for every member of the family to enjoy, though adults should pick out those their younger children will most appreciate.

I have THREE signed copies of The Sneaky Red Sock to share with you!  To add your name to the drawing I'll hold on Monday, May 23rd simply leave me a comment on this post!

Please Tweet and FaceBook!  Thanks!!