Tag Archives: writing

Joy

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One of the joys of youth is the ability to abandon oneself to the moment. To “have an experience” is different from “experiencing.” Being experienced—an advantage of middling, or middle, age—allows for tempered reflection before making the decision to have another experience.

We stand, poised at the entryway of whatever adventure lies before us, calculating or overcoming fears, estimating the cost and time involved, weighing risks versus rewards, and so on.

But at some point there needs to be a reengagement with the completely unreasoned and unreasonable voice of youth. It’s the voice that says, “What abyss? I’m leaping into joy.”

And what is joy?

Joy is not something we possess. We are filled with joy. And that does not mean having an experience of joy, but experiencing joy.

For some, like my dear Jessica, whose teeth marks are on the cake pictured above, joy is what she calls “chocolately deliciousness.” For Jess, the empty white plate represents joy fulfilled.

For others, like me, joy is a blank white piece of paper (or computer screen) and another gloriously terrifying opportunity to leap once again into writing. It is the advent of joy, because even though writing is arduous—sometimes to the point of torture—writing is also always bliss.

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    Your Muse Wears Cowboy Boots

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    Have you ever been so tired that you are too tired even to read?

    It has been a long and busy week of days that seemed to contract and expand like bad accordion playing, and here it is Saturday morning. I’m tired—and crabby. Coffee will help.

    Internet problems, rushed editorial meetings, cramped writing deadlines—including some, I admit, that are self-imposed—the latest onslaught of spam and junk mail, discouraging yet to-be-expected interpersonal disappearances down rabbit holes (promises, promises), and ongoing “communication” issues with a variety of sources from brainstorm to typesetting have all contributed to this morning’s grouchy blur. And that’s just this past Monday through Friday!

    I am grateful for the elasticity of a blog. So many deadlines, and expectations, are rigid.

    Nevertheless, over the several months that I’ve been doing this type of writing I’ve enacted a kind of publication schedule that when difficult to meet, can add to the editorial pressures I routinely feel…

    This morning, as I made the trek from restless sleep to coffee cup, nearly tripped by the cat as I reached the very small set of steps into my home office—a daily occurrence as he attempts to herd me toward his beloved food bowl—I was almost too cranky to notice the morning sky: Robin’s egg blue, with just a trace of wispy cloud.

    As I paused to stare out the bay window in the dining room the heat kicked on with a whoosh in reaction to the gust of cold wind that foretells March. 

    March is a good month in my household, filled with brisk weather, birthdays and anniversaries, and a highly anticipated visit from a Shamus O’Malley from Leprechaun Alley. Trickster that he is, Shamus always leaves a trail of funny destruction (he likes to empty underwear drawers and hang boy’s briefs from the ceiling fans), coins, and sometimes even a treasure map in his wake.

    I like to put up St. Patrick’s Day and spring decorations in March. The green everywhere is heartening. I adore the bluster of March wind. It’s invigorating and inspiring. For me, it foretells the descent of the Holy Spirit and the Muse.

    Speaking of which, she’s the one who wreaked the greatest havoc with my schedule this week. I neglected to mention that I also turned in one large manuscript, and completed heavy revisions on and handed in two others. I have no sense of the future of these manuscripts (and hard experience has taught me not to fortune tell), but among the rest of the above, as well as the ins and outs of personal life, much of this past week is lost in the mists of inspiration. As I told my husband late last night, “When the Muse shows up, you invite her to stay for as long as she likes.”

    So the Muse is a demanding guest. I have a lot of cleaning up to do this weekend. And while it’s early Saturday morning, I already need a nap.

    But it’s a blustery day, and I love it. I turn to my left and see a bookcase packed with poetry. On my desk to my right is a pile of books, including a copy of the fiftieth anniversary edition of M.F.K. Fisher’s The Art of Eating, returned to me by my mom, who really knows her way around the kitchen.

    buttercups, black and whiteI flip open to a random page and this is what I read: “There are two questions which can easily be asked about a potato: What is it, and Why is it?” The essay title is “Let the Sky Rain Potatoes.” Suddenly, I’m feeling the urge to read.

    And keep writing. Despite the fatigue, around buttercupsobligations, across rejections, in hushed morning minutes, between rushed afternoon appointments, and through the long exhausted evenings, ever and anon, slinging coffee, flinging my lasso Muse-ward with a “Hi-Yo, Deadline!” and off into the Russet and golden Yukon sunset.

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      Hypercatalexis

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      HAPPY NEW YEAR!

      Today’s Best Word Ever is hypercatalexis: the instance of an additional syllable after the final complete foot or dipody (a prosodic measure of two feet ) in a line of verse. Also referred to as a feminine ending.

      This New Latin noun stepped into the language circa 1890.

      You might find that writing metered verse is rather unbending.
      If so, try hypercatalexis: the feminine ending.

      p.s. This couplet is set in ”fourteeners” (with modulation)—lines of verse composed of fourteen syllables or seven iambic feet, i.e., iambic heptameter.

      p.p.s This couplet also serves as bait to poet-readers who may be tempted to scan the lines in a comment…

      p.p.p.s. Colorado Susan? Wakey, wakey in the Rockies!

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        Mathilda

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        —crayon drawing by Felicia Chernesky

        We recently received a small slew (a slewlet?) of new residents for The Octopus Garden to share with blogopus readers in the new year, including one built with a numeric sense of humor, another advertising his favorite beverage (root beer), and yet one more that lovingly defies the notion that the octopus is not an embraceable creature.

        In the meantime, we’ll close 2011 with “Mathilda,” a crayon doodle I created during a brainstorming session to set this blog swimming in the digital sea.

        As a child I liked to draw almost as much as I liked to read. And while I hadn’t yet discovered writing, my penchant for purple already existed. It’s been my favorite color for as long as I can remember. To me, purple embodies energy, inspiration, beauty, endless possibility, and the marriage of faith and “magic” that fires the act of creation.

        And while we may say we finish a painting, a poem, a composition, what we create never really ends. We carry what we read, see, hear, and make with us forever, modulating on and re-fashioning themes and motifs in our next works.

        In my first post, I wrote that blogopus “is a work in progress, and part of my poet/writer’s journey.” At that time, I imagined reaching a certain number of reader “hits” by year’s end. To my shock and delight, we’ve passed that number. However, blogopus is a learning curve that’s just taking the first bend. There is no clear view of where it will lead, although I’ve also sketched a careful map to follow along the journey.

        So—is Mathilda Robby Octopus’s mama, BFF, paramour, or muse? What do you think?

        * * *

        The Octopus Garden

        We welcome you with eight open arms!

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          Parsnippish

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          Parsnip

          Best Words Ever is on holiday until the new year, but hibernatory post-holiday sluggishness has engendered new terminology among my circle of wordsmiths:

          parsnippish: led by inertia and leftover Christmas cookies to daydream or doze.

          Think of a cat curled in a sunny corner—or more accurately a husband snoring open-mouthed on the couch while the television loops through the day’s sports scores.

          Given that a parsnip, though delicious, tends to look like a carrot in desperate need of shuteye—or a spray tan—I find the term fitting.

          Add there’s no need to get parsnippity if you don’t care for new words or root vegetables, a pair of silk velvet poet’s cuffs, or a nap, will do the trick.

          p.s. People from Parsnippany, New Jersey, may find this post appealing.

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            Don’t Stop.

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                       photo by Lauren Markham

            This morning I shared pancakes, eggs, and coffee with a friend at a local country café at a table bright with brisk December sunshine. We lingered for a long time catching up (the get-together was terribly overdue), but when we noticed platters of burgers and fries being served to the tables around us, we knew it was time to head back out into busy life.

            We exchanged Christmas presents during breakfast, and while I received some really wonderful gifts this year, the gifts my friend gave me had extra-special meaning.

            One was a pair of silk black velvet poet cuffs, to be worn beneath a long-sleeve blouse or jacket with Victorian flair. I buttoned them around my wrists and immediately ached for quill and parchment to pen a sonnet!

            The gift was lovely, thoughtful, and inspiring—and I’ll treasure them.

            Actually, my desk is populated with items that encourage me to write poetry and prose: a pair of fuzzy dice, a golden pear ornament, telling fortunes from take-out cookies, glittering rocks brought home from a Colorado adventure. I’m sure collecting inspirational tchotchkes is common practice for writers and artists, but I wonder how many of us take it a slightly strange step further.

            For example, I have a beloved ratty sweater I wear while editing manuscripts. And to keep creativity flowing, I often wear a fabulous pink rhinestone jellyfish ring (Ebay!) that engulfs my ring finger. While completing a YA novel manuscript I wore an old apron, because one of the main characters ran an inn in the 1830s and many important scenes took place in the inn’s kitchen. And I’ll admit to one more. I put on a pair of giant disco ball earrings (salvaged from an old Halloween costume) when working on a particular middle grade novel manuscript. Don’t ask why; they help me think like a fourth-grader.

            These items put me in a writer’s mindset. They are not triggers to embrace a particular genre or form, but rather a reminder to go for it—no holding back.

            Creating is exhausting, and it’s like what I say about cooking: unless you’ve used every pot, pan, and utensil in the kitchen cabinets and the smoke alarm is going off, you’re not putting everything you have into it.

            Please don’t be concerned—I write this (half) in jest. The other half of creation is good planning. I’m also an organized individual who likes to prepare for all possible courses of action. But I’ve sometimes wondered if this strange combination of care and abandon helps establish healthy ways to ward off fear and writer’s block. 

            The white that winter will surely bring is nothing more than the blank page waiting to be covered. Think those velvet poet cuffs will stay lovingly preserved in their pretty box?

            Not a snowball’s chance.

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              Gadzookery

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              Today’s Best Word Ever is gadzookery: the use of archaisms.

              Methinks this utterance rolled off quill and tongue anno Domini 1955.

              “Tobias, I beseech thee!” Mother cried.
              “Come hither and mark thy duty. Homework awaits.”
              “Alas and alack—I perish!” gasped Toby, feigning a faint.

              SEASON’S GREETINGS WORD LOVERS!

                Best Words Ever will return to ring in the New Year on January 2, 2012!

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                Eye-Service

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                Today’s Best Word Ever is eye-service: attendance to work only while being watched.

                From the 1530s, “work done only while the master is watching,” i.e., slackers in breeches.

                The boss returned early from lunch and the staff—quick to pay him eye-service—scrambled to hide their beach balls, knitting, mountain goats, and castanets.

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                  Coffee & Croissant

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                  photo by Lauren Markham

                  Ah, now that’s more like it.

                  This post is a postscript to yesterday’s “Stuffing It,” which prompted many comments, on site and off. Most noted—the giant marshmallow that obliterated any chance to get to the rich hot chocolately goodness in the mug.

                  We had a lot of fun taking that photo, but it also reminded me of the fable “The Boy and the Filberts,” which I first read in the Pinocchio / Aesop’s Fables volume of our Great Books for Children series—a companion to our World Book Encyclopedia set.

                  Although it appears that “The Boy and the Filberts” is not actually attributable to Aesop, these fables—along with tales of Anansi the trickster spider of African and West Caribbean folklore—were favorite childhood reads, and I frequently returned them.

                  In the fable, a greedy boy reaches into a pitcher, grabs a handful of filberts (hazelnuts), and because he is unwilling let go of a single nut, cannot remove his hand from the jar. The boy bursts into tears and bemoans his fate. A bystander—in my version, “an honest fellow”—wisely advises him to take only half, “and you will easily get them.”

                  A lesson I never stop learning.

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