OctPoWriMo 17: Did You Smile Today?

Take a turn down whimsy lane,
where the black and marigold cat stalks
with head and tail held high, past the shrubbery,
teasing the little white lap dog behind that picket fence,
who romps back and forth,
its shrill bark piercing the morning quiet.
Take a right on Mulberry Lane to the coffee shop
where for a moment, that strong scent of lemon,
tea, and hot lattes offer distraction.
Maybe we could walk far enough to the beach
where waves roll in, splash on the sand,
and the next line of waves returns,
at least until the tide turns.
We'll talk softly, stare at the horizon,
and maybe we'll smile.

Image from Pexels on Pixabay

NOTE: With special thanks to Morgan Dragonwillow and OctPoWriMo for her encouraging prompts that lead a few of us to try to write a poem a day! Check out what others have written!

OctPoWriMo 16: Morning Musing

Went to the cupboard,
the shelves were bare.
What was I hoping
to find there?

Drank my morning coffee,
down to the last sip,
Covid stats up,
Time for a trip.

What's over that next hill,
why are we waiting?
I want that unexpected thrill,
No hesitating.

Pulled out the suitcase,
filled it to the brim,
How could I travel
without him?

                       Image by comfreak on Pixabay

OctPoWriMo 15: Looking Back

If only we could travel once again to Tanzania,
south of the Serengheti, that quasi-safari in jeeps,
a melange of people, national parks, and animals:
history, culture, geography, so many words
to prepare for the surprise of:
a lion at dawn, leading her cubs to water,
a wart hug sitting in a mud bath,
two giraffes munching tree tops,
a baby elephant destroying a tree for lunch,

an ostrich in full plumage almost dancing in the dust,
a cluster of zebras leading
hundreds of wildebeests across the savannah,
mountains floating behind clouds,
the sharp, unexpected flight of an antelope
in front of our jeep, chased by a hungry lion.
And the proud Masai women, robed in bright colors,
their beaded necklaces bouncing in dance, just for us,
the men competing to catch their eye:
Who can jump highest?

We tourists listen to stories around the campfire,

go to sleep in tents, the sounds of night around us,

then home with memories to share.

A once in a lifetime trip, we said, 

but I would go again with you.

Allen and I took this unforgettable trip in the late fall of 2012 with friends.  With just about two weeks to the election, enjoy this distraction!

OctPoWriMo 14: Promises

Some days the smallest of moments comfort us:

acorns fallen by a leaf,

an infant's bare toes curling tight with no socks,

a kitten stretching her neck to be scratched,

that brisk, fresh, first breeze of fall,

the dogs romping in the back yard,

an old man, napping, his white beard soft,

a promise for tomorrow.

For now, all is right in the world,

perhaps not all right,

but we have these moments yet

to comfort us. 

"Acorns" by Nietjuh on Pixabay

OctPoWriMo 13: My Mother . . .

My mother was a Hollywood starlet

until she had three daughters.
I was the oldest,
tall, nerdy, and wore glasses.
My sister, one year younger, was like our mother.
When she walked into a room,
everyone else was invisible.
That didn't bother me.
I was already invisible.
My baby sister, an afterthought,
came along ten years later.
I mothered her even after
our mother died.

OctPoWriMo 12: Maybe a Mask

Maybe I should start merrily maskless 

to motivate others to move away, 

sort of motivate them, test their mettle,

meaning, through some marvel that

they (and I) could be more mindful

as we move through each day, a miracle

we don't share more. Mercy me,

my muttering mission messes

up this meditation. Do we merit more?

More magic, more moms muttering:  

to mask or masque, that is the question!

A mask on Mona Lisa?

Together merrily mature, we might miss

(mercifully?) this mind-blowing mobilization.

Even my mentor says: MASK!

A true majestic marriage of mind

over matter.  

Mona Lisa by Sumanley on Pixabay

Today, Morgan Dragonwillow admits she's having a hard time with the poetry prompt for OctPoWriMo -- to write a poem inspired by keywords: playful, childlike, silly. But I appreciate her work in setting up these prompts as tonight, I'm pretty tired from a full day, maybe too tired to try one of the recommended poetry forms: Zanila Rhyme or Tongue Twister. UPDATE: I went with the tongue twister!

In fact, I'm still smiling about what another OctPoWriMo poet, Australian Rallentanda, wrote a few days back with her poem, "You Have To Be A Genius or Greek."  Make it a good week!

OctPoWriMo 11: Musings at Manito Park

Where do we find poetry?

That singular mix of rhyme 

or free verse that has little structure, 

the laying of words in a line

to be read silently or aloud?

Some writers call on a muse

to inspire that string of words;

others wait until a poem takes form 

somewhere between the conscious and memory.

I'm drawn to image and experience,

dreaming my way to meaning.

We've walked so often in Manito Park, 

explored the Japanese garden there.

It doesn't seem to matter which way

I point the camera or sketch: peace reposes here

in the leaves colored with orange and sun,

in the flicker of koi just below the water.

I sit on a bench a little out of the way

to watch the ducks perched on a tiny island 

in the middle of the reflective pool. 

Here truly, the muse must live,

ever appreciative of each day's light

that fades to star-filled night.

Yes, peace reposes here.

Note: Today's poem came a little late, partly inspired by Morgan Dragonwillow's prompt for OctPoWriMo, to write about the muse, and partly by those many visits to Manito Park here in Spokane. I finally looked up what 'Manito' means to discover it stands for a spirit in Native American tradition, somehow appropriate for thinking about a muse and poetry.

It's dark outside now and rainy, cold with the first brush of coming winter. But this picture of changing leaves of a little tree in the small Japanese Garden at Manito Park reminds me of beauty everywhere and in every season.

OctPoWriMo 10: Leaning into Fall

When are we ever ready for the change of seasons?

That single day when summer turns irrevocably to fall,
I dither and wish, for any cluster of reasons,
hoping this once, I could stop time and stall
this moment, the passing of years
frozen, the lines on your face smoothed out.
I do not watch your every step, my fears
covered over with smiles, hiding each doubt;
even as the leaves drift brown to the ground,
at all we’ve shared, I remain spellbound.

Hiking along Dishman Hills 

Today's walk brought gray skies, a brisk wind, more leaves on the ground, and an awareness that, in another month or two, we'd be walking in the snow and facing into another year. 

Good news for those in Washington State: Our ballots arrived in the mail. Just a little over three weeks to the election!

OctPoWriMo 9: Deidre -- and a New Cover

 I do like writing gritty historical fiction, jumping back in time to learn that times were tough back then, mostly for the working class. One of my step-fathers was a steel worker, so I know that world.

Deidre is the heroine of my book, Years of Stone, set in 1840's Australia during the convict era. She gave up her home to travel by ship to Tasmania, hoping to be reunited with the man she loved. Mac, a man with a temper, was transported because he fought against evictions on their island home. Deidre never backed down from the challenges facing her. She took risks to help Mac and to establish a new life in Van Diemen's Land.

I had a great cover when Years of Stone was first published, modeled after covers by well-established writers of historical fiction . . . but the cover looks so cold and doesn't speak at all to Deidre's character, her tenacity and her love for Mac.

Deidre, where did you find the courage
to follow the man you loved
all the way across the ocean in a sailing ship,
crowded in cabins too small? 

Shipwrecked and lost,
you landed in Van Diemen's Land

with no job and no prospects,
Mac in prison. 

Yet you leaned into each new day
scheming, working, hoping to find some way
to fit into this scrabble-hard colony with little hope,
knowing somehow 

that you and Mac one day,
mayhap seven years hence, seven years of stone,
would be reunited. Not every woman 

who wears a long dress
can be discounted.

Here's the new cover. What do you think?

Cover design by Angie Zambrano

OctPoWriMo 8: Daily Walk

Before the weather turns too cold, we walk
out to the pond and back, along a well-traveled path,

cutting through a tidy row of houses to see
what waterbirds have stopped on their flight south,
Canada geese most likely or a few ducks,
anonymous and a little lost and lonely.
The weeds have shifted into a riot of color,
a last gasp before true winter, their seeds floating
as free as any bird, clumps of white from reeds,
the sharp yellow-orange of poppies and
purple blooms of lupin beg to be remembered
when the snow comes.

On the way home, a Little Free Library makes us stop
at this bounty: Take a book or leave one
for others to enjoy. A simple gift well matched
by a new sign taped on the side of the library:
“Love Thy Neighbor: No Exceptions.”
I sigh. Every neighbor? No exceptions?
I know the couple who live here: A retired minister.
His gracious wife. I could live next door to them.
I would not choose to live near the White House.
Perhaps some things we cannot choose.
When all else fails, I will try to remember
their wisdom: “Love Thy Neighbor. No Exceptions.”

OctPoWriMo 7: Respite

A flower does not ring the doorbell,
engage in robocalls, talk over your fears,
tweet in the middle of the night.
This flower, a lily floating on a pond
in a corner of a Japanese garden, simply exists.
Does a flower have any awareness
of hot or cold? Does it lay out its petals
to seduce that bee to drift near?
Does a flower fear the coming snow?
Celebrate spring?
Life could be simpler.
Let us sit on this sheltered bench here in this garden
to watch the light play on the turning leaves.

Waterlily by GK von Skoddenheimen on Pixabay

Today's October Challenge (OctPoWriMo) to write a poem a day is a little late for today is IWSG's challenge to respond to their question of the month: Are you a working writer -- or what? 

Somehow, the poem came along early this morning. Sending you moments of respite for the coming week, I hope you enjoy this little meditation on a garden that we love to visit throughout the year.

IWSG Oct 7: Another Working Writer

 Glad to be here for another month in this tumultuous year, 2020. 

The first Wednesday for those of us in the community of Insecure Writer's Support Group (IWSG) is set aside to write about how we're doing and how we're feeling. Each month, we connect to each other's writerly goals and dreams by responding to an (optional) question -- which this month happens to be: 

When you think of the term working writer, what does that look like to you? What do you think it is supposed to look like? Do you see yourself as a working writer or aspiring or hobbyist, and if latter two, what does that look like? 

OK, I'm just going to lay it out there. I'm an older than average, working indie writer. What that means is I'm retired and don't go into an office or a classroom (or meetings, much). My writing is the anchor that gets me through these Pandemic-shaped days because I love to fall into my story, my characters, their dilemmas, their dreams. Each morning, I write. My word count is not measured in thousands of new words each week. My goals are modest. Here's what's on my 'writing plate' this week:

--Knee deep in new story, Island Wife, another sequel set in northern Scotland in the 1840s. Writing scenes and researching. Progress: About 40% completed (25K words with goal of 50-60K by December).

--Hoping to approve a new cover for Years of Stone this week for PB, Kindle, and . . . (ta da) audiobook. After two years of waiting, reviewing, and hoping, my voice actor finally got the recording approved by ACX. I'm roughly 50% through reviewing 55 chapters before launch.

--Absolutely committed to writing challenges as a way to encourage writing every day. So, I'm trying to write a poem a day for OctPoWriMo 2020, hosted by Morgan Dragonwillow and roughly modeled after NaNoWrMo (which is coming up faster than we think). I love the way poetry slows me down and takes me to unexpected places. And, by the way, #BattleBlog just posted its challenge for 1K this month with its prompt: Exotic.

Back to the pandemic. We are in one of those vulnerable groups, so we stay at home as much as possible with side trips to the pharmacy and doctor visits. Groceries are ordered online and delivered. We take a daily 30-minute walk, and hubby is thrilled with sports (thank goodness!). 

Right now, my daughter is waiting out the three days to find out if she has Covid, and I'm scared because she's unemployed, her family's at risk, and I don't know how to help. Friday UPDATE: It did take four (that's 4) days before the test results came back. No Covid. Not this time. But if it had been Covid, how many days to scatter and spread . . . 

So, the mantra that keeps me focused is: I am a working writer. I do my best every day. If you can, consider contributing (or upping your contribution) to your local food banks. Too  many people are hungry and vulnerable. Meanwhile, may we all stay safe, support each other, and write those stories that are closest to our hearts.

Vista at Lincoln Park (2020)

One of our favorite walks.

Oops. Forgot to to say thank you to Alex J. Cavanaugh for starting this community -- and thank you to this month's hosts -- Jemima Pett, Beth Camp (that's me), Beverly Stowe McClure, and Gwen Gardner!  And here's our badge!

As Alex says, "Let’s rock the neurotic writing world!"

Join in or read what others have written by going to IWSG's home site.

Our Twitter handle is @TheIWSG and hashtag is #IWSG.

OctPoWriMo6: Exotic

We landed in Egypt, too excited to sleep, 

with backpacks, travel guides, ready for the overnight train trip
clacking south to Luxor. We slept hunkered over
on fixed wooden seats throughout the night to awake to
morning in a land of palm trees and desert,
passing small walled villages,
men in long robes and colorful shawls,
who walked beside donkey-powered carts and
fields of alfalfa, White Nile Herons dotting irrigation ditches.

We were here to explore the pyramids,
decode prayers of falling stars, read the Text of the Dead,
and stand awed in the shadow of temple columns,
not quite realizing the memories we would carry home. 

Snake Charmer, Aswan (2004)

View of Abu Simbal from our excursion boat (2004)

Bedouin and camels at Saqqara (2004)

Temple at Luxor (2004)

I’m not sure how I had the courage to travel this way, without encumbrances, Allen and I, for nearly eight months, from Israel, to Egypt, then in order, truly a month in each country, Turkey, Greece, Italy, France, and England. We made our way as independent travelers, finding the least expensive options all along the way, staying in hostels and hotels, eating food in restaurants and from vendors (yes, we ate fried locusts, tasty and crunchy), visiting every museum and cultural icon we could discover, each country hospitable and unique. 

Today, during a time of pandemic, such travel seems unlikely. We have memories, photographs, and notebooks to dream over and to remember. Today’s attempt at a poem captures only a snippet of our great adventure -- and began as I tried to think of the most exotic thing I've done, this month's writing prompt from #BlogBattle -- and today's prompt from OctPoWriMo, travel.

Thank you again to Morgan Dragonwillow for inspiring writers all through October.

OctPoWriMo 5: Head in the Clouds

I’ve always admired the steady gait
of a giraffe. Maybe those knobby knees
that punctuate their legs, or
those impossibly long necks that undulate  
as they pace through the savannah,
caught my heart.

What do they hide under their calm exterior?
What does a giraffe think about
in its relentless search for grasses?

Maybe I feel the same about any elephant
I’ve seen here at home or in the wild,
so large, rounded with serenity.
Once I saw a baby elephant nearly destroy
a tree, tearing the bark into bite-sized bits
and eating them all in a frenzy.

Perhaps the images we treasure
on our flannel pajamas
hide a voracious hunger,
an insatiable desire to survive.

Image by DimaDim-Art on Pixabay.

October 5, just the fifth day in this month-long poetry challenge. Are you writing your own poetry? 

Have you checked out what others are writing about? Try looking HERE for Morgan Dragonwillow's poetry prompts. Check out the comments to enjoy diversity as we all face down the challenges (poetry and otherwise) that each day brings. May the coming week be good to you!

OctPoWriMo 4: Sing the Body Electric

Whitman sings the body electric,
with his rope-held blanket covering all,
but I look down like any Neolithic woman,
gnarled fingers, knobby knees,
one foot slightly larger than the other,
misdirection, deflection, imperfection,
one eye turning to the horizon
where stars shift and dreams of escape hover.
Stir the pot, make the bed, forage
in the bin for the last bit of oat,
then walk out under night’s cover alone,
under the stars, cold and shivering,
to wish I had taken a blanket
and that I kept my soul.

I remember falling in love with Whitman’s poetry and then being shocked in a literature class about the tales of Walter Whitman looking for work in Washington, D. C., wearing a blanket with a rope for a belt, leaning on some bureaucrat’s desk, wild hair flying. But tonight, I couldn't find any proof to verify that story about a shaggy blanket that Whitman supposedly used as a coat.

Walt Whitman as photographed by Mathew Brady (Wikipedia)

Whitman’s writing in “I Sing the Body Electric” (1855) is to be admired for more than his affirmation of the sacred in all human bodies, his emphasis on equality, his stand against slavery of every kind. My little poem today began with just the title of his poem and then led me to some research on Whitman. You may enjoy reading these:

This compelling biography summarizes Whitman’s life in more detail, from his childhood and working class background, to his quest to find his own voice, and his service to others during the Civil War.

Read the very famous essay, “Reminiscences of Walt Whitman,” by Whitman’s friend, John Townsend Trowbridge, published in The Atlantic in 1902.

OctPoWriMo 3: If I Wore Glasses . . .

If I wore glasses while I slept,
would I see into the future, past the news anchors
who raise their voices, slightly hysterical,
as they probe the latest press releases,
the newest cases of Covid, the denials,
and the factoids that swim atop the truth.
Would I learn anything
about what comes next?

In my dreams, I travel again to Greece,
to Delphi, once considered the center of the world,
where on the hilltop stadium, chariots,
driven by the chosen, once competed in games.

Below, overlooking the valley,
I find the Oracle dedicated to Apollo,
its rounded columns of stone marked
“Know thyself,” and “Nothing in excess.”

I follow the nearby sacred stream to a cleft in the earth,
and breathe deeply into that wind of prophecy.
Like sybils of old, my words will not be heard
until spring. But, when I wake,
those words of promise vanish, like vapor.
I’m not heartened, even
when the scent of laurel
lingers in my room.

    Oracle at Delphi (Camp, 2004)

Memories of a sabbatical trip that Allen and I took, as independent travelers, to countries along the Mediterranean still flavor my writing when least expected. I hope you enjoy -- and join me -- in trying to write that poem each day of October. Celebrate!

Octpowrimo 2: Time Travel

 

If I could travel back in time,
to that exact moment
when my mother and father had sex,
most likely after some wild party,
would I have wished to be born?
Maybe not.

I could easily forget my first three decades,
that is, until I met you some forty-six years ago.
Tonight, my gratitude spirals back in time,
to that tiny seed I once was,
and to our daughter who began one New Year’s Eve,
still a miracle. Such beginnings and, yes,
endings too,
take me to the only infinite I know,
reflected in your eyes.

Today marks the second day of October's writing challenge to write a poem a day. Can't say every day will bring a good poem, but this one was fun to write, reminding me in this time of challenge and chaos of what I cherish.

Poets & Writers posts prompts for those writing fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. One of their poetry prompts: Write a series of short poems inspired by the concept of time travel. If you could go back or move forward in time, who would you see and what would you change?

And that beautiful image is by Beate Bachmann on Pixabay.

OctPoWriMo 1: Seeing Light

These days, even a walk in a Japanese garden 

turns worrisome when others come too close, 

as I glance to see if they’re wearing their masks.

All I want is to watch the colors in the leaves change
as the afternoon breeze lifts through this tiny garden,
and to take in the silence of the reflecting pool,
disturbed only by the ripple of a carp’s fin
as it turns about in waters soon cold.

If ever we needed light,
it is this hour, this day, these coming months
that seem to separate us all.
We’re facing into another year
when truly, everything is changing.
With hope and despair so closely balanced,
I slowly let go of what once was
and try to accept each day,
to cherish those moments
when the light flickers red and gold,
and the leaves fall.

October 1st is celebrated in England as National Poetry Day in England with the prompt Vision: See Like a Poet. 

Here in the states, OctPoWriMo, a challenge started by Morgan Dragonwillow,  asks writers to write a poem a day throughout the month. Today’s prompt gives us a starting point: Shining your light.

I shall try to meet this month-long challenge because just the process of writing a poem slows me down and makes me more observant about what I’m feeling and thinking about. That act of writing becomes almost a form of meditation, not a bad thing during these hard times of pandemic, uncontrollable wildfires, unemployment of a scale unheard of, hurricane season, and, lest we forget, politics – all against the backdrop of ordinary life.

Read more about National Poetry Day in England HERE and OctPoWriMo HERE. Why not join in? And that picture? Taken in nearby Manito Park's Japanese Garden where on sunny days, one can sit or stroll for a moment of peace.

Sept #5: To Revise That Cover or Not . . .

Got some really good news this week about a long project (over two years) of working with a voice actor to create an audio book for Years of Stone. I'm now reviewing the final recording and am so pleased to report the pacing, characterization, and overall sound quality is excellent.  

But, I've been looking at book covers for historical fiction. Many of these covers feature people -- that is, someone the future reader could identify with immediately and a mood that introduces the theme of the story.

So, my question for you is this: 

Does my current cover for Years of Stone introduce Diedre's heartfelt quest to marry her sweetheart who's been transported to Van Diemen's Land (Australia) -- and capture Mac's experience as a prisoner there? Can readers anticipate being caught up in their story and the history of these convict times in the 1840's?

I don't think so. Not when readers will be drawn into a story because it's about a relationship that grows, a fight to overcome insurmountable challenges, and a story that hopes to end happily, the quest of us all (even during these times of pandemic).

So, stay tuned. You just might find a cover comparison coming up -- with another opportunity to let me know what you think!

Meanwhile, may the month of October bring you adventures (safe ones), and good memories.

Sept #4: Don't Stop Thinking About Tomorrow

Today, after two weeks of not walking at all, we ambled along a wide trail in Lincoln Park. Fall colored the trees and the hills with brown and bright yellow and red. Haze covered the hills to the north and south, but the air quality was good enough so we didn't worry, at least about air pollution.

Yet, cases of Covid-19 continue ramping up steadily in our county, as do deaths, each one a ripple of loss. Fire season is not truly over here in the West until the rains come.

With 41 days left before the election, I expect a ramping up of general hysteria, misinformation, and worry. I switch between news channels, hoping to find a voice of reason and calm. Most of the time, I read the news rather than watch, because the reporters infuse every story with emotion that blurs the underlying facts.

So, how is the writing coming along? Are you surprised if I say slowly? But day by day, I do sit down at the computer and write. For my characters are facing into their unique losses with courage and hope. November is just a little over a month away with National Novel Writing Month challenging writers to write 50K words in 30 days. Are you in?

Just as our election is now 41 days away, with rumors flying that the current occupant of the White House may not go gently into that good night.

I console myself with a Scottish proverb: "'Tis a long road that's no' got a turning." Or in other words: Don't lose heart in dark times. Things can't keep going in the same direction forever.  And we can celebrate whatever brings us light and comfort.

                                      Image from Valiphotos on Pixabay.

#BlogBattle: Conceal

 Writing challenges can be . . . a challenge! They take me in unexpected directions. 

This week's prompt comes from #BlogBattle. Writers are asked to post a short story (under 1,000 words) in response to one word. 

September's word, CONCEAL, led me to this dark tale, just 279 words.

"Conceal"

    Mary was eleven. As she walked to school, past the hedge that marked the line between the duplex where she lived with her sister, her mother, and her stepfather, up five blocks past a narrow sliver of a park, and leaned into the steep climb of the last five blocks that led to Harrison Elementary School, she thought about her teacher. Mrs. Montgomery.

    The other kids said Mrs. Montgomery was mean. Maybe she was, but Mary thought she was kind. Her face never squinted in a horrible scowl. She never raised her voice to shout or her hand to hit. Mrs. Montgomery was poised. Once she quietly gave Mary lunch money. “If you ever need to talk to someone, you can talk to me.”

    Mary knew better. Her mother liked parties. She didn’t like neighbors. After one long night, her mother had pushed her face close to say, “You don’t tell anyone ever what happens at home. Do you hear me?”

    This was her last year at Harrison. Next September, she would follow the same route up the hill, past a row of pretty cottages behind a picket white fence, and then down the other side of Magnolia Hill to a newly built junior high. 

    In another two years, she wouldn’t walk to school anymore. Mary shook her head and smiled. She would take a city bus to high school. Maybe they would have a library. After that? She shook her head. She couldn’t think ahead that far. 

    Mary pushed the sleeves of her sweater up on her arms to hide the moth holes and wondered what Mrs. Montgomery would say if she asked to go home with her.

Image by Lorri Lang on Pixabay

Why not tap the link to #BlogBattle to read what others have written this month?

With thanks to #BlogBattle admins Rachael Ritchey and Gary Jefferies for setting up this monthly writing challenge that’s meant to inspire and encourage writers and readers. 

Why not join in? Just write under 1,000 words around this month's prompt and follow the rules HERE. Meanwhile, have a good month, stay safe, and write on!

September #2: More on A Gentleman in Moscow

Why is it that writing challenges are so appealing? For September, the #BlogBattle challenge is simply one word: Conceal.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about being enamored by reading Amor Towles, A Gentlemen in Moscow. Truly a leisurely read, one that inspires reflection of what those years from 1917 through about 1950 brought Russia – in sweeping change and on individual lives. Towles’ story-telling transforms the reader as he reveals how Russia, within a generation, despite its history, was transformed. 

One scene highlights how a revolutionary’s idea of a ‘poetry of silence’ came about. For in the beginning of the Russian revolution, we can recognize the purity of those early, idealistic comrades who overthrew the oppression of the long established aristocracy. 

Over decades, though, Russia transformed itself into a world power at tremendous cost, its new leaders susceptible to the same glamour of world dominion (and comfort) those comrades had originally challenged and, for a time, set aside. One character, Mishka, rebels against a ‘request’ that he revise his translation of Chekov’s letters so that it falls in line to ‘newer,’ always positive images of Russia. No criticism allowed.

Mishka realizes if he refuses to change his translation, he might be lined up against a wall and shot. A poet himself, he knows at that moment, nothing could be more powerful than to act himself, not with words, not with a poem, but with a self-inflicted death, a revolver at his own chest. He chooses not to create this ‘poetry of silence.’ Instead, Mishka rages. He protests loudly and is sent to Siberia. Is it a character flaw that he didn’t choose death? And did he stop writing or was his writing, his ability to write, taken from him?

A little later in Towles’ story, another character recalls visiting Pushkin’s apartment, carefully maintained in its ‘original’ condition – even to an unfinished poem left on a desk for any visitor to see.

Once, while Allen and I traveled in Brazil, we had the absolute privilege of staying in an out-of-the-way, tiny bed and breakfast, just down a side street in the small town of Ouro Prieto, where Chilean poet Pablo Neruda had stayed many years before. We slept in the very same room and looked out the window at the hills. His letters were framed on the wall. Later, we visited Valparaiso, Neruda’s house on the hill, perfectly preserved, now turned to a museum. On a side desk, a poem, the words written in ink, by Neruda's own hand, still lay. Was it half finished? I do not remember.

Somehow this connects to this month’s #BattleBlog prompt for September, though I’m not sure yet how. What do we conceal? How are ‘true’ stories revealed?  Come back next Wednesday for my story, if you like.

Just for your reading pleasure, you can read a poem I wrote about Pablo Neruda and a translation, for what happens to words in a poem when they move from one language to another? 

Meanwhile, be safe and follow your dreams.

IWSG Sept #1: On 'Beta Partners'

 Each month, IWSG challenges us to share our thoughts around a question (or some other issue that preoccupies us), to support and encourage writers at all stages of their careers.

Here's the September 2 question - If you could choose one author, living or dead, to be your beta partner, who would it be and why? 

This month’s question sent me back to those earliest days when I dreamed one day of becoming a writer. Then, my ‘beta partners’ were the classics. Hemingway, Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Steinbeck, even, quoth the Raven, Edgar Allen Poe. And the women came along, starting with Louisa Mae Alcott, Ursula LeGuin, Pearl S. Buck, Amy Tan, and Joyce Carol Oates.

I looked up to all of them -- until at a writer’s conference, I stood in line to ask the keynoter a question. She glared at me. “Don’t do that. Don’t put me on a pedestal. I’m a writer. I got here by hard work, and you will too.”

Maybe like you, I tried various writer’s groups that ranged from outright attack fests to unending praise. Once my writing was greeted by someone saying, “A new star has come to San Miguel.” I nearly giggled. None of those experiences led me to trust my own voice. And then I taught writing for 26 years and learned from my students.

A few published novels later, I still fall into the current story and rewrite until it seems reasonably complete. During the pandemic, those times to meet face-to-face with my ‘beta partner’ are rather few. But even now, once a month, I pack my folding chair into the car and head to a local park where Annette Drake and I sit the proscribed six-feet apart and share our current writing.

What I appreciate about Annette is that she listens and responds first as a reader (does this scene intrigue her?) and as a writer (does this scene work on as many levels that a writer can revise?). Most helpful are her comments about authenticity of characters and plot, and about opportunities to improve pacing and conflict. I try to do the same for her, for I treasure Annette’s thoughtful analysis.

When I go home to my office and lean back into my story, her comments energize my writing. When I look back to all those years ago, when I dreamed of becoming a writer, I realize the simple act of writing that next story has become my daily reality. Deep down, I'm happy to be a writer, thrilled when readers like my stories, and ready for tomorrow, pandemic or not!

Now that staying at home, quarantine groups, and the ever-present mask seem almost normal, how are your writing projects coming along? 

Why not join IWSG and post an update or visit other writers by going HERE. Or, you could visit this month's IWSG hosts to be inspired: PJ Colando, J Lenni Dorner, Deniz Bevan, Kim Lajevardi, Natalie Aguirre, and Louise - Fundy Blue! After all, September begins another season of change. 

May this be a good month for you.

"Autumn Teacup" by congerdesign on Pixabay

August #4: About those days of poetry . . .

Mason Cooley said, " Reading gives us someplace to go when we have to stay where we are."

Allen had just finished reading A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles (2016). He handed me the book and said, "You must read this."

How can I not fall in love with a story that begins with a poem, followed immediately by a short transcript of the trial of Count Rostov in 1922 that ends with a threat? The Count must remain ‘quarantined’ in the Metropol Hotel or be shot.

I remember very little of Russian literature now, though I read the greats, Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Turgenev, among others, many years ago. But, I digress. For by page 40 of A Gentleman in Moscow, I am fully immersed in this story of a Count who wrote a very long poem, “Where Is It Now?” in 1913. His poem inspired Russian revolutionaries. But as a former aristocrat, the Count is now reduced to living in a single room at the very top of this grand old hotel, and the reader is left uncertain about what will happen next. 

A visitor asks if the Count will continue to write. The Count replies, “I am sorry to say, Konstantine, that my days of poetry are behind me.” 

Konstantine stops at the door to reply. “If your days of poetry are behind you, Count Rostov, then it is we who are sorry.”

Ah, perfect, really perfect. These kinds of poignant moments fill the Count's story. For who can say what we leave behind us in our current time of chaos? I am drawn right into reading this lovely book. Check it out of your local library or read a snippet on Amazon. And that's what's on my current stack of books to-be-read.

Now to the poetry. Writing poetry seems at the whim of some internal muse I do not know well but appreciate every time an idea turns into poetry. Here's one that came along in August.

How do we remember our friends?

I wake up, dreaming of you, your study,
an imaginary garden of words,
the walls lined with poetry you chose,
an invitation to reflection,
the letters carefully drawn and
rounded with pale, blue ink,
three poems filled up one wall,
and there, by the window,
one I had sent you.
Impossible to be in that room
without falling into memory,
all those days of reading and writing,
alone and not alone.
Even now I can close my eyes
and see the letters dancing.

Image by Anja on Pixabay

Thank you for reading . . . I hope you are well in these difficult days.

 

August #3: In Search of Answers

 Before the pandemic, we visited the Tucson Rock & Mineral Show, a sprawling exhibit with miles of rocks and dinosaurs and curiosities. There, tucked away in an obscure shop, we came across these amazing three puppets. The vendor picked them up from a friend of a friend, with no provenance. He's trying now to discover what culture or what artist created these puppets. And I'm curious enough, some six months later, to wonder.

Oh, these are storytellers, with the elder pointing the way. Their gnarled fingers and bound feet suggest long journeys ahead. Their beaded walking sticks and intricate costumes hint at a sophisticated culture, and their bodies wrapped tightly in furs may protect them against cold -- or discovery.

Every culture I'm thinking of . . . Pacific Northwest Native? African? Australian? But the symbols don't match, or the furs don't quite fit the climate. Even Google search by image doesn't help.

But aren't these beautiful sculptures? More than puppets. So, perhaps I'm left with the vision of an unknown artist. What do you think? Any suggestions?

In reality, these are the kinds of mysteries I daydream about. There might be a story here. Perhaps a distraction from these days of pandemic which wear on into the fall, just about the time these creatures may be heading south. 

August #BlogBattle: "Everest: One Step at a Time"

Image by mdhondt at Pixabay

 Allen paid an extra $2 for a private room when he checked into the WanderLust Hostel on his first night in Kathmandu. All he wanted was to sleep for twenty-four hours straight. Instead, he wandered downstairs to the open air patio for a snack. A few young men sat on cushioned benches, talking about how to best hike to Mount Everest. Allen took his plate of momos, delicate thumb-sized dumplings drizzled with a tangy sauce, and nodded hello to the group.

Most of the hikers were young. One man, about Allen’s age, leaned back against the wall, listening to the day hikers and adding bits of what he knew with a British accent. He might make a good hiking partner, Allen thought.

The next morning, Allen wasn’t surprised to see John at an early breakfast at 6:30 am, balancing a cup of tea with a rolled crepe filled with goat cheese and greens. 

     “Want to travel together today?” asked Allen. “Even if I’m American?”

     “I forgive you.” John nodded. “After I finish my tea, I’m ready.” He pointed to his pack by the door.

     Allen nodded – his fifty-pound pack also by the door. 

     Just outside the hostel, they caught a local bus, crowded with families with crying babies and vendors carrying racks of weaving. Live chickens, tethered together with string, squawked. Allen and John sat on their packs in the aisle for the nine-hour ride to Lukla that marked the beginning of the trail to the Everest Base Camp.

     “You travel much?” asked John.

     “My goal is to travel the world. So far, so good.” Allen didn’t talk about what pushed him away from the United States, the sense of claustrophobia he had since Viet Nam.

     “How many hours do you hike?” asked John.

     “The usual. Five, maybe six a day. That okay?”

     “Righto,” said John.

     They hopped off the bus at Lukla.

     “Time to stretch our legs. We got a short, five hour walk if we move out,” said John. 

     “Yeah. With fifty pounds on my back, I’m sure we can make it before dark – if we run.”

     As the sun edged down, Allen nodded to John. “Hey, pal. Looks like we didn’t have to run, and we get to sleep at a hostel.”

     “At this altitude, and this temperature, I didn’t think we’d be sweating so much,” said John.

     “Better wipe it off with a towel. I bet we don’t get a shower up here,” said Allen.

     At Namche, they took several days off to acclimate. Grateful for the respite from hiking, they simply napped, ate, and chatted with the locals. 

     Three days later, they strapped on their packs, anticipating each day’s climb to a higher elevation, with a brief break when the trail took them down through a valley. 

     “I don’t actually want to climb Mt. Everest,” said Allen.

     “Me either. Not at over 8,000 meters,” said John.

     “That’s 29,000 feet. I don’t think I can do that, but I want to see the mountains.” 

     John took a deep breath. “And I wouldn’t mind a cuppa.”

     They hiked past a Sherpa guide organizing a small group of tourists. Two Sherpas used a band to wrap two and three backpacks together, then loaded the packs on their backs, twisting the band around their foreheads. A fourth Sherpa loaded the remaining packs onto three gaily decorated yaks. 

     “If we hear bells when we’re on the trail, look out for yaks . . .” began Allen.

     “I know. Jump off the trail away from the downslope.” They began to laugh. Both had heard stories about hikers being brushed off the trail into the ravine below.

     “I like the sound of the bells,” said Allen. “Mostly. Especially if they’re on stupas.” Allen pointed out a small stupa beside the trail, surrounded by painted stones. “That’s a mani stone. The letters and the colors form an important mantra to Buddhists all over the world. If I remember correctly, it reads Om Mani Padme Hum.”

     “Well, what does it mean?” asked John.

     “Its meaning depends on where you are. Essentially, the saying reminds us to move from like where we are, that is not meditating, to focus on purity and how to wake up our souls. In a way, we’re then constantly on a journey to enlightenment.”

     “Sounds difficult to achieve.”

     “Yeah, but like this hike we’re on, one step leads us closer. Om Mani Padme Hum,” Allen intoned in a low voice. “Each step. Om Mani Padme Hum.”

     John struggled between laughing and trying to breathe. “Okay, Om. I’ll just say Om.”

     As they staggered closer to Base Camp, they come across a small tea house. 

     “I want some real tea,” said John. “Not those dried out bags of Tetley I’ve been carrying for months.”

     “This may be your last chance,” said Allen. 

     They stared at the little hut. “You’re sure this is a tea house?” asked John.

     “I don’t know, but I’m ready for a little coffee.”

 
     “Come in, come in,” called a little old woman, nearly bent in half and standing as high as their elbows. The two men stooped down to enter and sat by a rickety table on tiny home-made chairs. The old woman ladled their beverage from a boiling pot into two tin cups.

     Allen took a sip. “Tastes just like coffee.” 

     John stared at his cup. “What’s this white stuff on top?” 

     “No English.” The woman pointed at the white layer on top of the tea. “Curdled yak’s milk.”

     Allen drank his down. “Really good coffee.” He bowed his head to thank the old woman. 

     She nodded back and watched John as he tentatively sniffed at his cup and finally took a sip. 

     John’s face eased into a blissful smile. “That’s lovely tea. Now I’m ready to climb mountains. Om. One sip at a time.” 

Mani Stone (Wikipedia)

 Afterword: This story (967 words, just under the challenge limit of 1,000), was inspired by #BlogBattle’s challenge word for August, “tea,” and by Allen’s tales of trekking in Nepal back in the early 1970s. Today, that is, before the pandemic, about 40,000 people take the trail to Mt. Everest Base Camp each year, a sharp contrast to those less travelled times back in the 1970s. 

Both Allen and I love to travel, and in these days of stay-at-home, I enjoyed researching Nepal. Maybe someday, we’ll travel again, in search for that perfect cup of tea – and perhaps enlightenment!

Learn more about the #BlogBattle Challenge, and the rules for this month's #BlogBattle (challenge prompt = tea). Post your story by the end of this month to join in!  

IWSG #7: Perseverance furthers . . .

Yesterday, I sat under a canopy in the back yard with two other writers, safely distanced, as we shared our latest writings and commiserated about the changes in our lives brought by the pandemic. We ate blissful chunks of cool watermelon, drank iced coffee, and listened to our voices, winging words and hopes into the hot afternoon.

I know we writers work alone, and yet community (small gatherings like yesterday) nurtures us. In a very similar way, each month, the Insecure Writer's Support Group brings us together to reflect on a question and calls on us to support and to read what others have written. 

IWSG's August 5 question begins with an anonymous quote: "Although I have written a short story collection, the form found me and not the other way around. Don't write short stories, novels or poems. Just write your truth and your stories will mold into the shapes they need to be." Have you ever written a piece that became a form, or even a genre, you hadn't planned on writing in?

This month's question fits right into my writing journey. Way back in 2006, I retired, ready finally to write, and took my first creative writing class. We were to write ten short stories in ten short weeks. Aargh!!! But what a plunge into the unknown that was. Those stories became my first publication, The Mermaid Quilt & Other Tales. 

One of those stories simply led me to 1842, the Industrial Revolution, and Scotland. My first novel, historical fiction, somehow morphed into a series with two more novels.

I have learned so much through the last fourteen years about writing -- with much more to learn as I dabble with different genres and the challenges indie writers face. My latest, The Seventh Tapestry, an art crimes mystery, swirls with history and a stolen tapestry. 

All of this leads me back to yesterday afternoon, sitting in the warm afternoon, and sharing the first chapter of the next book. And to tomorrow, the next scene, this time, set in Egypt, where I once touched a pyramid at Giza.

May you be blessed with much good writing and writing friends as we continue to persevere with our craft during pandemic. 

Thank YOU to the co-hosts for this month's post for the Insecure Writer's Study Group: Susan Baury Rouchard, Nancy Gideon, Jennifer Lane, Jennifer Hawes, Chemist Ken, and Chrys Fey!

Weds Post: Back Home Again . . . and Writing!

Something about this pandemic makes me want to hit the road. So, after four and a half months of sheltering-in-place, we traveled south. Drove 7 hours straight to Oregon, only stopping for gas, with our masks in place. A four day escape to visit dear friends from long ago. We sat on their expansive patio as dusk fell, admiring the garden of flowers and the deer who came to browse. Four wonderful days of talking with friends face-to-face. Not on Zoom. Not on FaceTime. Four days without news.

Even on the way home, we could appreciate each change in the landscape, from rolling farm hills, along a sort-of-tunnel road to the Columbia River, then up the east side of Washington home to the high plateau of dry pines and mountains. We appreciated anew our solitude, the birds who visit our tiny patio, and quiet in the morning for writing.

Update for The Seventh Tapestry: The last two months have been challenging as I wrestled with Amazon and Draft2Digital over who had rights to publish my latest book, The Seventh Tapestry. Sales were blocked for a time -- as were reviews. Finally, all the behind-the-scenes issues have been resolved.

Would you like to review The Seventh Tapestry? I would be thrilled if you said yes. Let me know by e-mail to bluebethley@yahoo.com, and I will send you a free copy (e-pub, PDF, or mobi, your choice), and only ask that you post your honest review on two outlets by August 20. Your choice: Amazon, GoodReads, or Barnes & Noble.

Update for latest writing project, The Missing Sarcophagus. Yes, I'm already hard at work on the sequel to The Seventh Tapestry. This new story has Sandra and Neil mired in another missing museum artifact. The setting? Cairo, Egypt, where I was lucky enough to travel not so long ago.

Egyptian Blue Water Lily (Wikipedia)

This morning's research led me to find the lovely and sacred Blue Water Lily, also known as the Blue Lotus, known for its poisonous and mild psychedelic properties. How did that flower get into the welcome bouquet delivered to Sandra and Neil at their hotel, just as they arrive in Cairo?




May you be well, nurturing yourself and all those who need you, saving some time for creativity and to appreciate (even now) the beauty of each day.

IWSG #6 July: The Next Decade????

I've stopped counting days that we've spent staying at home since the pandemic began, for us in early March. We still wear our masks and observe social distancing with family and friends. We're not quite ready to go out to a restaurant or grocery shop. We are in at least one of those vulnerable groups who live cautiously, at least for the immediate future.

So, that's why when IWSG's question came along this month, I kind of groaned.

Optional July 1 question - There have been many industry changes in the last decade, so what are some changes you would like to see happen in the next decade?

How can I look ahead ten years to the 'changes in the industry' when I don't understand truly how I, as a writer, have been affected by the past decade? So I'll start by looking back ten years:

• RESEARCH: I rely so much on the internet for research into historical and other settings. For example, yesterday I watched a YouTube video that took me on a walk through a crowded, open air market in Cairo, Egypt. If I need to understand the psychology of a criminal, Google it.
• WRITING SKILLS: I was an early adopter of technology, back in the 1970s, and I love learning new things. Today, though, I no longer head to the library first or subscribe to writerly magazines. Instead, I leap onto the keyboard, in search of my favorite writing gurus. I subscribe to far too many newsletters and enjoy online writing challenges, including this monthly post for IWSG. OK, I'm privileged with too many devices -- and I can sync them.
• WRITING ITSELF remains pretty much the same. I dream, draw, and freewrite, then outline (somewhat) my way into stories. Sometimes on paper, more often on the computer. I do insert pictures into my drafts (visual writer) to keep me anchored in this story world. I still print out drafts to go over them again and again.
• PUBLISHING. Way back in 2012, my first little self-published book of short stories came out. Four novels later, I remain quite happy to be an older-than-average indie writer. The publishing 'industry' has shrunk; technology keeps changing the 'how,' with competing resources increasing like mama's chickens, Amazon's gifts to indie writers like me still mean access to readers. Who could imagine back then, readers would one day  read my book on their iPhone???
• MARKETING. Aargh. I'd rather be writing. Even traditional publishers ask their writers to do more. But we indie writers have many options that include building our own blogs, setting up readings (just not now), being active in professional associations, and developing a social media profile that is consistent and connected to our readers.

So what's coming in this next decade for writers, up to 2030? 

1. I hope to still be alive and writing -- still an indie writer.
2. Technology will ramp up in ways we cannot imagine, even in just ten more years, so we need to stay 'in the curve' of learning.
3. Who we are will continue to be shaped by events around us. As writers, we may need to be more disciplined to not fall down the rat hole of unending distractions and change. 
4. We have choices. Our passion, commitment, and the stories we write influence others. So, the themes we choose, our heroines and heroes, can influence others. Writers offer more than a reflection of life around us.

Do you remember reading Orwell's 1984?

What writers have you read that changed how you view the world? That challenged your understanding of life's potential?

What books will you write in the coming decade?

Stefan Keller (Pixabay)

The Insecure Writer's Support Group, is led by intrepid and fearless Alex Cavannagh, and with the help of this month's co-hosts: Jenni Enzor, Beth Camp (that's me!), Liesbet @ Roaming About, Tyrean Martinson, and Sandra Cox. The IWSG offers many resources to help and encourage writers at all stages. Why not join in this wonderful community of writers?

And remember our current mantra: Stay safe, wear that mask, and practice safe distancing --- and, perhaps most importantly, cherish each day!

NOTE: I don't normally do this, but since you actually read this far . . . David Gaughran, one of those writing gurus referred to above, just released his 4th edition of Let's Get Digital: How to Self-Publish and Why You Should. It's free as of today (July 1st), so you could check it out