The Next Step . . .

What is slipping through my fingers?
Each heavy book, its pages
promise an idea or image that lingers,
for inspiration comes in stages,
Alas, my eyes want to stop
reading, my body to flop.

What library have I forsook,
freighted with tiny print?
The next step: Kindle or Nook,
no browsing, no out of print squint,
just the pure joy of reading a book?
All else falls away, even rhyme, it has went

the way of all words for my doubts now dwindle.
Outside my window, sparrows chirp.
I, at last, am writing.
All is well in my world.
P.S. I bought a Kindle.


Today's writing was inspired by Carry On Tuesday's Prompt 109: Slipping through my fingers, Sunday Scribblings prompt 271: The Next Step, and something new, a Tuesday Blog Hop from Gladiator's Pen on Inspiration.

You may notice a new page here. I finally learned how to add a page to my blog. So, this new page, called Beth's Reader's Corner, will highlight some short fiction (the first one, a flash fiction about quilting), maybe an excerpt from Standing Stones. Yes, I'm still in the research phase on Australia, such a rich history. But each book I read, each picture I find, will take me there one day.

Travel Plans . . .

I sink into myself, pushed by so little time,
so much to do. All is illusion and yet
I find joy in watching an African violet bloom,
purple fat flowers, so delicate,
each day the tiny head of a new bloom lifts
and faces the sun.

The Great Migration calls.
Each spring, several hundred thousand wildebeests
sweep over African grassy plains to a birthing.
I will see elephants and tree-climbing lions.
I will travel across two oceans
to the Great Rift,
that place prehistoric peoples called home,
another moon rising,
another mystery fragmented through time.
Let the sun burn away my doubt.
Ride the crocodile into deep waters.
We are never not broken;
we are always whole.

This poem comes from several sources, Sunday Scribblings Prompt #270 Sweet (which I misread as Joy), Carry on Tuesday Prompt #107 So little time, so much to do, and then this interesting and lovely article by Julie C. Peters about a Hindu goddess named Akhilandeshavari. Her story illustrates that somehow even when we lie on the floor, overwhelmed by any of an amazing number of traumatic events, that we are never not broken, that we are ready for change, a kind of persistent quest, perhaps more than survival, that is unique to each of us.

Let's get serious . . .

No one can say what will happen
to Mother’s handkerchief embroidered in blue,
the journals, the drawings, scraps of poems,
love letters tucked in favorite books,
packed and unpacked again and again,
the dried flowers from my daughter’s wedding,
the quilt blocks begun and nearly finished,
a favorite cup with yellow cats.
No one can predict
who will come to take all this away,
not even with the most careful preparations,
not even with the most trusted friends.
I’m remembering an old Greek woman
who lay in state on the floor in an empty house.
I only hope for kindness
even from strangers on that final day.


This poem began with Robert Lee Brewer's Wednesday Poetry Prompt 134. His prompt reminded me of a scene from Kazantzakis’ film, “Zorba the Greek”(1964). A wealthy woman dies in a small Greek village. The priest, learning of her death, finds the house ravaged by hordes of villagers who took even her bed, leaving the house empty and the woman laying on the floor. This happens here, though in more civilized ways.

Killdeer . . .

Out on the mud flats, a killdeer with red eye ring
plucks his way along the water-soaked land.
He’s alone in this wide field as dusk falls.
He runs forward in short bursts,
a few steps and then he stops.
He turns away invisible,
his feathers blend brown and gray with the land.
We wait. In a moment or two, he runs forward again,
bobbing his head slightly,
his black double-banded breast a beacon,
his sharp cry piercing the silence.

We walk on, a simple Sunday walk
and stop for birding now and then.
The days pass, grasses grow,
a killdeer returns and nests,
but how that cry lingers.

The Bowerbird

In the spring, the bowerbird gathers leaves and flowers.
We suppose, being male, he doesn’t have a nest in mind.
He brings a certain rock or mushroom in his beak,
found or stolen from another bowerbird nearby,
and lays in pattern all those elements of art --
color, texture, line -- to entice her eye.

And once she comes, he sings and
dances while she watches.
She may return.
They may mate.
Then she moves on alone to
build a nest, the bower abandoned,
in the forest or the field, a singular work:
he tidies up; he preens for the next female.

We marvel at these elaborate patterns here,
for what if the artful bower just does not appeal?
What if she doesn’t come, drawn by some strange mix
of biologic chemistry and art made by birdy eye and birdy beak?
Even in the deepest forest, art is created, unknown to human eye.
We make our nests, and sing and dance,
And believe all is left to chance.


April begins National Poetry Month where some writers commit to writing a poem a day (see NaPoWriMo). I may not post every day, but I will be writing a poem a day and sharing some.

National Geographic had an article by Virginia Morrell on bowerbirds last year. The images of their precisely arranged "bowers" are fascinating. These are not nests. The male bowerbirds of New Zealand and Australia make them to attract the females for mating. The bowers are just lovely, intricate, a mix of materials. One photograph from the article shows a bowerbird painting sticks in his "nest" with "paint" the bird actually made himself. Sorry the line breaks don't come out properly here; I wanted the shape of the poem to be like a bower . . .

Where does inspiration come from?

National Geographic - April 2011,
originally uploaded by Marsel van Oosten.

If ever a photo carried stories, they're here in this image of an abandoned house, left to the sand for 50 years in Kolmanskop, once a diamond mining town in Namibia. The photo is by Marsel von Oosten, just published in National Geographic (April 2011). More later . . .

Song to the Saguaro Cactus

(pronounced sah-wha-ro)


We hike Sabino Canyon
to see the great Saguaro.
The Tohono O’Odham call these persons.
And so they are, each one unique,
standing in the thousands
along the valleys of this canyon,
arrayed in the arroyos as sentinels,
their thick, spiny, slow-growing arms
pocked with nests for cactus wrens or
an occasional owl.

Ah, Saguaro, you live longer than the people
who measure their years
against the flowering and the fruiting,
the hungry times, the longest nights,
the coldest, shortest days.
The people come in the proper season
to make wine from your fruits,
to give thanks,
and to dance under your arms.

#257 Manifesto

My manifesto is
just large enough
to scrawl
on the back of a leaf:

Balance in all things.


Sunday Scribblings this week asks us to write a manifesto.

When I think of a manifesto, I’m remembering demagogues through history who screamed at their followers; economies out of control, privation, suffering, and war became real demons to fear.

Our greatest religious teachers have distilled their insights to simple truths. Do not do to others what you would not want done to yourself. In the west, Ten Commandments, sacrifice and denial become a way of life. In the east, a search for nirvana based on meditation led people to act intentionally and to try to do no harm.

The tension between a dream and reality remains. I wish that all people lived in peace and harmony, safe from harm. But this speaks to a survival level. A larger dream would be for each soul to achieve its highest vision, whether that is to be a parent, an artist, a musician, a writer, even a politician. And, yes, I do believe that all actions are expressions of human creativity, even to making a simple meal, and that the best creative works have something uplifting, something good in them. So I would add: As your hand turns, work for the public good.

2011 Resolutions?

I've never made specific writing resolutions, but I just joined a new online writers' group and found Joe Konrath's A Newbie's Blog for Publishing. He's been setting resolutions since 2006, so I thought I'd piggyback on just 4 (OK 5) of his resolutions.

Konrath's resolutions (and my commentary) follow:

1. "I will start/finish the damn book" (2006).2. I have finished STANDING STONES and have 3-4 ideas in the research/drafting stage (RIVERS OF STONE and YEARS OF STONE, both sequels at 40% planned, and MOTHERS DON'T DIE (85% drafted) and THE LAST TAPESTRY (10% drafted). I will work on two of these.

2. "I will always have at least three stories on submission, while working on a fourth" (2006) This is a biggie for me as I have a horrible track record at sending stuff out, whether poems, stories or subbing the current novel. So my take will be always have two out working while working on a third. That seems sustainable.

3. "I will create/update my website" (2006). Does every writer who keeps a blog have an identity crisis or worry about readers? (See resolution 4 below) I want to go back to simply writing about writing. Those who come here can just expect a little venting, an occasional poem, and updates on research and writing -- as well as appreciation for other writers.

4. "I will stop worrying" (2010). Konrath worries??? I will strive to write (and edit) my best every day, and then I will let it go. That's me in 2011. I will dig deeper, write more intensely, and stop worrying!

5. "I will self publish" (2011). Yes, I will, just as Amanda Borenstadt did with her short story to test the water and then her book, Syzygy, an acronym I cannot type without doublechecking. Smashwords, look out! I'm nearly ready to play!

If you are a writer, my mantra remains: May your own writing go well!

An Unexpected Moment . . .

I have been sadly remiss in keeping my writing blog up. I'm in the research phase for the next book, RIVERS OF STONE, with some days going well, and other days, not so well. I've found some great stuff online and at the library, delved into history, worked on understanding the "real" structure of "plot", but the story has remained elusive. Until this morning.

Larry Brooks writes that the reader must discover a compelling reason to keep reading: An unexpected moment occurs when everything changes. Up to this point, you may be writing (or reading) about sympathetic characters, interesting situations, but the story doesn't really grab you. You're just as likely to put the book down and turn to other, more rewarding pursuits (Farmville, online Scrabble, sex), right before nodding off.

But as I was reading his post what readers must experience for a satisfying read, something clicked for my story. A true WHAT IF moment. And for the first time, the story I've been working on for the last two months felt like a story. Thank you, Larry. Thunder fingers is ready to roll.

October update . . .

I haven't blogged or written any poetry for what feels like months, yet the mantra of "perseverance furthers" pushes me forward most mornings. Today I started the edits on the last section of STANDING STONES. I wonder if this will be the last edit. Most likely not, but I have cut 15,000 words in about two months.

This kind of editing is rather fun. As I reread the story, the hunt for extra words and passive voice continues. I ask constantly: Is this wording, character, scene, or chapter essential to the story? Does this move the story forward? Words drop off the page as I read the dialogue aloud and and "hear" again how my characters talk.

Now and again, writing friends from several online writing communities share their works in progress, their ambitions, their tenacity, and I am encouraged. My characters seem a bit impatient, but come November 1, I will be ready for the first push into a draft of RIVERS OF STONE. Dougal, Colin, and Mary Margaret, disguised as a young boy, will travel the Atlantic as newly hired servants of the Hudson's Bay Company, join the Fur Brigade Express to trek across Canada and come to Fort Vancouver. It will be late spring, 1843, well before Mount St. Helens' eruption in 1847 or the discovery of gold. Perhaps Colin will sail to the Sandwich Islands or China. Perhaps Dougal will find a fiddle, and Mary Margaret, this woman who worked as a man, will discover herself in the Great Nor'West.

Back to editing . . .

On July 24th, I stood in front of 450 people to receive the second place award in historical fiction for Standing Stones at the Pacific Northwest Writers Association literary contest.

I remember bouncing up out of my chair when my name was called with a sense of disbelief and joy. Some 1100 people entered back in February. Now just three names (Kendra Hall, for Joan of Arc, Gabriella's Story; Debra Carlson for Shakuhachi, and me) were announced in our category. At the "winners only" reception following the dinner, several agents invited me to send my work, but here I heard for the first time that 118,000 words is too long for a first novel by a new author.

Over the long weekend of August 6th, I attended the Willamette Writers annual conference in Portland. Robert Dugoni was an inspirational keynoter ("Begin your story with blood on the floor") and workshop leader. Charlotte Cook changed my perceptions of how to write back story with her comment:

"If you don't want to compromise the forward momentum of the story, integrate back story as you experience your past in your own life. Do we stop action in the present to retell ourselves a story from the past? In chronological order?"

But the real draw for me at Willamette Writers was to find out more about agents and the possibility of representation. Now I learned in earnest that Standing Stones was too long. But after a year of editing, I'm no longer intimidated by the challenge of chopping out 25,000 words or so. I'm not subbing to agents just yet. I'm not writing poetry or short stories. Each morning begins with editing. Each afternoon includes research, for the next two stories in this series are simmering and shimmering in my imagination. Summer now begins its turn to fall. May your own projects go well.

About what's next . . .

In northern Scotland today, here and there in the rolling green hills close to the sea, clusters of stones remain. Once these stones were cottages for crofters. For in the early 19th Century, rich landowners, inspired by the Industrial Revolution, sought to make this land more productive and evicted the people who had lived here in these hills for generations, to make way for sheep.

Mac MacDonnell , a fisherman, with his brothers Dougal, Colin, and Jamie, and his sister, Moira, lived in such a cottage. Suspicious when Lord Gordon took possession of the tiny island they lived on, Mac protested changes first to his fishing boat and then, when sheep were brought on the island and evictions began, Mac led protests to the lord’s manor house. When a child was trampled to death, the MacDonnell’s were evicted and their boat confiscated. Mac was arrested and sentenced to be transported to the penal colony at Port Arthur in Van Diemen’s Land. As Mac is taken to London to work in the prison hulks on the Thames, awaiting shipment to Tasmania, the remaining MacDonnell’s face the future alone.

Each struggles to decide whether to remain on their island home or to leave. Dougal and his sweetheart Mary Margaret disguised as a man, sign on as servants with the Hudson’s Bay Company. Colin is hired as well. Moira reluctantly takes Jamie, the youngest brother, with her to Inverness, searching for work and for Dhylan, her husband. And Diedre, fearful of leaving her family, yet more afraid of a life without Mac, follows Mac to Van Dieman’s Land, hoping somehow to be reunited.

This is the story of Standing Stones, a finalist in this year’s Pacific Northwest Writers Association literary contest. Critics called this story “a very promising work” with “excellent plot development” and “wide audience appeal for readers of “action/adventure, historical fiction and possibly romance.” My search for an agent begins as does the sequel.
I’m in the research phase for the next novel.

Should I tell the story of Dougal and Mary Margaret as they cross the wilds of Canada with the Hudson’s Bay Company’s famous fur brigades, perhaps traveling with artist Paul Kane west to Fort Vancouver? There, Mary Margaret’s disguise unravels, she is discharged from service and lives outside the Fort with a mélange of Native Americans, Hawaiians and Scots. Perhaps they’re hired by Paul Kane as he travels throughout the Willamette Valley and north again, documenting the “Great Nor-West” and painting the 1847 eruption of Mount St. Helens. And then in January 1848, gold is discovered at Sutter’s Mill. The Great Gold Rush of California begins.

Or should I continue the story of Mac, shipwrecked near Port Arthur, desperate to find Diedre among the survivors, and of their lives in the early days of the penal colony on Tasmania? Does Mac try to escape, past the vicious dog line and north into the bush? Are they befriended by the very few aboriginals or bushmen there? Does Mac survive his sentence? How does Diedre begin a new life in the wild saloon halls of Port Arthur? Is she befriended by the peripatetic Lady Franklin, wife of soon-to-be-disposed Governor Franklin (1843), the ill-fated explorer of the Arctic? And then, in May, 1851, gold is discovered. The Great Gold Rush in the Macquarie River country north of Sydney begins.

Yesterday I spent three hours researching in the Spokane library’s Pacific Northwest Room where materials cannot be checked out. But I will persevere. Each of the stories above is roughly a three-year project: one year to draft, two years to revise. Which story appeals most to you?

Standing Stones a finalist . . .

I'm thrilled to learn that Standing Stones was selected as a finalist in this year's Pacific Northwest Writers Association literary contest. Over 1100 writers entered with nearly 100 chosen as finalists in 12 categories. Results will be announced July 24 at an awards dinner in Seattle. I'm going!

C. C. Humphreys is the keynote speaker at the dinner. This accomplished writer gives his occupation as "writer, actor, and fight choreographer," so I'm sure to learn something new. He's on my reading list now, along with other research which pulls me in many different directions -- all 19th Century but in Tasmania, China, Hawai'i, and along the fur traders' routes in Canada west from York to Fort Vancouver.

I found a gem in Paul Kane (1810-1871) who, inspired by George Catlin, painted to preserve the culture and images of the great wilderness of the West. Kane gained permission to travel with the Hudson's Bay Company fur brigades west and painted landscapes of Native peoples across Canada.

He left Toronto in May and arrived (after many adventures and misadventures) at Fort Vancouver in December, 1846. That's over 6 months on the road in far more rugged conditions we experience today, even when we go camping. He hunkered down at Fort Vancouver and then travelled throughout the Willamette Valley and north, including a stop at Fort Victoria.

Somewhere along the way, Kane painted an eruption of Mt. St. Helens at night (1847, source Wikipedia). You'll note the eruption comes (accurately) from the side of the cone, so not as significant as the big blow-up in 1980, but this must have had an impact on the peoples living there at that time. I also learned that Kane visited the Whitman Mission just a few months before the massacre there. Ah, the links that research brings!

Thanks to the library, I have Diane Eaton and Sheila Urbanek's book, Paul Kane's Great Nor-West with its wonderful commentary and diary excerpts to accompany his paintings. Now, back to work . . .

My Pantry . . .

Three things you'll always find in my pantry are garlic salt, rubber knuckles, and granddad's hand gun loaded with silver bullets. This is because I don't trust the garlic salt by itself, and garlic bulbs are too cumbersome to wear by themselves. I don't see them hanging around my neck. So, I just keep my garlic salt handy, right behind my old-fashioned breadbox, the one that Clem threw at me before he left. He didn't listen. He made it all the way out past the front picket fence before they got him. And they didn't leave anything behind to bury. Well, nobody's perfect.

I mostly stay inside now. Neither the TV nor the radio works. I'm thinking I may have to make a run to the city. Not sure how I'll make it past the front yard unless I wire the car up with garlic. I'm worried about my sister. She lives in a high rise with three cats. Clem never cared for her that much, so I haven't seen Sissy for three years. Last time I saw her, she was telling me to remember granddad's stories about when the moon turned red. That's when I started cooking with garlic salt.

Have you ever had oatmeal with garlic salt? It's not so bad if you mix it with raisins and peanuts. Clem didn't like my cooking after I saw my sister. He said I should watch the cooking channel and make some changes. I just kept my head down and kept on with what I wanted. We didn't ever fight exactly. He just threw things around, and I kept cooking with garlic salt. And, of course, the entire front yard and back yard is planted in garlic. Nothing bad is coming in here.

Did I say this just started the week before Halloween? I attribute it to the blood moon we saw all through September. Can't say I'm going to have much for the trick and treaters this year. Not even candy corn, my favorite. I'm keeping it for myself. Though this year, it tastes a bit salty. You know, like garlic.

I'm working on something a little different just now to open up some ideas along the theory that any writing takes me somewhere, as most of my attention is still focused on 19th Century research. So today's short story was inspired by a prompt from Jennifer's neat site Procrastinating Writers ("What three things are in your pantry . . . "), as well as Keith's Carry On Tuesdays (prompt: "Well, nobody's perfect").

Valparaiso graffiti . . .

Down any cobbled street
in hilly Valparaiso, we see
butterflies, a prism
of light, a hand uplifted:
white doves take flight,
scrambled letters shape a poem,
a street musician plays sweet horn
for veiled women on a wall,
behind the garden
giant salamanders play.
Blue sea, blue sky,
my heart is far from home.

This poem comes from a melange of photos taken on a walk around Valparaiso (in Spanish, Valley of Paradise), in Chile, last year.




Valparaiso Chile

#217: Mantra . . .

I have no mantra. I resonate instead
with the four sacred directions and
feel nature to my bones,
the rise of sun,
the floating moon,
the moment I know that life begins
or that I die.

I walk in any forest attuned to bird cries,
sacred scrit written on air.
A cloud of yellow butterflies
crosses my path and I am at home.

If a poem appears,
I hold it in my hands,
so briefly,
as brief as my breath,
and let it go.


This week's poetry prompt from Sunday Scribblings is simply mantra. Read more of what others have written by linking to Sunday Scribblings. I read a definition of "mantra" to find that in the Upanishand belief system, each letter of a word is given spiritual meaning (that should be of interest to writers). Here's the quote from Wikipedia: "The mute consonants represent the earth, the sibilants the sky, the vowels heaven. The mute consonants represent fire, the sibilants air, the vowels the sun. The mute consonants represent the eye, the sibilants the ear, the vowels the mind"

Personally, I'm drawn to the moon and water, so I begin to think this system leaves out much -- the mute consonants representing earth (think mud as well as mountains), but no moon. The second level lists fire, air and sun, but no earth or water. The third level -- the body -- the eye, the ear, the mind, but where is the gut, the heart, the belly of life?

Benjamin Percy and the Southern Cross . . .

Tonight, I'm settled in with the latest issue of Poets & Writers, reading "Home Improvement," by Benjamin Percy. I was jolted right out of a quiet evening when I read what Percy had to say about the difference between beginning writers who revise and a professional writer who " . . . mercilessly lops off limbs, rips out innards like party streamers, drains away gallons of blood, and then calls down lightning to bring the body back to life" (26). Ah, passion.

So today was research again, no writing. And that's what's slowing me down. The not writing. I did find some interesting stuff on the Southern Cross, always visible at night in the Southern Hemisphere, south of 35 degrees, particularly useful to sailors as the southern sky lacks a pole star. The Southern Cross was/is honored by Australian aborigines through folktales of the Two Brothers and of totemic protectors.

In 1854, the Southern Cross inspired a banner raised by protesting gold miners in Ballarat, Victoria, Australia. The bloody battle that followed decimated the miners but their cry remains -- "We swear by the Southern Cross to stand truly to each other and fight to defend our rights and liberties." Many of the Irish transported to New South Wales were political prisoners, well versed with 18th Century American and French ideals of liberty and enfranchisement.

If I were sailing near Australia, I could find the southernmost pole now by tracing my finger down the stars of the Southern Cross. But I'm in my office, preparing to "lop off limbs" in one of my stories.

Friday . . .

Just a bit of blue through the clouds. A promise of rain. Outside, a young man walks a bouncy lab in the field next door, disappearing into the pines, perhaps following the scent of yesterday's white-tailed deer. I peek out of our third floor apartment. All is quiet. Early morning. And yet today I sent my first query out. I won't promise not to whine, but for the foreseeable future, I'll be poised between two worlds, one, heavy into research for the next book, Years of Stone, the other, this search for an agent, also more research.

Today's research tidbit from Charles Bateson's classic study of convict ships to Australia (1787-1868): Prisoners were sent from all over the world, not just England and Ireland, but Canada, Bermuda, Mauritius, the Cape of Good Hope, and India. I'm thinking about India. Now there's a place that resonates with connections to historic Australia.

On writing . . .

The greatest surprise is always when the words come. Today, challenged by Carol K. to write three pages, and stuck on that rock of what's next after Standing Stones, and after I told Allen I would not be continuing the story in Australia, the story began again, on a beach near Van Diemen's Land. It's 1842, the Brilliant, a sailing vessel bringing passengers and convicts to Port Arthur, has run aground. Mac and Diedre are safe. The working title: Years of Stone.