Poetry for winter weather

Sometimes you have the perfect words to describe what you're seeing and feeling. And sometimes somebody else does.

This poem by Ogden Nash perfectly describes the beauty and exhilaration of today's snowstorm in my adopted state of Michigan:

Winter Morning

Winter is the king of showmen
Turning tree stumps into snowmen
And houses into birthday cakes
And sprinkling sugar over lakes
Smooth and clean and frosty white
The world looks good enough to bite
That's the season to be young
Catching snowflakes on your tongue

Quirky Moments Provide Story Ideas

Whenever I talk about writing, the question I get the most often is this: "Where do you find your story ideas?" And luckily, the answer is fairly easy. From freelance to fiction, ideas are borne of those quirky little moments that make up a life.

For instance, where I work, there's a little man who always faces me when we ride the elevator together. That's all. He just faces me. But think about it - that's not elevator protocol. Elevator protocol dictates you face front, looking at the numbers. But no, this little guy looks toward the back, at me, with a big smile on his face, making the trip a surreal, somewhat hilarious three- to five-minute ride. There's a story in there somewhere - probably more than one.

And sometimes, on the way to work, I'll take a circuitious route that takes me past this little take-out chicken place. In the morning, early, I'll see their mascot, this giant chicken (naturally) walking back and forth on the sidwalk, flapping his wings, looking bored to tears and like he's yearning for a smoke. When I drive by and stop at the light, he waves to me, somewhat frantically, it seems. I've taken to waving tentatively back. I have to wonder what that job is like - along with all the other dress-up jobs we see, like the Statue of Liberty who'll do your taxes or the iconic Chuck E. Cheese.

If we pay attention to life's quirky moments, our writing notebooks will never be empty.

Writing from the heart

Valentine's Day is right around the corner, and with it comes the classic quandary: Finding that perfect gift. This year, why not try something new? Instead of - or better yet, along with - the classic chocolates and flowers, why not try writing down what's in your heart?

It doesn't have to be perfect. In fact, it's sometimes even more powerful if it's flawed. Keep it simple - maybe it's a short story, a remembrance of your first date. Or maybe it's a poem. Give it a try. I'm hardly a poet. I'm not schooled in classic poetry, I confess I like things that rhyme, and getting all mushy kind of makes me uncomfortable. But when my husband and I were dating, I presented him with a poem as a Valentine's Day present. It was silly, really - more of an ode to how much he did for me, how he was always there when I needed him, and how much I loved him for it.

It had four stanzas. It rhymed. It was, in retrospect, classically bad poetry. I didn't care. It was for his eyes only. And when he read it, it was the first time I saw his eyes fill up with tears. It was only then, I think, that I realized just how powerful writing from the heart can be. Today, 17 years later, that poem is framed and still up on his dresser. It still makes me smile every time I pass by.

Judging a book by its cover

A little while ago, in the grocery store, I got in line behind an elderly man. He was kind of sweet looking, with oversized glasses and a careworn face. "Oh, a grandfather," I thought to myself, smiling slightly at him. Then grandpa let 'er rip.
"Young people have just gone to hell these days," he told the stoic-faced clerk. "I can't go anywhere without getting angry."
He continued in that vein for a good five minutes. He hated this thing, this other thing was terrible, and he couldn't believe how awful everything else was. At first I was surprised. Then I felt sorry for him. Finally, I really just wanted him to shut the hell up.
Compare that story to this one: A few nights after that, coming home from work, I was stopping off at Arby's. (Ok, yes, you caught me. I eat at Arby's. I know - I feel bad about it because I like cows. But those junior sandwiches are so dang tasty!) Anyway, the parking lot was very dark, and there weren't many cars. As I was pulling in, a car sped in behind me and pulled up a few spaces away. Two guys got out - big guys. They had a little bit of a swagger to their walk, and while I'm no wimp, I thought, "Why ask for trouble?" and hesitated a second, pretending to goof around with my car door so they could walk ahead and go in first. It was freezing out, (of course - it is Michigan, after all) and as I moved closer to the entrance, one of the big guys turned around. Even though I still had quite a bit of distance to cover, he waited - holding the door open for me and letting me go in ahead of him. "Thank you!" I said, honestly surprised and pleased.
He just smiled. "You're welcome," he said.
Yep, you guessed it. In both cases, I'd labeled these two books by their covers. And I realized later that not only was I doing it in life, I was doing it in literature, too.
I've been in a rut - reading the same type of fiction over and over, simply because I'd told myself at some point in time I didn't read "that type of book."
Romances? Ugh. No way. Non-fiction. Booooring. I just read mysteries, thank you very much. By my favorite authors. I knew their style, and I liked it. I just, um, hoped they could write fast enough, because I really like to read.
So I decided it was time to branch out. I chose a paranormal romance by Heather Graham called "Ghostwalk." It was great. Then I found out she's a prolific author who has written literally dozens more books. Non-fiction? I played it safe with the well-known "Julie and Julia" by Julie Powell. Excellent - and far funnier than I thought it would be. It actually made me want to read Julia Child's memoir. Emboldened by experience, I even decided to try a "dog book," long against my principles because something bad ALWAYS happens to the dog and leaves me horribly depressed. But I picked up a copy of Jon Katz' "Dog Days" and God bless him, right there, after the dedication, he stuck in a page saying, in part: "To my readers: No dogs die in this book." Love that!!
I'm embarrassed it's taken me this long to branch out. Oh, I still love mysteries - heck, I just WROTE one. But there are shelves and shelves of great reading material got there - it would be a shame to judge all those titles before I even read the first page.

Paralyzed by Word Perfection?

I'm not a perfectionist. I don't need things "just so." As a matter of fact, most of the time, I'm exceedingly laid back. Except when it comes to writing. There's something about finding the right word, that elusive adjective, the perfect verb, that can simply paralyze my fingers on the keyboard.
If you're a writer, you probably know the drill. It happens so suddenly, you hardly realize it. You're in a zone, typing out a scene or a quote or a sentence and suddenly - blank. You know there's a perfect word for what you're trying to describe, but you ... just ...can't... find ...it. And you stop. You think. You wait. You try to remember, and it's so close - but it's just out of your grasp. And then before you know it, your creative streak has ended. You're stuck. Over one stupid word.
That used to bother me, this obsession with word perfection. Then I met an editor who sliced and diced the English language as dramatically as those tableside chefs at Japanese restauants prepare your meal. Yes, come to think of it, she was the Benihana's of editors. It was amazing and terrifying to behold.
For instance, if she didn't know what word to use, one of her favorite tricks was to simply put an "ical" on the end of it. Like, "That description is too graphical," or "The photo isn't dramatical enough." She wasn't stupid - in fact, she had a master's degree. But she just didn't care. She wasn't a word perfectionist. And listening to her cringe-worthy sentences made me feel a little happier that I was.
So now, I try not to let my obsession paralyze me. If I'm writing a story and I can't think of the right word, I just put in whatever word I can think of - kind of like a placeholder. I mark it, highlight it, and come back - with a thesaurus and more patience. It's a pain in the butt. It slows me down. But as any word lover will tell you - it's worth it.

Armadillo shortages and cold weather

So I had someone ask me today, "When are you going to start writing another book?" Ouch, baby!! Classic foul - like asking the mother of a newborn when she's going to get pregnant again. But I knew her intentions were good, and because of this, I resisted taking off my shoe and beating her with it.
But writers write. That's what they do. And I love writing. I even love the basics - choosing just the right word, putting the sentences together, working hard to make the language flow. So I do need to choose another project. I know that. But I want to choose just the right one.
When I was a newspaper reporter, it was so easy. Life was right there. There's a reason all those cop shows say their storylines are "ripped from the headlines." It's because they're really good headlines. (Thank you, copy editors). When I worked at a little paper in Logansport, Ind., the reporters would schlep in about 7:30 a.m. (I'd always be late, naturally), find a story, report it and have it written by 11:30 a.m. - noon if the copy desk was feeling generous. That was the deal - come in, find one, write one, and if you're lucky, use the afternoon to get a jumpstart on the next one. At the time, I thought it was just horribly unfair - my muse did not care for the operating schedule.
But truthfully, it was great training. After that gig, I rarely had trouble coming up with ideas. Of course, now and then, the head honcho would throw a crimp in your plans. You'd be all set to head out on a great story, and he (or she) would come over and lean in on your desk, saying conspiratorially, "You know, I haven't seen as many armadillos around this year. Don't you think that's odd?" Um, okay. You'd know what was coming, and soon the headline over your byline would boast the winning tale of "Armadillo shortages on tap this season?"
Or around, say, the end of September, you'd get another visit from above, when you learned that "It sure is cold outside. I wonder how cold it will get this winter?" And soon, under your byline would be the scintillating tale of "Cold weather on tap this winter?" You get the idea.
But those were exceptions. Usually, there were a multitude of interesting things to write about. So fiction, I'd think, would be even easier. Heck, it's pretend!! I don't even have to get the quotes right. But for some reason - maybe because I'm new - I'm very tentative about starting over, choosing the right storyline, making sure it fits. Or maybe, I think if I choose the wrong one, the editors will come back. With more story ideas.

And we're up! (So do I want you to look?)

So it took awhile, but Death on Deadline is finally a reality. It's up on www.smashwords.com, with thousands of other self-published offerings. Of course, the cover isn't quite finished yet, so it looks a little naked, but it's up there. I'm delighted. And petrified.
My friend and business partner, the irreplaceble Traci Bauer, handled the uploading, the formatting, and all the tough stuff - all I had to do was check out the completed product. But truthfully, it took me a little while to screw up the courage to even take a look.
See, that book has been mine for so long, it's taking a little adjustment knowing that everybody and their brother can read it. I think most writers feel that way when they first share their work. Oh, it's not that I'm shy - far from it. Heck, I'm the one who gave out far too much information about every trip to the OB/GYN when I was pregnant. But a story - or any kind of writing - becomes part of you. Sharing can be tough. In fact, I told my friend today that publishng that book was actually like having a baby - I was so worried about the birth, I had no idea what to do with it once it arrived. So I'll just figure it out, step by step. And it won' throw up all over me, or keep me up nights, so that's a plus.