Every writer I know has trouble writing. ~Joseph Heller, American author
Not so long ago, I thought writing a novel would be the hard part.
Struggling to make sense of varied plot lines, fleshing out believable characters, choosing a point of view to tell the story from, and tying up loose ends felt like a mountain to climb.
And there were all those rules.
In literature, when nine hundred and ninety-nine souls ignore you, but the thousandth buys your work, or at least borrows it — that is called enormous popularity. ~Arnold Bennett (1867–1931), English writer
You could have knocked me over with a feather the day I learned somebody wanted to publish my book.
Kids today have it so good.
To touch a key and have letters and words magically appear on a screen, then to be able to Find and Replace at will, to Cut and Paste whole paragraphs instantly, to delete entire pages, to Save to the Cloud….
There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you. ~Maya Angelou, American poet and civil rights activist
When you tell someone you’re a writer, invariably you’re asked what you’re working on right now.
A vague response doesn’t cut it. They want details — lots of them — and many are quick to offer “helpful” suggestions for plot points, characters, settings, whatever.
If you’ve read this blog long enough, you know I’m not a fan of my own name.
As a journalist, “Debbie” worked. She was solid, dependable, factual. Printed alongside my last name, “Debbie” made a nice-looking byline.
But as a fiction writer? One who kills off characters and spins imaginary tales?
I think not.
Wheresoever you go, go with all your heart. ~Confucius
Me and Erin are doing okay
We stumbled on this nice little town
With free hot dinners and a bed.
No need to hoard cardboard or shopping carts
No need to fight driving rain and blazing heat
Or sleep with our eyes open for protection.
Yeah, we’re doing just fine.
You know that bicycle I used to ride?
I traded it for Erin a couple months ago.
She was with some other guy, but he wanted to make tracks
And Erin was just an inconvenience. Crazy, huh?
As soon as I saw her, I knew she was the gal for me.
Long silky red hair, eyes the color of honeyed copper.
Eyes you can practically drown in, they’re so full.
When I left, I didn’t know where I was headed.
Figured I’d just ride until I found myself
Or got bored, whichever came first.
Now that Erin is traveling with me, I’m learning responsibility.
We share everything — food, water, bed, laughs.
Whoever says a homeless person doesn’t need a dog
Just doesn’t know anything about me … or Erin.
So me and Erin are doing okay.
It’s not the life you dreamed of for me
But freedom is more important than wearing a suit and tie,
Punching a time clock, running the rat race.
There are places to see, people to talk to
And we only got one shot to do it all in anyway.
At least me and Erin got each other now.
Note: This was inspired — and fictionalized — from something I saw recently.
I didn’t ask for it to be over. But then again I didn’t ask for it to begin. For that’s the way it is with life, as some of the most beautiful days come completely by chance. But even the most beautiful days eventually have their sunset.
She: I’m busy. Job to do. Focused. When I look up and lock eyes with my past, my heart stops.
There once was a wee little toad
Who hopped on a leaf as it blowed.
The leaf, it did swing;
The toad, it did cling;
‘Til the leaf unloaded its load!
P. S. Another Limerick. I thought this little guy was a leaf…until I poked at him, and he hopped!
Resplendent in your dress of gold,
Lifting your arms to the birds of the air.
Tall and proud, stunning and bold,
Never a worry, never a care.
Oh maple tree touched by the sun,
Are you aware that one day soon
Your leaves will drop and you’ll be bare?
That snows and bitter winds will come
Bringing silence and quiet as winter’s tune.
Do you know, or do you care?
Note: This is written as a Horatian Ode, a poem with meter and rhyme, praising a person, animal, or object. The “object” is a Sugar Maple photographed in late afternoon sunlight.
Our words should be purrs instead of hisses. — Kathrine Palmer Peterson
A long-ago editor of mine greeted me every day with the words, “Mornin’, Glory!”