Goodmorning? Maybe…
Its early; too early, I think, for the time I went to bed last night. This being the summer, my internal clock has reset and my body has decided that I should be awake from 11 a.m. to 3 a.m.; tough hours to stick to when you have three kids. Now I’ve got a bit of a headache and I’m drinking my first cup of coffee, reflecting on the day ahead of me. I actually feel somewhat guilty that I didn’t do the Friday5 last Friday; the questions didn’t suit me. Instead, I worked on my WIP and on Saponifier, which is what I’m working on today.
I’m using Google’s new Task List, a part of Gmail. As a serial email-checker, every time I look for new messages, I am now confronted with a list of things I need to accomplish by the end of the day. I’m hoping that the little notes will remind me of all the things I have needing done, thus making me more effective as both a writer and Managing Editor, but we’ll see. I have superhuman powers to stubbornly procrastinate.
I snapped a picture that I want to share with you; I thought it might help generate a little inspiration for someone. Its a picture of the sunset and the moon, as seen from my driveway at about 8 p.m. on July 23rd. Being of the sort that needs inspiring, I’m also going to share a poem, one that seems to fit the mood I’m in today.
The Moon
by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 – 1822)
I
And, like a dying lady lean and pale,
Who totters forth, wrapp’d in a gauzy veil,
Out of her chamber, led by the insane
And feeble wanderings of her fading brain,
The mood arose up in the murky east,
A white and shapeless mass.
II
Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?
And with that, I’m going to finish my coffee (and perhaps a Blueberry Pop Tart) and start on my day.
How do you define a story?
sto?ry: noun, plural -ries, verb, -ried, -ry?ing.
- a narrative, either true or fictitious, in prose or verse, designed to interest, amuse, or instruct the hearer or reader; tale.
- a fictitious tale, shorter and less elaborate than a novel.
- such narratives or tales as a branch of literature: song and story.
- the plot or succession of incidents of a novel, poem, drama, etc.: The characterizations were good, but the story was weak.
- a narration of an incident or a series of events or an example of these that is or may be narrated, as an anecdote, joke, etc.
- a narration of the events in the life of a person or the existence of a thing, or such events as a subject for narration: the story of medicine; the story of his life.
- a report or account of a matter; statement or allegation: The story goes that he rejected the offer.
- news story.
- a lie or fabrication: What he said about himself turned out to be a story.
Recently, there has been some discussion on one of the lists to which I belong surrounding the controversial topic of stories. I hadn’t thought this to be a topic open to debate, but much like the art -vs- craft issue facing those who produce creative handmade goods, it seems that there are battle lines demarcated and ammunition being stockpiled by those on each side of this literary battle.
One fervent believer argued that poetry is glimpses, not a story; that without a well defined plot, there is no story. Another replied that as long as you met with progress throughout the piece, such as the development of a character’s personality, then it would indeed be a story. They fired a volley of frantic messages between them, many of us merely observing from the sideline. Others joined in, tossing their own choice grenades into the fray, comments like, “if it doesn’t have a clear beginning, middle and end, it isn’t a story,” and, “you can’t define a story unless you know the context you’ll be defining it in.”
As the messages continued to roll in, first five, then twelve, thirty now, I tried my best to ignore them. I sent most to the trash without reading them, but couldn’t help seeing words in the mail preview as I hit delete. And it left me wondering.
Why all the fuss? Why not just write?
There are things in life that we’ll never be able to explain, never be able to quantify or pigeonhole. Things that are subjective, like beauty, pleasant scents, and apparently what the definition of a story is. So, as they continued their debate, I continued to write, adding another 5,000 words to the work in progress.
Summer in Florida
I really am blessed to live where I do. Its a fantastic location filled with everything that you can dream of when you dream of tropical paradises. The sandy beaches, gulf breezes, exotic flora and fauna- it all abounds here. Days like yesterday remind me of that and help me learn to let go of the things about the area that bother me.
After working on Saponifier in the morning and early afternoon, I headed out on the water with my husband. Here are a few photos from the trip.
It was an amazing trip. We caught a couple small fish, but mostly just enjoyed the sunset. Have you ever watched the sun set on the water? In Florida, the sunsets are obviously well known, but many don’t know that they are at their most showy after a storm. The sky will light with colors, purple and pink, orange so bright it seems as if its on fire. If you are lucky enough to see it in person and the sight doesn’t inspire you, I’m not sure anything can!
Inspired, I wrote this:
Sunset
The water, slick calm;
an infinite mirror
with gentle swells
carrying the liquid colors
to the horizon.
Brilliant hues melting,
simmering in summer heat,
burning in reflection
of the storm tossed sky.
Today I’m working on two articles, putting the finishing touches on a short story and have been dabbling in the outline of another short. I also have to work on my ‘Breaking Up Is Hard To Do‘ flash fiction piece for SheWrites. What are you up to?
Long Day
It was a long day. Fun, but long. Got some writing in; not nearly what I wanted, but enough to keep the creativity going.
We had some errands to run today. Before we left, I went out to check the mail and was pleasantly surprised to see a group of White Ibis snacking on the lawn.
I didn’t bother checking the mail; I didn’t have the heart to disturb them.
One of our errands took us to the bookstore. I continued my trend as a notebook addict and purchased a new one. It has a hard back and spiral binding. The inside is lined, and has already been christened with both writing and a picture. Here’s what it looks like:
My husband also found a pretty interesting looking book which has been added to my ‘To Read’ list:
I have a pretty full work day tomorrow, so I’m off to bed. I thought I’d leave off with a poem tonight.
Last Boat
By Betsy Sholl
We were waiting for the ferry,
lolling on the lowest ramp, on floats,
shifty with wave slush, dip and sway.
We were sun-seared, sapped, soaking in
the latticework, wooden scaffolding,
stacks of lobster traps, pilings stained black
from creosote and tar, green with seaweed
combed out on receding waves, swirled back
by water’s slap and curl: levels and lengths
of working docks, creaky planks, crossbars
of tacked asbestos for stopping the slip
on slick days–the whole wet rush,
the gleaming run-down fertile place.
We were sitting on a dock of the bay,
watching how matter melts into
quivery silks of light, a brilliant seethe,
a glittery tease of there
and not there, such dazzling manna.
We were squinting through shadows
at little flamelike fish flickering
among weeds–a whole world it seemed
flaring under the ramshackle,
barnacled, rock-bottom dock, all flow
and flown, and we were resting in
the brevity, the breve, breviary,
the never-ending not-me: waiting
for the ferry, wishing it wouldn’t come.