Today is the due date for the first chapter contest. I have been editing over and over and over, and when I get so sick of looking at my stories and decide that they're a mash of paper, not unlike spitwads, I throw things.
What really happens, is instead of doing laundry or dishes or anything else I should be doing between typing bleary-eyed on my computer (except helping kids with school because that's a have to as well as a constant thing into the afternoons), I wax poetic. So, here you go. I'm not promising this piece is any good, but when I'm in this mood poetry becomes more about expressing as quickly as my fingers can allow than it is about iambic pentameter.
(How many of you just Googled iambic pentameter or planned to when this post is over? Confession: I had to. I didn't remember if I'd used or spelled the phrase correctly.)
So, um, poetry. So if you hate this, then print it out, chew it up, and spit it at a target. I may be doing the same thing with a couple of chapters.
i write trees
the seed of an idea drops on fertile soil takes root and grows, inky tendrils weave in and around the page sucking up white space into a sapling reaching for the heavens and becomes an explosion of ideas and leaves of passion and excitement.
at the peak of frost leaves drift away, pages hibernate for the winter, stark bare bones remain every bump and knot silhouetted against blue-gray sky as sap drains leaving empty twigs, words rest blanketed in ice cold sticky silence.
scrivener sings and wakes sleepy sap which thaws, creeps as thick honey to each warming branch, buds of ideas poke out phrases and carve their way through pointed pen tips, showing in careful caution, adorning dark bark with the beginnings of setting, character, and shade.
then comes pruning, then come blossoms
then comes fruit. slightly speckled with relief, sweet-tart, and subtle hints of bitter tears.
a book is grown.