Would anyone mind if I tossed in a piece of poetry now and then? If I shared a bit of that cloud that occasionally comes by and snags on the corner of my mind?

I suppose no one will object. My only regular visitor is my husband … and I MAKE him read my posts, the poor guy. He hates poetry, however, so I risk losing my only reader.

But the thing is, I’m feeling a need to blurt out poetic things, and when that occurs for a writer, it’s useless to stifle the words. Risking losing one’s only reader is hardly a deterrent to a mind set on throwing down a gauntlet of words.

In the absence of any immediate discouragement, I shall therefore consider the subject closed, and I, the winner of the argument. Whoo hoo! I win! Bar Keep — Poetry for the house!

Don’t worry, you won’t understand it any more than I will. Plus, this poetry of which I speak is still unwritten. I’m simply asking permission of the Universe and the Great Internets beforehand.

Plus, I’m hoping some simple poetry will be less taxing on my screaming wrists.

(P.S. Credit for the lovely cloud picture goes to FreeFoto.com)

Scents trigger in me a visceral, down-in-the-gut immediacy. I smell the meat of a cracked-open walnut, and I’m immediately nine years-old and swinging my legs over a low branch on the walnut tree that grew in the backyard of my home in Portland, Oregon. Wave a bottle of Chanel No. 5 under my nose, and I’m with my mother. We’re in the car, and she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Let me smell the oily scent of an escalator, and suddenly I’m riding to the second floor in a department store when I hear a woman cry out that John F. Kennedy’s been assassinated.

Scents give us history. They provide background to our defining moments. They instantly move us from present time to the past. Today, I caught a whiff of fried chicken, and it was immediately the Fourth of July and I was headed to a picnic at Jantzen Beach. I was seven years old, if I was a day.

The smell of a pumpkin makes me nearly dizzy!

The same with the evocatove power of a book. Of course, some more so than others.

My great-grandmother’s bible from Glasgow, Scotland, with its fragile onion-skin pages and its unattainable words causes me to fall from the height of myself each time I hold it gently in my hands. The poetry of Jorie Graham and a collection entitled, Poets Against the War does the same to me.

Oh, God, the volumes of the Oxford English Dictionary, with all their words and history give me chills. Law books from my former profession hit me equally (yet then again, may I never again need to crack the spine of the newest California Law Review).

When I began researching my book, All the Dancing Birds, I was struck so often by the brave and, yes, helpful non-fiction that gave me information as well as concern for our soon-to-be aging population. John Bayley’s Elegy For Iris uncovers his wife’s descent into Alzheimer’s like none I’ve read. He gave me courage to step into the mind of an Alzheimer’s patient, and write a novel stricken with consuming challenge.

During my research, I read that scent is the first to leave an Alzheimer’s patient. I can’t imagine living without the triggers to my past, those moments of delight — or anguish — that come upon me with just a whiff of scent. I can’t imagine. I hope I’ll never need to.

The fragility of our bodies is sometimes more than I can comprehend.

Maybe tomorrow I’ll tell you about my brain tumor.

At the bidding of my doctor, I’m taking the day off to rest the old wrists.  May I be the first to say, wrist-resting is hard for a Type-A.  Grrrrr.

My best to you all,

Auburn

Miss Dragon here today, filling in for the ailing Auburn — some whiny excuse about her wrist, yet again. I’m, however, feeling fit as a fiddle and ready for duty.

Auburn and I have been having quite a discussion lately about the difference between using our right brain and our left brain during the process of writing. She contends that her more then wonderful fiction arises predominantly from her right brain, while I assert her left brain is equally important. Perhaps we’re both correct here.

While the fantasy of fiction, its conception and articulation, may certainly be a rather right-brained task, it takes a good left-brainer to perform the endless edits that are so necessary in completing a project. It’s been a bit of a challenge for Auburn to learn to use me in either or both tasks. She wants to fly all over the page, right braining here, there, and everywhere. I’m here, however, to remind her to slow down, take a breath now and then, and spend time thinking before continuing on her willy-nilly course of reckless abandon.

I’m also … if I might take a moment to brag about myself … a whiz at writing those dreaded synopses, query letters, and generally performing transactions necessary to the business of writing. What would Auburn do without me when it comes to stuffing all those envelopes with query letters? Yes I’m a handy sort to have around. It’s not every Dragon, you know, who gets the opportunity to spend time with a writer. I even pride myself with a few well-placed puffs of flame, which serve to set Auburn’s hair on fire with new story ideas. Once in awhile, I even come up with an idea of my own. She politely considers my brilliant thoughts, although I suspect she’ll most likely take the credit for herself.

I believe everyone should have a Dragon to help out now and then, don’t you agree? So, while Auburn continues to either mend her wrist, or suffer through yet another surgery, I’ll be taking over her duties. Auburn’s not happy about it, but I think I can win her over. After all, we left-brained brain Dragons can be most articulate when we have a point to make.

I only hope she’ll excuse the scorch marks here and there!

Those little writing lightbulb moments never seem to come with good timing. For me, I seem to be struck with lightning just as I’m loading my groceries onto the conveyor and can’t stop to grab my pen and journal. Suddenly, I become a crazy woman muttering a stream of brilliant dialogue under her breath, hoping to heaven that I’ll remember the words until I’m through being nice to the cashier, swiping my card, presenting my coupons, indicating plastic or paper, and waving off the chatty bag-boy so I can hot-foot it to the safety of my car and record my inspiration.

My other bad place is the shower. Always the shower. There’s not much to think about during mindless shower routines other than the next scene, or how I’m going to seamlessly transport my character from the Phoenix airport to Sedona without worrying about lost luggage, car rentals, road maps, and the weird toothless guy that keeps turning up at every stop. Then it hits me! That’s when I figure out the details — in full shampoo regalia. I’ve yet to find the directions that say, shampoo, receive inspiration, rinse and repeat.

So, what do I do when I’m in a place where it’s impossible to write out my thoughts? I obsess. That’s what I do — obsess. Mull it over and over, until I can sit down with pen and paper, or better yet, my computer with its hand-saving Dragon Naturally Speaking software.

It’s a funny thing about inspiration — it rarely visits when I’m ready for it. Rather, it knocks on the door of my mind when I’m dressed in jeans and a baseball cap, no makeup, and I’m just going out the door for a walk. Or it slaps me just as I’m sitting down for coffee with a friend, or when I’m holding hands with my dear hubby in the dark of a movie theatre.

I wish I knew what other writers do during those awkward visitations. Me? I just do my best, knowing if I miss one moment of inspiration, another will surely come along soon.

I heard of one writer who just wrote things down on scraps of paper when he thought of something good. At night, he’d throw whatever pieces of paper he had in a shoe box. At the end of a year, he had enough written thoughts to flesh out an entire book.

I’d do that, too, if I could figure out how to write in the shower.

I can feel it in my bones. This is the year of discovery — if not discovery of my work by my future fabulous agent and editor, then the self-discovery of broader writing interests and new ways to stretch my wings.

It’s not hard to imagine exploring new genres, writing articles, short stories, pithy comments, op-eds, or any number of other possibilities in the writing world. My slate is blank. My mind is open. If what I am is a writer, it should make no difference what I write. The point is to feel it in my bones, to find new ways of expression that are uniquely mine.

I remember one day calling my friend to tell her that I had discovered not simply my purpose in life, but rather, I had discovered who I was. I told my friend I was a writer. I totally ruined her day! In fact, I ruined her month. It seemed she was then compelled to figure out what she was. As of this date, I think she’s still trying to figure that out.

I suppose self knowledge of what we are is half the game. When I realized, with uncertainty, that I was born to be a writer, it didn’t mean that I knew how to write. It only meant that I had a course. A direction. Perhaps, a foghorn in my ear to keep me off those rocky writing shoals. Once I knew what I was supposed to be, the rest is, as they say, practice, practice, practice.

My good and faithful husband has a great saying about practice. He says, “Just because you practice, it doesn’t make you perfect. Perfect practice makes one perfect.” Of course, he’s talking about golf, but the same concept applies to writing. And so I now find myself daily, with my nice wrist-saving Dragon headphone bobbing in front of my mouth, practicing dictating out loud, adding punctuation as I speak, perfecting a new skill. Writing is writing, whether I speak it or type it. It would be much nicer if my hands were involved in this lovely practice. This perfect practice. Nevertheless, I am practicing. And where better to perform all this practice but in my blog, which is seldom viewed, but nevertheless a wondrous work of art.

For 2008, I’ll be working my perfect practice on my third novel, (this time with my good and faithful Dragon added to my daily Latte/Chardonnay regimen). I’ll spend some quality time writing short stories, articles, and pithy comments that may facilitate the discovery of who I am. In the meantime, my future fabulous agent and editor will surely be working on producing my most recent manuscript, All the Dancing Birds. Oh, I’ll also send out more query letters. In fact, I’ll send out as many as it takes. How else will my future fabulous agent and editor find me?

Being a writer means being a patient person. So says Anne Mini (see www.annemini.com. 12/31/07). I concur. But being patient doesn’t mean being idle. Now is the time for that perfect practice that just may help me hit that Tiger Woods long ball within the writing world. In fact, may we all find just the correct writing stroke we need to hit our hole in one to win the game.

All my best,
Auburn

       
Happy New Year, everyone!

What say we make this the year we all successfully publish our lovely books? Okay?

Not to get all nostalgic on you, but this has been an amazing past year. My manuscript, All The Dancing Birds, was awarded finalist honors by the Pacific Northwest Writers Association. Writing this inside-out view of an Alzheimer’s sufferer was not easy. There is great agony associated with Alzheimer’s. Surprisingly, patients are accutely aware of every loss as it occurs, but lose their capacity to communicate such awareness. How terrifying this must be! All The Dancing Birds allows a glimpse into the failing mind of a woman living with this still incurable disease. It does so by locating compassion, some humor, and a lot of grace for its falling-down characters.

2007 also was the year of the Big Move, from Seattle to Phoenix. I’ve left behind friends I may never see again, and rain boots I hope never to need again. But, I found a place where one doesn’t need to spend the winter wrapped in a quilt. I discovered that walks under the sun gives one energy to deal with stricken wrists, rejection letters, and even the occasional ever-so-rude, complete non-response to queries regarding my manuscript. Fiction is a tough sell, but at least these beautiful Arizona days make it bearable.

I’ll hold good thoughts that we may each experience a prosperous and successful 2008. When I was a child, I always received in my Christmas stocking a nickel and an orange. The orange was for health … and the nickel was for wealth for the coming year.

So, oranges and nickels all around! May we find our works happily published, and may we all go on to do what it is we do so well … write, write, write.

Have I mentioned my dear husband lately? You know, the one who brings me my morning paper and a nice skinny latte, no foam, no sugary stuff — without being asked? That Guy? (He does dishes, too, by the way.) Well, that Grand Guy gave me Dragon Naturally Speaking for Christmas. He thought it might save my poor little wrists, along with his ears who have to listen to my endless whining.

Do you want to scare the wits out of a woman? Simply strap a headset on her with a microphone bobbing in front of her mouth, and then tell her to dictate — out loud — to her computer. Holy Spumoni! Who would know this could be so hard? I don’t know what to do with my hands. I don’t know from where to pull my words. Without my hands getting in on the action, I find myself nearly a mute. My husband says that could be a good thing. I find that not in the least amusing. I must admit, though, the words before cleanup can be pretty amusing. Imagine saying, New York Times bestseller, and it comes out something like, New York Times beasts killer. Isn’t that what everyone wants? The next best beasts killer book on the shelf of their local bookstore?

It seems my mouth comes out with some interesting words that I didn’t know were hiding behind my lips. Even enunciating as clearly as possible, I’m finding words I didn’t know possible in combinations I thought completely illogical. Computers are very literal, while I’m about as wild as one can get when thinking out loud. Add in the need to punctuate while speaking, and you have one crazy woman with a latte in one hand, and a dog-eared copy of Eats, Shoots & Leaves in the other.

It’s probably a good thing that I have few visitors yet to this site. By the time I have some droppers-by, perhaps I’ll get this thing down to a level roar. In the meantime, I’ll be the one in her office laughing wildly at herself. (You should see how the Dragon interprets laughter.)

And for those few errant words I may miss … well, I’ll enjoy these early missteps and simply thank my handsome husband on behalf of my two needful wrists.

Even when I don’t use this wrist-saving Dragon to help me memorialize my words, I think I’ll continue to laugh at myself because, well … after all, every writer needs a laugh now and then, especially while in the midst of creating the next tragic Heathcliff and Catherine-esque characters.

Okay, everyone — hold up your glasses. I’d like to make a toast. I know it’s not New Year’s Eve yet, but you can’t blame a girl for getting a jump on things. I can’t let this perfectly good glass of wine go to waste without toasting something … or someone.

So, let’s toast all us little guys — We who write our stories with our big hearts and sometimes less-than-confident fingers. We who get up at four in the morning … or stay up well past bedtime just to ponder a few new sentences, or roll some words across our tongues to see which best fit our purpose. Oh, and here’s to those of us who finish our stories, and then find the courage to actually consider the rough-and-tumble notion of sending out queries. Queries! To agents or editors. My God, how brave to do such a thing! And especially, here’s to those of us who fall down and scrape our knees in the scuffle, yet still hold up our handful of rejections letters because we’re so damned proud of ourselves for getting in the melee in the first place.

I’m proud of us all.

If I sound more schmaltzy than usual, I suppose it’s just because I get all misty-eyed this time of year. All the music gets to me. The presents. The bows, for heaven’s sake. The silly Christmas bows. My hundredth viewing of Miracle on 34th Street sends me over the top. Santa seems to be my influence de jour, and then there’s that gosh-darned Grinch when his heart grows three sizes in one day. That’s a three-hanky film for the likes of me.

Oh, sorry. Back to the toast. Okay, so here’s to that grand moment when one of our stories gets noticed. One of the pack rises high enough to catch an agent’s eye. An editor’s pen. Here’s to one of the little guys who gets to run their fingers over the cover of a printed and bound book. Their Book!

For the past several days, my favorite writing guru and bloggist, Anne Mini, (see www.annemini.com) has featured two excellent writers who’ve each found the courage to navigate the rocky avenue of self-publication. I’ve come away from reading their interviews with renewed confidence and inspiration that publication IS possible, even if we do it ourselves. Studying their respective experiences has allowed me to consider the question, So what if I’m a little guy? Who says I can’t produce my OWN fait accompli? Who says?

So, hold your glasses high to all us little guys. After all, we’re the ones who watch the mail for that one magical acceptance letter that will change our lives and cause our tiny little hearts to grow three sizes in one day. As always — Here’s to us.

Clink!

How many people decide to have their kitchen remodeled four days before Christmas? Not many, I’d wager. For one thing, it puts a cramp in the annual cookie baking extravaganza when the oven is unplugged and the refrigerator is inaccessible. Not to mention what it does in the gracious-to-guests category when they’re greeted at the door with dust masks, ear plugs, and eye protection.

I’ll try to remember this next year when I get the brilliant idea to re-do every bathroom in the house on Christmas Eve.

Remodeling is messy. It’s noisy and dusty — it’s unfriendly business. Sometimes, however, it’s necessary as was the case in our kitchen.

I suppose the same could be said for revising one’s manuscript. It’s messy business too, and do-overs don’t always coincide with the luxury of time or inclination. For me, my wrists say, uh, not right now. We’re busy hurting. My head says, wha’ — are you crazy? Another edit? But nevertheless, my heart wants the best work possible.

Remodeling your kitchen may only occur once. But remodeling your manuscript may take several go-rounds before every word is just where it should be. A good manuscript … just like a good kitchen … requires architectural planning, structural design, good bones, and proper underpinnings all before the final showcase dressing of shiny words and polished paragraphs can be applied.

So, this year I find myself … wrists and all … with my own form of saws and hammers working madly to make certain my manuscript is the showpiece I know it can be. Its words are important, but its structure is no less important. Yeah, okay. I’m crazy. Still, a writer needs to be crazy-like-a-fox when it comes to telling a compelling and worthy story — even if it is four days before Christmas and there’s nary a cookie on my plate.