It lasted about 20 seconds.

It had been a typical Monday. He was whiny from his sleep-deprived weekend. He was frustrated, bursting in to tears over the smallest things. But now, newly awakened from a refreshing nap, he was running in the back yard, chasing a ball, swinging, and otherwise being happy.

It was a beautiful afternoon, with the puffy cumulus clouds dotting the uncharacteristically blue sky. A light breeze kept the temperature around 70 degrees, which was perfect for an afternoon in the yard.

My son looked and pointed at the sky, maybe seeing another airplane or a bird. I told him about cloud shapes, and called him over to look with me. I lay down in the grass, and he toddled over and lay down beside me, his one-year-old head resting against my arm and shoulder. As I pointed up at the sky, he giggled and burbled along, pointing upward towards the clouds.

And that is why I stay home with him every day: to lie down in the grass and look at the clouds with him for 20 seconds every now and then. It’s all worth it.

I read two Writer’s Digest magazines earlier this month. I thought it would inspire me but instead, I’ve felt less inclined to write.

The first was the February issue was somewhat inspiring. The first article that stood out to me, “Your Novel Blueprint” by Karen S. Wiesner, helps me to see that a successful combination of many things, and I must know some general things before I jump into writing my novel. Of course, things can change as I write, but I still must consider all aspects (internal and external dialogs, point of view, number of “sparks” to keep the reader interested, how characters will be introduced, etc.) before I have a finished product.

Do you plot out novels before your write them?

I also found the article about rough drafts, “Rough It Up” by Elizabeth Sims, to inspire me. I just sat down and started writing. It was a confusing mess, but it felt nice to be writing. I started with her technique to write on paper — I’ve always been a bit intimidated by paper because I want to edit and fix things, and using a computer is much easier. But writing on paper was a nice experience.

Do you write rough drafts on paper or on a computer?

Then I read another Writer’s Digest. I can’t remember which one it was — I think the March/April one. At any rate, there was an interview with James Patterson. He said (and I wish I’d written it down) that when he read Ulysses by James Joyce, he was so impressed he felt he’d never be able to write anything like that: he knew he didn’t have the talent that Joyce had. Then he read a popular fiction novel (I can’t remember which one) and he said to himself, “I like this in it’s own way; I can write like this.” And then he did so and became a successful popular writer.

I don’t like popular, modern fiction. I don’t read it and think “Wow, this is interesting in its own way.” I still like the classics, and the more I read, the less inclined I am to try to imitate it. For that reason, I don’t think writing a novel is for me.

I like to write. I’ll continue to play with the poems for my “exercises in style” project. I’ll continue to share my inspiring quotes and thoughts that I may find about writing. But I don’t think I’m ever going to be a writer of popular fiction: I don’t usually like to read it, so I wouldn’t be incredibly proud if I wrote it.

If there are any readers of this blog out there, I’d be interested to know what, like James Patterson, your inspiration is. Do you want to be like the classics or popular fiction? Or do you just have an unexplained compulsion to write, as some of the authors interviewed in Writer’s Digest seemed to have?

In honor of National Poetry Month (again), I thought I’d write another haiku, but then A Lotus pointed out to me that when the seventeen syllables focus on human irony and interactions, it’s more accurately called “Senryu.” According to Wikipedia, Senyru are more “darkly humorous.” Since that is my intention in the following verse, I think this is probably a Senryu. Any thoughts and pointers on what the different forms “require” would help me.

Weather Means More (Now that I Have a Yard): A Senryu

I groan and dawdle
on Saturdays clear and bright:
weeds mock and taunt me.

(It’s my third month of having a yard, and I’m beginning to dislike yard work already!)

The prompt is from April’s Café Writing, In the Garden: Option One Poetry

Weather means more when you have a garden. There’s nothing like listening to a shower and thinking how it is soaking in around your green beans.
~Marcelene Cox

Using the quotation above as your inspiration, write a poem (any form is fine) about weather meaning more

In the spirit of National Poetry Month, I thought I’d try some more poetry.

A Lotus from Poetry by Lotus inspired me to try my hand at a “Thirteen Ways” poem, in the mode of Wallace Stevens’ “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.” Imitating this poem was also mentioned as a poetry writing prompt in Rose, Where Do You Get That Red?, which I read and reviewed on Rebecca Reads last week.

Note that I am taking some phrases from Stevens, not with the intent to plagiarize but as poetry guidance and prompts for my own ideas. In some sense, this is all a joke, for I don’t think it is great poetry. As you read, please keep in mind that I’m not a poet.

Despite that fact, I sure had fun writing this. Each of these stanzas references a different way that I, a stay-at-home mom, look at books.

If you choose to do a “Thirteen Ways of Looking at a…” poem yourself, leave a link in the comments. (more…)

I’ve never had incredible self confidence, and I always second guess my abilities. Taking on the role of mother is still incredibly daunting to me, even eighteen months after my son’s birth. But the process of giving birth has so much to do with how I still approach motherhood.

When I first entered the delivery room that Sunday morning, I asked how long I should expect to be in labor. The midwife suggested that normal progress would be 4 hours for every 2 centimeters dilation. Since I was only 4 centimeters at that point, I could therefore expect 12 more hours of labor! I couldn’t stand the thought of such a long time. I’d already been awake most of the night.

Because it seemed there was so much time left, I decided to wait until I seriously couldn’t bear it anymore before asking for the epidural. While I expected I’d eventually take the pain medication, it would be a long time stuck on my back.

Less than two hours later, I asked for it. I couldn’t stand the pain. With each contraction, I already told my husband, “I can’t do this!” He calmly reassured me that I could.

By the time I asked for the epidural, however, it was too late-I was fully dilated. I couldn’t have an epidural at that point. It was nearly time to push.

In some respects, it was exciting to know that my son was so near to being born. It’s very good to have a shorter labor. But I just knew I couldn’t have a baby without numbing all the pain.

“How long?” I asked.

“Within two hours.”

Two more hours! I couldn’t do it. I would die. I firmly decided that if the baby hadn’t been born by 3 p.m, I would succumb to death. But I’d make a valiant effort before I did. I owed that to my husband and this baby that wanted to be born.

The contractions were horrible. But then the most amazing thing happened: in between each I was able to breathe and get ready for the next one. During each contraction I would feel so horrible and I’d tell everyone in the room I couldn’t do it. But then I’d get a moment to catch my breath. And I’d realize that the baby was coming.

Whenever I said “I can’t do it!”, my husband would say “You are doing great” and the midwives would say “You are doing it!”

Well, my son sure took his time. It was more than 2 hours. 3 p.m. came and he still hadn’t been pushed out. But he was nearly there. I decided not to die. And then, with one long push, there was my son. He was born. The midwife put him on my belly.

He was: blue and squirmy and tiny. And yet, he was so huge for having just come from inside of me! It was an incredible thing to finally hold him, and while I cannot describe my first emotional impression of seeing my son, I recall that it was powerful. I was a mother.

That night, my husband left the hospital and I was left with our newborn son. He was fussy and wouldn’t go to sleep. I was exhausted and the adrenaline was wearing off. I’d been up most of the night before with contractions and so I hadn’t had a very restful sleep then either. As a new mom, I think I must have felt I would be betraying my new son if I put him to sleep all alone in his bassinet if he wasn’t yet fully asleep. (I was cured of that pretty quickly.)

As I paced the floor, I thought a silly thought: “Come on! Go to sleep! I can’t stay awake much longer!”

And then it happened: I realized I could never truly say “can’t” again.

I had just been through childbirth without pain medication of any kind. I certainly hadn’t thought I’d be able to do that. And yet, I had done it. Certainly, walking the room with my baby when I was exhausted was nothing compared to that. I could handle whatever comes.

I have forgotten many times. I still doubt myself. And if I’m labor again, I will probably say “I can’t do this!” It’s how life is: we forget. But I have had an experience that solidifies the fact that I can do so much more than I think I can do.

When I was up late last week, exhausted and feverish, holding my feverish toddler, I could handle it.

When my son throws his food on the floor and laughs in my face and I know my husband is out of town for another three days, I can handle it.

And in the coming years, when my son hurts himself and is screaming and bleeding, I can handle it.

I may not feel like I can on those days of utter exhaustion or frustration or worry, but I didn’t feel like I could deliver a baby without medicine either. We don’t know what we are able to do until we are called upon to do it.

I certainly feel that my call of Mother is beyond my own power. But I know that God sustained me during the birth of my son. And with His sustaining power in my life, I no longer can say “I can’t” to any challenge along the way in this journey called Motherhood.

I won’t tell anyone to go through childbirth without drugs. I certainly wanted them! (We live in an age with pain medicine, why not use it?) In general, however, I think we need to stop telling ourselves “I can’t” if we truly don’t know our ability. We shouldn’t let our perception of how bad things will be (or are) cloud our ability to actually do them. We can!

Adapted for the April Write-Away contest at Scribbit, theme Mom. For me, being a Mom means remembering that that I can do anything I need to.

I don’t know much about haiku style of poetry, so I had to reference the web expert, Wikipedia, for some details.

Haiku is, apparently, three lines of 5, 7, and 5 syllables, respectively, to total 17 syllables. However, Wikipedia and other sites detail so many other facets of haiku. Here are some of the things I’ve read that haiku “must” be:

• there is a reference to seasons
• there is a grammatical break in the middle
• the poem focuses on nature
• the poem focuses on one feeling
• the poem does not rhyme

Trying to write a haiku of the Cinderella story is, apparently, not appropriate as a traditional haiku. But since the Cinderella story is my template for my “exercises,” I will tempt the wrath of the haiku police with the “haiku” below.

For other exercises, see the Exercises in Style tag.

Style 5: Haiku

She and the prince dance.
Then she escapes in night air
without her slipper.

Last night, having just written the poem above, I lay in bed listening to the rain on the roof and windows. Being in a newly inspiring Haiku mood, I wrote this one.

Chilly breezes drive
April rain on my window:
May buds wait below.

Do you write haiku? How are these for first attempts? Do you think the syllable count should be strict? What about the other “requirements” I shared above?

I recently read Exercises in Style by Raymond Queneau (reviewed here on Rebecca Reads). It’s a fascinating look at how changing the style or approach to a story can completely change a story because it tells the same story 99 different ways.

Queneau tells a very simple, albeit boring, story: A man with a long neck and a funny hat on the bus accuses the man next to him of stepping on his toes. When a chair is free, he goes to it and sits down. Later, the narrator sees the man again with a friend. The friend is telling him to move a button. (None of Queneau’s tellings are quite this boring, however.)

Queneau repeats this story 99 times in 99 different styles. Some are very amusing. Some are well done and memorable. Other styles are odd. But the concept still fascinates me. I thought I’d try my hand at some of these too. I think it’d be fun if others joined in.

Ideas for styles: Notation, double entry, surprises/ exclamation, official letter, blurb, analysis, insistence, ignorance, past, present, reported speech, passive, cross-examination, asides, awkward, casual, biased, feminine, parts of speech, proper names, spoonerism, medical, abusive, portrait, unexpected.

I’m going to aim for 99 exercises, but I’ll start with a few at a time, I think. I’ve included four below, and when I do more, I’ll link to my exercises in the comments. These four are probably the most “boring” ones. I’ll try to be more creative in my next.

Feel free to leave your own exercises in the comments, or link to any that you may do on your own blog!

I’d love to have an award for the best submission(s), but I just moved and have no budget for giveaways right now! In the future, I’ll do a link round up of all submissions of clever “exercises in style.” (more…)

Cafe-Writing January (Fresh!): Timed Writing

Take nine minutes (use all nine, but don’t go over), and write on the subject of short-lived passions. This is a timed exercise and it’s expected that it won’t be perfect. Any format – fiction, essay, verse – is welcome.

I chose to write a story in only 140 characters, including spaces (in the tradition of Twitter).

I licked my lips and considered: a double-layer 9-inch chocolate-on-chocolate cake, all mine. And then my son tugged my arm and we moved on.

Does this interest you at all as a piece of writing? As a story? I am interested in feedback as to how I can improve capturing a scene.

Please note that I didn’t edit it at all once the nine minutes was over.

(Inspired by my chocolate-on-chocolate birthday cake.)

“Ascension” Short Fiction Contest

also posted here

“Hey, there’s Daddy!” She tugged my arm.

I saw his head first. His right arm rested on the railing, calm, waiting. No pressure, no anxiety.

I exhaled.

One foot before the other and he was before me.  I tried to focus on his eyes, his face. I searched for words to speak.

“Hi.” His body leaned toward mine and I felt his kiss on my forehead. His arm grasped my shoulder and then he released me.

“Hi.”

The child was chattering. And bouncing around us. His free arm rested on her shoulder. We walked. People bumped me as they passed.

I heard him speak. First to our girl. Then to a man near us as we reached for the suitcase.

We walked again. I stopped and zipped the girl’s coat, despite her protests.  And then he was driving and she was babbling about princesses. I sat beside him.

A right turn. A stop sign. The highway. We were moving. He grasped my hand. He wouldn’t let go.

“I …” I couldn’t speak; I was dry. I had done my crying alone when I realized the baby was lost.

He glanced at me, and I saw his eyes were wet.  He spoke, the corners of his mouth turned in a half-smile.

“I love you.”

The flood overwhelmed me as it had two nights before. But this time I was hopeful, for we could still go on.

The orange wrapper was on a wire shelf a few inches above his head. He couldn’t read the writing, but he knew what it said: “Peanut Butter Cup.” What delightful words! He licked his lips.

He glanced back at his mother. She was putting the carton of milk on the conveyer belt. Her jaw set as she reached into the cart for the bananas and bread. Every few moments, James heard a “BEEP” as the checker swiped the groceries: cereal, canned vegetables, string cheese.

She wouldn’t notice! James thought, as he reached up, his fingers easily touching the shelf. But, no! That’s not right!

He reclaimed his hand and put it in his pocket, touching his lucky green soldier he’d put there earlier. There must be a better way! He bit his lip. He could hear his stomach growl.

Shuffling his feet, he turned around and bowed his head, his hands clasped in front of him.

“I’m so hungry, Mommy!” James spoke quickly but deliberately, keeping his head down. “Pretty please, Mommy, buy me a peanut butter cup? I’ll be so patient!”

Without moving his head up, he glanced up to gauge her reaction. She was reaching in to the shopping cart again. She glanced at him and turned back to her groceries. She spoke briskly:

“No, you can wait 10 more minutes for us to get home. No candy!”

He willed the tears to stop, but they wouldn’t. He’d been denied again!

Response to Fiction Friday prompt: Write about a failed proposal.

Could kids really be this patient and thoughtful? I don’t know. My son is still an infant. I guess I could write this better in a few years. I also can’t figure out how old James is. I just thought of him and started writing.