Jim Van Pelt wrote an interesting post today. Take a paragraph of writing—your own or a master like Fitzgerald—and arrange it like a poem. Immediately, the vibrancy (or lack thereof) of the writing pops out in ways it doesn’t when arranged as a paragraph.

I decided to try this with the opening of my novel Shivery Bones. Here’s the original, which I’d previously thought decent-enough:

However, when I arranged it as a poem, the dead parts really jumped out at me. It didn’t have life or flow, I thought:

Jolene’s earthquake
passed through her midsection,
rolled along her limbs,
then off into the grass
beneath her toes to make
the ground shake. She fell,
gasping with pain and surprise
as the temblor radiated out
from her and across the yard,
the ground splitting
like an overripe peach.
The leaves of the trees
along the high wall shook
as if attacked by nerves,
swaying and groaning.
The wave crested inside Jolene,
her personal shaking stopped.
The earth and trees stilled
a moment later, and the ground
healed itself, closing as if
no trembling had ever occurred.

******************************

Immediately, the tweaking began:

Jolene’s earthquake
rolled through her midsection,
vibrated along her limbs,
sloughing off into the grass
beneath her toes, the ground
beneath an echo of her own shaking.
She fell, gasping with pain
and surprise as the temblor
radiated from her and
across the yard, the earth
splitting like an overripe peach.
The leaves of the trees along
the high wall quivered as from an attack
of nerves, swaying and groaning.
The wave crested inside Jolene,
her personal quaking done.
The earth and trees stilled,
the ground healed itself,
closing as if no trembling
had ever occurred.

I don’t think this is a perfect paragraph by any means, but I do think it’s an improved one. It might be worth trying this techniques for openings and other troublesome passages:

Jolene’s earthquake rolled through her midsection, vibrated along her limbs, sloughing off into the grass beneath her toes, the ground beneath an echo of her own shaking. She fell, gasping with pain and surprise as the temblor radiated from her and across the yard, the earth splitting like an overripe peach. The leaves of the trees along the high wall quivered as from an attack of nerves, swaying and groaning. The wave crested inside Jolene, her personal quaking done. The earth and trees stilled, the ground healed itself, closing as if no trembling had ever occurred.

Random quote of the day:

 

“The image is more than an idea.  It is a vortex or cluster of fused ideas and is endowed with energy.”

—Ezra Pound, “Affirmations—As for Imagisme”

Disclaimer:  The views expressed in this random quote of the day do not necessarily reflect the views of the poster, her immediate family, Siegfried and Roy, Leonard Maltin, or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. They do, however, sometimes reflect the views of the Cottingley Fairies.

1. I finally got around to watching the taped season finale of Castle and the fourth season premiere. This is what I hate about episodic TV and why I stopped watching it: every season, no matter how dramatic or world-changing the finale, by the end of the premiere episode everything has been reset to square one. There’s no regard for character growth, the hard left turns in the script give you whiplash, but everything goes back to the way things have always been. Even on Castle, which is a better written show than most episodic TV. Yeah, there are hints that things will continue in a slightly altered vein, but the premiere really had to do some unlikely contortions to achieve their reset.

2. We’ve got summer weather this October, as often happens in L.A. in October. I wore short sleeves today, forgetting the fall/stress rash on my forearm which is now on display for all to see. Oh well. It had mostly simmered down so it isn’t too humiliating. Driving back from taking Mom to the clinic, everything was sunny and bright until I got to Santa Monica. Then the fog seeped down the highway and I wished that I’d brought my sweater.

3. Driving to the clinic, my mother and I discussed the weird perception of waking up and not knowing where you are, thinking maybe you’re in some place you lived in two or three moves ago, or whatever. These days that sensation has gone a step further for Mom: she wakes up and although she knows where everything is and everything looks the same, the neighborhood is familiar, she feels as if the house isn’t where it’s supposed to be. Somehow it’s moved, she knows not where. I said, “Maybe we’ve slipped into an alternate reality and you’re the only one who realizes it.” She laughed. “Maybe so.”

4. I sometimes have moments of hope these days—and that scares me. So much is beyond my control. I can concentrate only on the here and now. I have to let go of the rest. Whenever I get caught up in anger or frustration or trying to will my will in situations where my will has no effect, I tell myself, “You haven’t got time for this. Let it go. Save your energy for fights you can win.” This is a very difficult lesson to learn, not just for me, but it’s one the Universe has been trying to teach me for many long years: live this moment, and this moment, and this moment, and this . . .

5. My creative life is stretching taut over my bones, but it’s swimming in my blood. I thought it was dead for a time, but it isn’t dead. It is not dead.

Random quote of the day:

“Cleanliness becomes more important when godliness is unlikely.”

—attributed to P. J. O’Rourke

Disclaimer:  The views expressed in this random quote of the day do not necessarily reflect the views of the poster, her immediate family, Siegfried and Roy, Leonard Maltin, or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. They do, however, sometimes reflect the views of the Cottingley Fairies.

1. They are selling Halloween cookies in the cafeteria. I got a black cat one but felt somewhat like a cannibal when I ate it last night.

2. As if Min agreed it was an abominable thing to do, at about four this morning she started having a loud game on the hardwood floors in my bedroom. I threw the covers over my head, but it sounded like she was batting something around or chasing something. I assumed it was one of her catnip toys and she was telling me, “Eat a black cat, will ya? I’ll show you!”

3. This morning when the alarm went off and I swung my legs over the side of the bed, I heard Min give her little, “I’m here!” meow. I turned on the light and saw her tail sticking out from under the bed. “What are you doing under there?” I asked and reached under to give her a pet. She disappeared all the way under the bed. I shrugged and went about my business, but when she still hadn’t come out for breakfast, I knew something was seriously strange.

4. I peaked under the bed as best I could, but with my bad knees there was no way I was kneeling on the floor. Min had moved to the other side of the bed by then. I got the broom and gently swept the handle under the bed. Min came out and started a dodge and weave game at the end of the bed as if chasing something that had been dislodged along with her. I still got no visual on the Whatever, but by then I had strong suspicions that Min had brought me a present during the night and turned it loose under the bed. I’m afraid I grabbed her and went into the other room for about ten minutes to give the Whatever time to escape.

5. Min was not pleased. When I released her she went right back in there, but came sauntering out a short time later as if the Whatever was no longer there to fascinate and compel. Either it did escape or it’s dead and will start stinking shortly. The exterminators will be coming out soon.

And now, two more day poems:

Min

warm purrs, silky fur, shining eyes
head rubs on bare feet:
you are my joy.

bleeding trophies, hawked up hair,
loud games at four a.m.:
you’re still my joy.

***

Driving

along
shadow-dappled roads,
Lauridsen’s rose songs in the air:
the world unwinds, sighs release chains
binding my head, the sun shines
once more.

***

Crone

I thought I understood
but it was yet another posture
something not truly comprehended
until your skin ripples on your bones,
and your toes curl walking the walk.

Random quote of the day:

“Infantile love follows the principle: “I love because I am loved.” Mature love follows the principle: “I am loved because I love.” Immature love says: “I love you because I need you.” Mature loves says: “I need you because I love you.”

—Erich Fromm, The Art of Loving

Disclaimer:  The views expressed in this random quote of the day do not necessarily reflect the views of the poster, her immediate family, Siegfried and Roy, Leonard Maltin, or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. They do, however, sometimes reflect the views of the Cottingley Fairies.

This ain’t much, but it’s all the creative output I’ve got these days. And I’m glad even for that. I call them day poems for no particular reason except that they crop up during the day while I’m dealing with other stuff. They are roughly haiku in form, though I wouldn’t call them haiku.

Trapped

between love and
aching responsibility
there’s no room for me.

***

Stress

My skin is tinder:
one tiny scratch brings a
conflagration of itching.

***

Life

will burst you wide open
though the locks on your soul
would frustrate Raffles.

Random quote of the day:

 

“No, I do not weep at the world—I am too busy sharpening my oyster knife.”

—Zora Neale Hurston, “How It Feels to Be Colored Me,” The World Tomorrow, May 1928

Disclaimer:  The views expressed in this random quote of the day do not necessarily reflect the views of the poster, her immediate family, Siegfried and Roy, Leonard Maltin, or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. They do, however, sometimes reflect the views of the Cottingley Fairies.

401(k) Rottweilers*

*Rollovers
(which, in a way, is appropriate to Rottweilers, if they’re trained that way)

Random quote of the day:

 

“Technology changes; humans don’t.”

—Deb Schultz, deborahschultz.com

Disclaimer:  The views expressed in this random quote of the day do not necessarily reflect the views of the poster, her immediate family, Siegfried and Roy, Leonard Maltin, or the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. They do, however, sometimes reflect the views of the Cottingley Fairies.