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A most creative cadre ...

1/29/2014

Most of my friends are artists. They write, paint, compose music, and span a broad range of endeavors. They are indispensable to me as friends, and as editors ... well, they serve as more than merely extra eyes on the page.

Emily Thompson, Heatherly Takeuchi, Kelly Cozy, and Stanley Thompson, are rather exceptional people. Each is supportive and insightful, and this blog and Echoes would be in tatters without their generous help.

Emily urged me to go to print after she self-published Clockwork Twist, Waking. Her help with designing Echoes, formatting it, and sending it out to be printed, as she had done with her own book, made Echoes happen.

A few days ago, Heatherly sent me a text, citing a few errors in her copy, and early copy that is, of Echoes. A freelance writer who covers current events in San Benito County, Heatherly is a gifted writer and an experienced editor.

Busy Kelly Cozy is the author of three gripping suspense novels: Ashes, Reckoning, and the Day After Yesterday. Currently employed as an editor and proofreader, she offers potent, relevant ideas that are a huge help.

I am a most happy recipient of the comments that Kelly occasionally leaves for me here. Her take on my work is refreshing and reaffirming. Not much gets past her, and I do stand corrected now and then, (wink wink).

Stanley Thompson is a talented painter, musician, and composer. He is also a veteran Technical Writer. His knowledge of English grammar astounds me as he surgically excises my grammatical errors, and my overused commas.

As I have often said before, I grew up writing in a vacuum, but now I am in the company of some pretty brilliant and most helpful people. At this point, my skills in poetry have matured enough to truly benefit from their advice.

I now realize that all those years spent alone with my volume of The Oxford Book of English Verse, learning to write my poetry from mentors who were long deceased, have given way to a most auspicious and fertile environment.

Oh, if only Echoes had availed itself to their scrutiny before going to its preliminary print. But no, I've learned an important lesson: never ever underestimate the power and importance of timing. Echoes is available now, I am surrounded by brilliant, helpful friends now, and that is what matters.

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On the other hand ...

1/26/2014

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The other side of the, "I write when the muse is ready," equation kicks in when "it" is ready to roll, but I've applied, and locked, the breaks. Such is the case with the embellished memoir that I am supposed to be working on.

What's holding me back? That would be my clinching heart, the sudden tears, and a deep reluctance to resolve, or even to approach the memories that are so tenaciously embodied within the based-on-true-events memoir.

I sooo don't want to hang out there, but my muse thinks otherwise. I suppose I could view this as a form of therapy. Nope. Still don't wanna be there. Yet time and again, I do answer the call and stay for as long as I can bear.

Meanwhile, there is poetry to write and formatting to do for Echoes ll, as well as working on this blog. So, it isn't as though I'm totally stifling the inspiration to write, but I am frequently aware of a certain sustained tension.

It is a strange sensation when the words and ideas are coming, only to pile up on the sandbar of my hesitation. Something is looming large on the edges of my awareness, unlike the snatches of poetry that lose their grip when ignored.

I fully expect that this welling tsunami is bound to break, and that it will forcefully spray it contents across the landscape of an open page, eventually. For now, brief visits to that shore are the best that I can do. Sorry, muse.

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Blah, blah, Bohemien ...

1/23/2014

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I know many writers who are adamant about creating and maintaining a writing schedule. I do so admire their diligence. However, I am easily bored ... and I'm not a big fan of staring at the blank page, awaiting inspiration.

In truth, although I've recently cleared the decks in order to write, my time is still up for grabs. I am at the whim of whatever suddenly needs attending to. If nothing needs attending to ... well, something always needs attending to.

Besides, my muse is remarkably elusive when hunted, so unless I have some pressing need to write a letter, or some such, I generally wait until inspiration finds me, and then all else gets pushed to the far wall, more or less.

Often, my muse's timing presents me with some awkward situations, during which I can't very well say to someone, "Shut up! I have to write this down!" or when there's nowhere to pull the car over to make a note, or at three A.M.

As I have mentioned before, it is my hope that the ether, that vast repository wherein the unaccommodated flotsam and jetsam of shipwrecked ideas float in limbo, might actually yield some of that treasure back to me one day.

But, whether it does or not, there is no clock on Earth that can compel me to sit and wait for it, or for newer stock to show up. I have sincerely tried this a time or two, and always I have epically failed at it.

So, my more organized fellow writers ... the kin with whom I share that mapless ether ... you who adhere to you clocks, your schemes, and your charted time ... I must confess, with all due respect, that it's just not my gig.

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When words come together ... finally.

1/20/2014

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Occasionally, a idea for a poem will fill my mind, like some potent obligation, only to end up floating among my background thoughts as a vague, intangible possibility. Such was the case with a poem that I wrote this past weekend, titled "Two Stones."

The initial idea for this poem was born out of a conversation I'd had with a newlywed about three decades ago. It was ever so clear and concise within that dialogue, but as a poem, I just couldn't get it to move forward. Why was it being so difficult?

The other day, I asked my muse, "So, how do I even begin to write this as a poem?" ... and then it all began to coalesce into words, rather like the way that invisible vapors condense as dew on an upturned leaf in the garden. Hmm ... all I had to do was ask?

So, I thought I'd share "Two Rocks" here, in it's unripened infancy, as a way to say, "Sorry for not posting sooner ... but, I was otherwise engaged with ... "

Two Stones

Sweet flowers grew, and grasses blew,
About a pretty garden stone,
While on a rough and wooded bluff,
A piece of granite lay alone.

The comely stone was rightly owned
By one of gentle, fragile hand.
The other, gleaned and brusquely cleaned,
Sat in a palm it could not span.

Then came a morn of promise born
A chamber opened, both went in,
Yet, while they froze in brief repose,
The vessel soon commenced to spin.

At first, in unison they rolled,
But out of sync, the tears began,
Transforming bed and bond, and all
To loosely saturated sand.

Then brief, colliding, bashing hurts
Gave way to blissful harmony
And through each turn, from fight to friend,
They both were altered, subtly.

All jagged edges slowly smoothed,
And more than not gave sweet caress.
No longer coarse, disparate stones
But precious, polished, mated gems.

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A second book of verse in mind...

1/15/2014

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Echoes seems to have cranked my inspiration spigot wide open, and all sorts of incentives for new poems keep coming to mind; images, ideas, words, and sometimes just the nuance of ... something.

Since Echoes came out last April, I've been adding verses to my "Poetry" box . Now, as I rummage through it again, I begin to see some potential for publishing yet another book of my poetry.

I've written a great many poems over the years, though not all of them have aged quite enough to share with anyone just yet, while others seem ever so anxious for the light of day.

It was fairly easy to choose which poems to include in Echoes, Neo-Victorian Poetry. I was on new turf, and I had an entire box to glean from. This time around, I have all sorts of question to address.

I wonder whether I should partition my pieces into chapters, with headings such as I use here in my blog: Steampunk, Romantic, etc., or would they be better placed in a more natural sort of progression?

Do I want a cover design that is reminiscent of Echoes, or to break free with a whole new approach? At this point, I'm leaning towards a somewhat thicker volume that strays not too far from Echoes.

I am pretty happy with how my first book of poetry came out, for the most part; a good initial attempt. Still, I'm a little more experienced at this now, and here is my chance to rectify certain of its aspects.

So, here's to second beginnings! I expect that it will take at least a few months to get even close to going to print, but with that valve now wide open, I think I'm just about ready to get underway.

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The microphone ... is growing on me.

1/12/2014

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My recent posts, about preparing to encounter "the microphone" at our pending Caffe Frascati event, proved a worthwhile endeavor towards working out my issues with "microphones," and with audiences, in general.

Caroline, our gracious hostess at Caffe Frascati, and her staff, could not have made us feel more welcome. Emily Thompson and I were invited to proceed with our event as we saw fit, which included me reading some of my poems.

This wonderful cafe hosts all manner of occasional performances, including amateur opera night, local bands, and open mike nights, but this may well have been the first Steampunk flavored event they'd ever had there.

Fortunately, no one appeared to pay me much attention as I approached the microphone, which gave me a moment to breath and to orient myself. Then, mike comfortably in hand, I addressed the room, introducing Emily and me.

As I had prescribed in my posts, my approach became that of the teacher, wherein I explained the history and basics of Steampunk as I know them. So far, so good. Poems at my side, in no particular order, I began to read.

In appreciation of our venue, where delicious coffee and its variants are served, I started reading my poem, Coffee. This was well received, and I was actually startled by an enthusiastic applause. (Shhh... I'm teaching. LOL!)

I then introduced Emily's novel, Clockwork Twist, Waking, read my poem, Twist, and announced that her second novel in the series, Clockwork Twist, Trick, would be available withing a few days. And so on, and so on.

Interestingly, one or two of my poems did not receive a response, which was grounding for me, but why this was so I do not know. Even Emily, who listened from our table, didn't know, but there was more applause than not.

At one point, all were invited to our Steampunked seller's table nearby, and I took a seat behind our books. Genuine interest in our work was generated that night, and several people approached us over the next few hours.

Caroline came up to me on her way out and gave heartfelt praise, adding, "you're good at this." Wow! She then invited us to return, whenever we were ready, to give another such performance, which I gratefully accepted.

Many of the guests came over and talked with us, thanked us, and signed and sold some of our books. I even spoke into the mike once more, just to do it,
and felt with a great deal less apprehension than I had expected.

So, I would not go so far as to say that I love the microphone, but I no longer loath it nor fear it. That is a huge success for me: my teaching approach worked! And, all in all, it was a good night for "us."

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Steampunk ... who are we?

1/8/2014

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The book signing event at Caffe Frascati is looming large, being only two days away! At this point, the real dilemma that I foresee involves the Steampunk genre itself, and the ability of my work, and I, to portray our place within it.

But, how can I best illustrate the character of this Sci-Fi/fantasy based arena when, as a Neo-Victorian poet, (a sub-set of Steampunk), it is inaccurate for me to wear a corset, goggles, or any of the usual cosplay accouterments?

I generally do this by donning the traditional Victorian black and white, which I contemporize with twenty-first century attire. This works well at Steampunk conventions, but Caffe Frascati is a different sort of venue.

And, it is quite possible that some who will be in attendance there might not be familiar with the term, Steampunk, let alone what it embodies. So, a bit of an introduction will be required. What to do ... what to do?

There are so many facets to this overall Victorian/Sci-Fi admixture, which I perceive as lying somewhere between dystopian Cyberpunk, (Blade Runner) and Dieselpunk, (Sky Captain.) So, how to begin to explain ... ?

Fortunately, my poetry occupies but one small corner of that very large room, and this is the only aspect of the genre that I need to represent. So, I plan to use Jules Verne, Mary Shelley, and of H. G. Wells as introduction to my work.

When I think of this as a teaching opportunity, and not merely as a reading performance, my forethoughts become less daunting, and this public reading is transformed into a practical demonstration of my area of Steampunk.

In this, I begin to see that it is all coming down to an issue of focus! As it happens, teaching comes easily to me. Now, armed with much to share, my attention on the crowd, this is beginning to look like a great deal of fun ...

... mike or no mike.

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That nagging voice within...

1/5/2014

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With the Caffe Frascati Book Signing Event now five days away, I've started to wonder whether one can only bully oneself so far. There is this tiny, whiny voice that continues to protest my every attempt to relax about the event.

In truth, many of the patrons who will be there that night may only be interested in a handsome, well brewed cup of coffee, some private time with a laptop, or a quiet chat with likewise friends. They may simply ignore me.

Wait. In my determination to befriend the microphone, in advance, am I insisting that every mental glance I take in the direction of that evening depict a cozy, relaxed opportunity to practice before an entirely indifferent crowd?

Yep. Apparently so. But no worries. It's probably just a hedge against worrying about far scarier things. What, for instance, if they actually pay attention to me. Oops! Now that little voice is beginning to scream.

Such have been the yo yo machination of my besieged intentions ever since I asked ... yes, I asked, to read aloud at the cafe. I am now well past thinking, "What was I thinking ‽‽‽" Actually, it sounded like a good idea at the time.

I am hoping to work this all out in the next few days, (I sort of have to), and I will post whatever I discover. At this point, I can best serve my befuddled brain and jangled nerves by giving them both a bit of a rest.

As they say in the trade: to be continued...

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Decks cleared for action ... almost.

1/1/2014

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There was a time when I wanted for things to do. With my husband at work every day, and our daughter beginning a new life overseas, I felt rather lost. And so, at the bequest of my concerned spouse, I applied to work at a local museum, for fun. I loved what ultimately became my "paid social life."

A few months later, our daughter returned home for a time, which was really awesome. Each weekday she and I had lunch together, and there were occasional evening meet-ups with others. My life was really busy, and I was so happy, juggling so much on the tips of my fingers.

Fast forward a few years to a world of competing opportunities, all vying for attention, and a monthly calendar bursting at the seams ... or so it seems. What has tipped the scales so drastically? I am now writing.

Once I began to write a novelized memoir, and to work on another book of poetry, ordinary activities exploded into gigantic and menacing proportion, and that is when I realized that I could not be both a writer AND a juggler.

It's one thing to balance people and activities, but quite another to add writing to the mix. I've been trying to blend oil and vinegar, and sustain it as an emulsion. Continuous, vigorous agitation is an awfully oppressive demand.

At my husband's insistence, and with our resident daughter's backing, my time spent "elsewhere" is now a great deal reduced. I've with only a few thin
strands, of which I am very fond, left to snip away ... and since I can, and for as long as I can, I plan to apply myself in earnest at my writer's table.

And so, here, on the verge on a whole new year, and a lightly penciled in calendar, (which includes the Steampunk Book Signing on January 10th at Caffe Frascati), I wish you all a most fortuitous and a very Happy New Year!

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A most creative cadre ...

On the other hand ...

Blah, blah, Bohemien ...

When words come together ... finally.

A second book of verse in mind...

The microphone ... is growing on me.

Steampunk ... who are we?

That nagging voice within...

Decks cleared for action ... almost.

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