Wordsmith

Check out Wordsmith. Here you will find A Word A Day (AWAD). It is, as the name says, a word a day sent to your email. The permanent link is at right.

Also, I fixed the NaNoWriMo link at right.

Current Readings

Eragon by Christopher Paolini

Rotten Poetry

Rotten Poetry. This is poetry that still uses vivid images, strong feelings, and interesting language, but basically makes you want to groan. The format is:
1st line: In the ____________ of my mind,
2nd line: two or more senses in conflict
3rd line: a matter-of-fact, simple statement
4th line: an optimistic, future-oriented statement of hope

In the valleys of my mind,
light waves ripple
I have never felt like this
dreaming of a leaky waterbed.

In the rotunda of my mind,
scents gasp knowingly
my shoes are on the wrong feet
when will the bluebirds sing?

In the toe jam of my mind,
aromas scrape
the Ides come in the middle of the month
that is tomorrow.

In the baseball diamond of my mind,
falling leaves brighten the evening glory
the season seems never ending.
When will it all end?

In the egg of my mind,
bulbous light drips
my bones ache,
though I will feel better tomorrow

New Beginnings Exercise, Part II

We are revising a weak beginning to a story, using the six methods learned:
•Begin at the Beginning
•Dialogue: A Character or Characters Speaking
•Action: A Main Character Doing Something
•Reaction: A Character Thinking
•Dramatic Statement
•Begin at the End

Lucy's house was pretty bad. It made her family unhappy to live there.

"I think it's time for us to move," said her dad.

One day, they all moved to a brand-new place. It was a lot different from their old house..

4. Why, Lucy thought, must we live in such a place. I hate it here. The very walls hold me down. If only we would move to a nicer house, a nicer neighborhood. I want to be closer to my friends.

Lucy went downstairs to find something to eat. There was never anything to eat.

The phone rang. Lucy answered it. "Hello?" she said.

"This is Mary Kay with the Johnson Realty Agency. Is your father there."

That is weird, Lucy thought. "He is not here right now," she said.

"Can I leave a message?" Mary Kay asked.

"Sure."

Lucy took the message and slowly hung up the receiver. Why would a real estate agent be calling her father? Maybe they were going to move. Lucy's heart fluttered. Maybe they would finally get out of this wretched place. Just then, her father's car pulled into the drive. Lucy ran out the door.

"Are we moving?" she asked as her father stepped out of the car.

"We are moving." Lucy's father replied. "I wanted it to be a surprise. How did you find out?"

"Mary Kay called."

"Of course." Lucy relayed the message as she carried her father's briefcase back into the house. She could still feel the oppression, but somehow the air was not as heavy, the walls did not close in.

We are moving, Lucy thought. She smiled.

5. I would rather die than live in this house one day longer. My parents hate it also. I don't know why we must destroy our lives by continuing to live in such a wretched, horrible place. The lawn is dead, the trees and bushes are dying. Something plagues the very soul of the neighborhood. The wind blows through the dying trees and sounds like a growl. It bites at the house as the house creaks and barks in return. Then sun dims when the blinds are opened.

I walk downstairs to find breakfast in a cupboard that always is bare. The stairs creak and grind under my feet. With each step I fear falling through, crashing all the way to the dank basement. The handrail gives me a splinter, again: it offers so support anyway. The wallpaper peels and even bleeds in places, dirty moldy patches oozing stink and degradation. Cobwebs catch at my hair. My fingernail catches on my jeans and breaks. The surprise and pain bring me to the present as I search for food. The door of the cupboard creaks as I pull it open. Cereal dust greets me. How could all the boxes always only have dust in them? I cover the dust with milk that is on the verge of being sour and rotten. It won't make me sick, I know, but it won't taste good either.

As I sit at the stained and creaking table, my father walks in. "Lucy," he says. He smiles just a bit. He hardly ever smiles anymore.

I look at him. "What is it?" I say.

"We are moving," he says. He sighs as though a weight has been lifted from his creaking shoulders. It's my turn to smile.

"Are we really?" I ask in disbelief. The house creaks menacingly, but I don't hear. We are moving. We are moving!

"We bought a house in another neighborhood. I have been promoted down at the plant and we can finally afford to leave this place. We are moving."

We are moving.

6. This is our new house. We moved in five weeks ago. I have my own room now, and I have to share a bathroom with only my sister. It seems that the sun shines a little more brightly here. Our family is so happy. I'm getting better grades. Even our cats seem to be happier.

But it wasn't always this way.

We lived in a house in a neighborhood that I hated. The house had been built in the seventies. The walls weren't falling down, or anything like that, but there was a feeling, a pervasive chill...

My father had been working in the same job for seven years. My mother tried to find a job, any job, but had been having no luck. "That's what I get for not going to college," she would say. It was her mantra. I would think, Why doesn't she just go get her degree, but I didn't know. We couldn't even afford to move out of our horrible house, how could she think about taking money away to pay for school. My parents both value school, and education, but not for themselves, for us. They always admonish us to do better, to participate more, ask questions. But they never asked themselves such important questions such as how can I make my life better and so improve everyone's life?

Then, one day, I sat at the kitchen table doing math homework as I always did. I struggle with math, but to my mom, it comes naturally. She answered my questions as she cooked us dinner --potatoes again. My father pulled into the drive, home from work.

He walked in. He walked differently. He smiled. He was practically ebullient.

"I have great news," he had said. "I won the lottery." He smiled around. He tousled my hair.

My mother looked at him skeptically.

"Now, it isn't the whole shebang. It is just a small prize, but it is enough. We are moving!" He shouted. He danced a little gig, and smiled so brightly. I stood up in disbelief and hugged him.

"And," he said, "we are not going to have merely potatoes for dinner tonight." He held up a bag. Inside lay the most beautiful roasting chicken that you have ever seen.

My mother turned on the oven, smiling and shaking her head.

New Beginning Exercise, Part I

We are revising a weak beginning to a story, using the six methods learned:
•Begin at the Beginning
•Dialogue: A Character or Characters Speaking
•Action: A Main Character Doing Something
•Reaction: A Character Thinking
•Dramatic Statement
•Begin at the End


Lucy's house was pretty bad. It made her family unhappy to live there.

"I think it's time for us to move," said her dad.

One day, they all moved to a brand-new place. It was a lot different from their old house..

1. I want to tell you the story of where I grew up and why we were so unhappy there...until one day, when we moved.

Our house sat in the very middle the bad part of town. Most of the neighbors parked their cars (working or not) on the lawn. The sidewalks all needed to be fixed, broken cracks always tripped my brother and me when we walked to school; the road was filled with pot holes; and, most of the trees had either been cut down for firewood or been butchered by the only "tree-topping" company in town. Stay away from my trees, I always thought.

My dad lost his job when the mill shut down; and my mom surely wasn't happy working as a receptionist for a second rate small engine mechanic.

"I think its time for us to move," my dad announced one day. And we left.

My parents never could save much money, but they had saved a little. They put a down payment on a small house in a small town a few miles away. I was sad to leave my friends and my schoolmates, but the adventure of a new town, and the pride at living a beautiful little house in a pretty little town made the move one of the happiest memories in from my childhood.

2. "Why do we have to live in such a crappy house?" I yelled. "I hate where we live, and I hate the people who live around here." I scowled at my father.

I could tell that I had stepped over a line, but I didn't care. I expected my father to slap me, or at least send me away, but he just hung his head.

"You're right. I think its time to move," he said. I had never seen him so sad.

I started to cry, though I didn't know why. I felt like I had seen something that I wasn't meant to see. I felt like I had lost a piece of myself, a piece of my innocence. I never got that back.

"I'm sorry," I said lamely. What could I do?

"I lost my job at the mill," he said. "I was 'downsized'." He sat at the table, resting his head in his hands.

I felt my mother walk in. I trembled.

"It will work out. It always does," she said.

I breathed a sigh and the tears flowed again. We were leaving this horrible place, going to make a new start. A fresh start.

3. I put another toy in another box. I hadn't played with this car for many years, but I needed to keep it, to take it with me, never the less. A tear tried to escape down my cheek, but I brushed it away and pushed it down inside. I had determined that I would not cry again. This house is not a good house, I thought. No one is happy here.

I threw the last of the toys into the box and slammed the lid down. Out the window, the sun set and the street lights came on. As dusk fell, a muted beauty fell over the neighborhood: if you couldn't see the cars parked on the lawn, you didn't have to think about them. I picked up the box and headed downstairs. My mom sat at the kitchen table in her old blue house dress. My father busied himself in the living room, packing away memories, good and bad, making ready for the move.

I put my hand on my mother's shoulder. She put her hand on mine and vaguely smiled as she straightened up.

"Well," she said. "It is time for us to move. Are you all packed?"

I tried to smile, but it was hard to leave the house in which I had lived for all my life. Good or bad, all I knew is that it was home. "Yes," is all I said to her. We are moving on to a better life, I tried to convince myself. A better life in a better house awaits. And off we went.

Exercise: Scars

The Severed Ear

This is the story of how I almost lost my left ear.

Back when the world was young and the sun shone a little more brightly, my father taught me how to ride a bicycle. The early November chill mornings made it hard for my father to get out of bed. Stiff from years on the choker lines, he relished his Saturday mornings. But, as
he had promised, today we were to learn to ride a bicycle –without
training wheels. I was five, maybe six years old, up at the crack of
dawn. Any other Saturday, I would have spent my time in front of the
television, but today, I had a date with destiny.

The sun shone brightly, and the wind was down. Odd, that, for a place
such as Hood River. Usually the wind blew around the clock, and the
harder the better, as far as I was concerned: I loved the wind, still
do. Mount Adams gleamed to the north, a new dusting of snow on his
shoulders.

I wheeled out the red, white, and blue Schwin I had received for my
previous birthday in April. Only half a year later, if you can believe
it, I was on my way to riding without training wheels. I wheeled that
bike out to the top of the driveway, to where the road was flat. Our
driveway dove toward the garage a hundred feet away. To the right was
a parking area.

But this isn’t a story about how I came to be a cyclist, is it? It is
about that scar behind my ear.

The bicycle had beautiful up swooping handle bars and a white banana seat that was so comfortable to sit upon. I had practiced for the last
week, keeping the training wheels off the ground. Carefully, I would
ride around the parking area or down the sidewalk, listening hard for
the wheels not touching. I would even try to stay level when turning
corners, but of course, this was impossible. Invariably, even waiting
until the last minute to turn, those little wheels would scrape, a
horrible sound to a six year old concentrating so hard on not to make
any sound at all.

We walked the bicycle to the top of the drive. My father pulled a
wrench from his pocket and, looking me in the eye asked, “Are you sure that you are ready?” His eye twinkled just a bit, but I didn’t understand.

I nodded my head a gulped –does anyone really gulp when they are
nervous like that? I think that only people in movies do such things.

He applied the wrench to the bolts attaching the training wheels to
the bike. He held the handle that supported the rear of the seat as I
mounted. I had fear, no doubt, but there was also exileration. Today I
would change forever and I could feel it.

The oaks in the neighbor’s yard stared down at us. My father counted to three and gave me a push. Off I was, wobbly at first, but then
straighter and with more confidence. I rode down the street for maybe half a block, listened for cars, checked a drive that was much flatter than ours and made a perfect turn, heading back to where my father
stood.

I rode along smoothly, but now, I rode against traffic. A car came
around the corner and headed for me. My father did not know that it
was there, and could not fathom the fear in my eyes. I looked at him.
I looked at the driveway, much too steep. I looked at the sidewalk,
tricky to mount. I chose poorly: right in the middle of the two.

In our yard grew many bushes and trees. Ours was quite a large lot,
one of the older homes in the neighborhood. The grassy area was flat,
but there had to be a slop up to the street. On that slope grew what
my father called pfitzers. Junipers, I have heard them called, low
growing bushes of the evergreen variety. For me, they made a soft
landing place. I suppose that if the bicycle had cared, I would have
made a soft landing place for it.

I don’t know how it happened, but when I came up out of the pfitzers, I was screaming and holding my ear.

“My ear is going to fall off!”

My father was skeptical, as I suppose that I would be. Why should a
bicycle accident cause trauma to an ear?

Well, it did.

“Let me look,” he said. Reluctantly, I let him. “Hmm. It is cut back
there.” Tears trickled from my eyes as I silently swore that I would
never again ride a bicycle.

My mother, incredulous also at my predicament, hustled us into the
car and directed it toward the doctor’s office. Seven stitches and a
net that went over my whole head to hold my ear on later, I found
myself at home eating a bowl of ice cream and sipping water while
watching late Saturday morning cartoons.

I mastered the training wheel-less bicycle, within week, while wearing a Miami Dolphins stocking cap to cover the shame of my hairnet and severed ear.

NanoWriMo

Check out NanoWriMo. The fun begins November 1.

Current Readings

The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway