Too Many Books!

Too Many Books!

Heaped in the corners, filling up chairs,
Stacked on the tables, falling down stairs,
Sagging on shelves, and waiting in nooks--
My house is filled to the roof with books.

Cataracts, waterfalls and geysers of pages,
Stories of magic and love through the ages,
Instructions for cooking and how to clean gook--
My house is filled to the roof with books.

Secrets, Crime dramas, and nightmares abound.
My current favorite can't even be found.
Poetry, riddles and first sentence hooks--
My house is filled to the roof with books.

I should sort the lot and begin to declutter,
But the mention of such causes bindings to shudder.
What's that? It's a sale. I must take a look.
My house is filled to the roof with books.

Rapunzel's Revenge

One of the great joys of attempting to write for children is reading in the market. This past weekend, I spent the afternoon curled up with the cats and a pile of books. One of them (the books, not the cats) was Rapunzel's Revenge by Shannon Hale. Graphic novels/Manga books are pretty new to me, so I don't have much experience for comparison. However, it exceeded my expectations.
It is a delightful melding of contemporary, Old West, and fairy tales you only thought you knew, with a dab of sarcasm behind the ears.
I tend to read faster than I should, so I loved how the illustrations forced me to slow down and immerse myself in the telling of the story. If you glossed over them, you missed half of the tale. I suspect that is the nature of graphic novels. The pictures are just as important as the text. You can't have one without the other.
I can't wait to read the sequel, Calamity Jack.

Trimming the Fat

A few weeks ago, I started posting some writing prompts on the Writer's Workshop message board of AQ. I am going start posting some of them here along with other writing exercise ideas. If you have the inclination to do so, take them home and work on them. See what you can create with them.

My daughter and I read Beverly Cleary's Strider as a school assignment. (I try to read everything they have to read.) In the book, Leigh has to write an essay using only nouns and verbs. No articles, adverbs, or adjectives allowed.
I also found that it was very difficult to use linking verbs (is, was, were, etc) without also adding adjectives or adverbs.

Here is my first attempt:

Day Recounted

Alarm glared. Sun blared. Day interrupted. Coffee fried. Eggs brewed. She scrambled. Taxi dodged. Puddle greeted. Meeting avoided. Job fled. Stomach rebelled. She lost. Fists erupted. Screams rocked. Music pounded. Cookies melted. Ice cream disappeared. She binged. Mail delivered. Uncle shocked. Will revealed. Heir surprised. Night descended. She survived.


Now it's your turn. Try it!

Neil Gaiman

Where to begin? Last night, four members of our local writing groups traveled to hear author Neil Gaiman (Coraline, The Graveyard Book, Stardust, and oh my, does the list go on) speak in Naperville. It was an amazing experience.

He read to us. No, you don't understand. He read to us. He read from Stardust (which he said is kind of like the movie, but more like a distant cousin than identical twins) and he read from the Anansi Boys, and I am only ever buying his audio books from now on.
After he read to us, he answered questions. Perhaps the most incredible part was how even poorly asked questions were answered in a way that pulled you into whatever situation he was describing.
One thing stands out above all the rest. Mr. Gaiman said he believes everyone is born knowing they can write, or draw, or create in some way. Then a day comes when someone tells them they can't, and then, suddenly they feel they can't. He compared it to walking a tightrope as a child and having someone tell you, "Don't look down". You weren't afraid until that moment. (That is the best paraphrase I can muster.)
At the end, he read a children's story called Instructions. It comes out in April.

We took our picture with "the other Neil". If you haven't read The Graveyard Book, you must. I bought one of the autographed copies.

*I was awake half the night thinking about Neil's comment about everyone's ability to create. He might not be aware of it, but that is actually a Biblical principle. Human beings were created in the image of a Creator God. Whether a person is a follower of God or not, when they create, they are imitating their Creator. More on that Here if you are interested.

Cricket

Readers who drift over here from my other blog may remember the little bit of Cricket's story that I posted. That story has been revised to the tip of its whiskers and back now. Here is the rewrite of that original scene, plus one other scene.

From the shadows at the back of the steel cage, two green eyes glowed. For weeks, people had come into the shelter in search of the perfect pet. Each time the bell over the door jingled, the kitten rubbed herself against the bars in hopes of being touched; and each time, she was passed over.

There was a young woman with her son a few days ago. The boy poked his fingers into the crate and scratched her between the ears. She pushed her head against him and rattled her ribs with her tiny purr. When the boy started sneezing, they left immediately.

Later, a large woman clumped into the room. She had her hair piled high on her head and she reeked of lavender. She tipped her chin up at the sight of the kitten and sniffed, “Black cats are bad luck.” She took home an orange tabby with a runny nose.

A man with hunched shoulders came in next. Black bristles covered his face. At the smell of him, the kitten puffed herself up, trying to look larger than she really was. Her hair stood in spikes along the ridge of her back. The man snarled at her and then chose a solid dog that was as dark and surly as he was.

Others had come and gone. Some of them chose pets and some of them just came to look. When no one was there, the lady behind the desk would come, open the door of her cage, and stroke the kitten’s back. It felt delicious. She would whisper to her, “I would take you home with me today, but my landlord doesn’t allow pets in the apartments.” Her eyes looked sad.

After awhile, the kitten stopped coming to the front of the cage when visitors arrived. She simply folded her paws beneath her and watched as the parade of people passed.

(fast forward a bit)

The next few weeks were very pleasant for Cricket. She spent her waking hours exploring her new home. She sniffed every inch of the apartment. She batted at the fringe along the bottom of the bedspread. She kneaded her claws into the thick fur that was all over the floor. She made Delores laugh when she unrolled a whole roll of toilet paper in the bathroom. She washed herself after each meal and took her naps in the sunbeams by the windows. She also spent many long hours in Delores’ lap having her fur stroked.

One Tuesday while Delores was out shopping, Cricket curled up in the corner of the sofa for a nap. She liked the way her jet-black fur blended so well with the dark green fabric. She was in a deep sleep when Delores arrived home. The tip of her ear twitched at the rustle of the grocery bags, but she did not stir.

It wasn’t until she sensed a dark shape descending upon her that she startled awake. Delores was about to sit on her. The kitten reacted in a panic. She jabbed the old woman in the leg with her claws. Delores tried to jump up, but the toe of her shoe caught on the carpet and she tumbled headlong into a heap on the floor with a shriek.

When Cricket’s heart stopped pounding and her fur had settled, she crept out from under the footstool where she had hidden during the commotion. Delores lay very still. Cricket sniffed her face and hair and jumped when the woman groaned.

A neighbor came running. Soon there was the sound of a siren, and Cricket retreated under the footstool again. Many noisy feet went past. The kitten could hear the voice of the kind man from the other room. In a subdued tone, he talked about broken hips and hospitals. He sounded anxious so she stayed hidden. Men in coats that smelled of smoke carried Delores out and the apartment was quiet again. It stayed quiet for a very long time. Cricket ate, washed herself and took a nap on Delores’ bed.

She woke to the sound of the key in the door. She stretched herself and strolled into the kitchen to find the kind man standing there.

“Well, there you are, Cricket. You will be happy to know that mother is going to be fine. She isn’t angry with you and neither am I.” His voice was gentle and Cricket rubbed herself against him as he talked, weaving in and out of his legs.

“I have already spoken to a friend who has two young children. You are going to go live with his family. We think that would be best.

The First Scribbles

Ooo, looky! A sparkly, new, empty blog. Whatever can she be planning now?