Poetry...

I don't consider myself a poet, but every once in a while I get an urge to write a poem. Or two. Take, for instance, my entry in the Spring 2011 literary journal my university produces:

Economy of Wounds

I’ll show you my scars

If you reveal yours

Silent reminders

Of many past wars

My own revolutions

Against being me

You’d call me a fraud

If you could see

I’ll show you my scars

If you reveal yours

Some self inflicted

To gain cheap rewards

My own revolutions

They aren’t all me

I need them for status

Nobody is free

This "inexplicable" urge, however, is actually explainable. And I really like the explanation. My great, great grandmother was a poet. She wrote haiku, free-verse, structured poems, and more. Every so often I rediscover the one book of hers I have. I never met her, but every time I read her poems I feel connected to her--and my crazy, writerly ways are a little bit more explainable.

Here is a poem she wrote:

Confession

The language, I admit, I abuse it

And frequently misuse it

With forethought quite malicious.

Now come on and admit you peruse it,

And thoughtfully chews it

With distaste quite delicious. --Kelly

Yep…I think we’re related.

Moving and Books

I have very toned arm muscles, and its not because I do an obscene amount of push-ups on a weekly basis. Nope. I carry books up and down stairs. Repeatedly.

Moving can be exciting, exhausting, and terrifying, but books make it even more so. It would be devastating to me to leave my books behind whenever I move. And, honestly, unpacking my books is the first thing I do after every move.

Still, my arms hurt. And look very muscular. I guess there will always be pros and cons...

'Twas Twelve Nights Before Christmas...

'Twas twelve nights before Christmas, and all through the house, not a creature was stirring...except for the mouse. Erm, excuse me, the sugar-glider.

He, Benjamin Dallas, a fuzzy little guy, scampered from his high-security cage like a well trained ex-spy. He wandered the tile floor, he explored the living room, and then he hastened toward my midnight doom.

Toward the warmth of my bed little Ben swiftly crept, in the hopes that he could cuddle in the crook of my neck. He climbed up the bedclothes, navigated my pillows, and zoomed like white lightning right straight for my hands.

Meanwhile, I, unawares, sojourned in other-wheres, floating in dreamland unaware of my fate.
Then, twelve nights before Christmas, a visiting furry pest got sidetracked by my unsuspecting hands.

He licked and he bit them, until I, the shocked one, sat bolt upright and scared poor Ben away. He ran and he scampered, and I, in mouse-suspecting fervor, reached toward my nightstand and switched on the lamp.

At that point, it happened, Ben looked up and, frozen, awaited his fate with a stolid blank stare. For above him, eyes open, watched the cat he'd awoken. Ben trembled just slightly as he wondered what to do.

But the moment, it passed, as that giant, watchful cat merely blinked his bright green eyes and looked toward me.

Ben scampered off my bed as I cursed my lazy feline friend and I stumbled after, to imprison the rat.

Well, the rest of the story is uneventful--even boring--and my sad attempt at rhyming has probably troubled your souls. But the moral of this story, though it's been crazy and occurred without warning, is to keep up your guard for late winter night guests. You may think they are harmless, you may think they are holiday guests...but the truth is they may just bite and lick you to death.

*based on true events.

~Courtney

P.S. Yes, this does mean that school is over for a few weeks and I can once again blog in a semi-regular fashion!

Bookaholics Anonymous: Holiday Books?

I don't know about you, but I really really really want books around the holidays...

Now, I'm not talking cheap, warm, fuzzy Christmas novels. I just want regular books. Dickens. Tolkien. Zelazny. Christie. MacDonald. Lewis. Arthur Conan Doyle.

The good stuff.

I get out of school (or the end of the semester draws nearer) and I suddenly realize that, in addition to the endless list of books I want to read for FUN, I also have an endless list of books I want to buy. It's a nasty, vicious circle...but it's filled with so much pleasure.

Don't get me wrong, I feel no guilt buying books. They are good to have and to read and to know. But I'm running out of space. One day I may end up like so many people before me, buried under a pile of my own stuff. What good would such a fate do me or anyone else?

But I digress.

This holiday season, what I'd really like to do is reread some Tolkien, get my hands on some of Roger Zelazny's other stories, possibly try to finish the Pickwick Papers and maybe Nicholas Nickleby, finish Kidnapped, get and read a couple of the new Jim Butcher books, and work on my various writing projects.

Speaking of which, I have a top secret project under the wraps that's just screaming for more of my brain...

On Writing...

I started reading Stephen King's On Writing today, which is sort of reckless if you consider the other myriads of books I HAVE to read for a grade.

I haven't made it very far as of yet, I only had about fifteen minutes of reading time before I had a quiz to take this morning. Still, just knowing that in some small way I'm working toward my writing goals makes me feel better--I am a writer, despite my constant school-imposed hiatus (is the plural of hiatus hiates?) from actually writing.

I can do this. I can write a book. I've been writing "books" since before I even knew how to write words. I want to do this. I need to do this. I love to do this! Only six weeks of class left!!!

I recently started using a program called Microsoft Onenote, because it's awesome and it allows me to be un-linear, and I don't like intricate writing software, so anything that makes plotting, plot notes, research, references, and alternate story lines more stream-lined and accessible is a plus for me. I highly recommend it!

Song Writng and Other business

Well, I forgot last week's post in a rather predictable fashion. Sigh.

This week I've been drafting my presentation for the International Conference on Romanticism (which is about authors such as Wordsworth, Coleridge, etc.) and playing around with some song writing.

I'm really hoping to get back into my mystery writing schedule soon--especially since brainstorming with my good friend and fellow author Audra Brown--with whom I am, coincidentally, writing a Fantasy entitled Remember the Alamok.

There are about six weeks of school left this semester, and then--HOPEFULLY--I will revert to my schizophrenic, crazy, hermit-like, writer ways...

Lemon Bars and Writing

I am making Lemon Bars. Glorious, if slightly too rich, little pieces of lemony-pastry heaven. I know, this may seem like an odd introductory sentence to find on a mystery writer's blog. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. Even mystery writers have to eat. Some of them even like it.

I do have some kind of idea where I'm going with my Lemon Bar introduction. In fact, I'll head that way now.

Once upon a time, there were no such things as Lemon Bars. It was a sad, sad world--nobody could imagine those tart, mouth-puckering little fruits as the essential element to what may be the world's best dessert. Nobody. Until, one day, somebody dared to create the unthinkable--a glorious, delicious dessert that incorporates the tang of lemon with the smooth taste of sugar, butter, and pastry.

That person went against the rules. There was no self-doubting, no breakdown of the chef telling himself that this idea was not worth pursuing. Just glorious creation, and it CHANGED LIVES AROUND THE WORLD FOREVER.

At this point, two things should be apparent to you: 1, I love Lemon Bars, and 2, There is NOTHING that cannot be written about.

In the words of poet Sylvia Plath, "And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt."

Yep, that's about all I have to say for the day. I'm gonna go eat a Lemon Bar now...