Starting Over

 (Yes, there are a few parallels to the Easter season we just passed through, but I will let you draw those for yourself. Revision also connects, but you're smart enough to figure that out on your own, too.)

A few days ago, I started a new writer’s notebook. Nothing fancy, just a marble-covered college ruled composition book. And then I looked back at the beginning of the green-covered notebook I had finished the previous week and noticed a few similarities between the two entries (more than the not-too-tidy scribbling).

As scribbled in a brand new notebook April 3, 2025…

First tracks! As a freshman at Ricks College, one of my roommates, Casey Sullivan, pointed out the simple joy that comes from making first tracks in the snow, an untouched carton of ice cream, or even a tub of butter. Since then, I have relished making first tracks wherever I can. My own kids will occasionally shout out “First tracks!” when opening a new jar of peanut butter or a fresh package of toilet paper, and I can’t help but think of making a good first impression as one of the simple pleasures in life.

You can only do it once, or so the saying goes, so why not enjoy the times you can do it? Take advantage of new situations. I suppose if we want to make more good first impressions, we have to put ourselves in more situations that are new, unfamiliar, or something that contains some type of newness to it. Something like a new class roster every semester, new clients or customers, or for me (and countless others), fresh school supplies like unsullied notebooks, packages of pre-sharpened pencils, or unbroken seals on paper reams or journals or those markers that smell like plastic fruits that everyone fought over back in fourth grade.

There’s just so much life in starting over. No wonder spring is such a popular time of year. Nature renews herself. And the rest of us just try to catch up by making our own tracks, even if they are not first.

As scribbled in a brand new notebook February 23, 2021…

Ah! A fresh notebook! Well, not any more. The moment I sullied its innocence with the first stroke of ink, the limitless possibilities suddenly had a limit. My words, my thoughts brought to life via pen, established boundaries and brought definition to the previously blank slate—tabula rasa no more.

No, this slate now has a purpose, a space to gather my thoughts, my scribbles, and attempt to permit my mind to wander and wonder before solidifying for time and all eternity.

Ha! Of course I could rip out this page and start over, but the impressions left on the subsequent pages will remain. The cover can never be unbent. The remnant of the ripped pages would reveal that something had gone wrong.

Still, there is room to right those wrongs, explore the inner recesses of my mind to reveal to the world the patterns (or randomness) of my brain. Writing IS that powerful. Writing is thinking. It helps create permanence where none previously existed.

It’s hard to take back words once they have been spoken, but it’s even harder once they have been written. Mean tweets, anyone? Confusing text messages? Even honest mistakes result in crucifixion sometimes. (See also “Sweet” by John Triska.)

You may not find it all that interesting, but I seem to derive joy from starting over. Side note: I also have two different poems in drafting stages that talk about starting over, repentance, and snow. They are not nearly ready to be shared, but perhaps sometime they’ll make an appearance in public. I suppose that me, composing this post, and trying again to work on my writing is another form of starting over. However, it’s a little late for me to make a first impression on y’all. You know what kind of a wreck I am. Still, I can ask your forgiveness and patience as I try to start over and do and be a little better.

  

Another Writing Lesson from the Undead

Teaching at the Young Authors Academy this week provided interesting (a purposefully vague word open to interpretation) experiences. Along with a supervisory role for parts of the camp, I taught two classes: “Building Better Stories” and “Tales and Villains.” Yes, teenagers do sign up to go to summer writing camp, and no, I did not come up with the titles of the classes. Each morning we started in true Writing Project format with a scribble where I was able to begin flexing my writing muscles again. It’s been a refreshing change from writing a dissertation. (Still recovering.) Several authors came to present and talk to the students about writing. We had a great lineup: J. Scott Savage, Chris Crowe, Tess Hilmo, Ann Dee Ellis, and Hannah L. Clark. Matthew Kirby also came for an evening chat with the campers. Each brought their expertise and among other things, validated my own writing practices as well as writing strategies I promote in my regular classroom. 

One of my many takeaways is a revision tool—one that Chris Crowe shared during his presentation about micro-revision, a topic I spend quite a bit of time on with my own students. I had seen most of his presentation before at various workshops, but this one was new.

He had the students first write a word-ku, a deviation of a haiku. It is still a three line poem, but instead of counting syllables, you write five words on the first line, seven on the second, and five on the third. Words instead of syllables. He instructed them about the traditional content of haiku: nature. However, when I wrote my example, I couldn’t shake my previous experience writing haiku with Chris and the rest of my Writing Project fellows, and I composed a word-ku of a decomposing nature: zombies. What else when working with Dr. Crowe?

(taken from https://authorselectric.blogspot.com/2016/03/
the-book-that-wasnt-written-by-zombies.html)

none escape this rotting curse,

this infestation that enslaves my mind when

I write haiku—the undead

The next step, a revision strategy, was to take the word-ku, and without changing the content, turning it into a traditional haiku. Syllables instead of words.

the infestation

enslaves my mind, zombifies

my thoughts, my haiku

By forcing one format into another, you really have to think about what it is you want to say. Rules are there to help. It helped me look to tighten up this scrap of writing as well as a few other pieces I worked on during the week. I could go on about different ways to implement this small exercise, its benefits, the buy-in from the students, but I fear the brain activity might attract the undead hordes roaming the campus. I’ll leave it to you to figure it out how to make word-ku work for you.

Revision (If Anybody Cares)

Here is a newer version of the latest post. I'd really like more feedback. I can feel a gem here, but I'm still dissatisfied in general.

“Insights Coming from Observations While Focusing on a Pane of Glass at the Bus Stop”

(28 June 2011)

Shadows dance

across the glass,

intertwined

with the sun’s rays.

The panes reflect,

illuminate,

or sometimes distort the

images of passersby,

revealing reflections,

refractions,

interpretations of reality—

the bright

likeness

of a truck cruising

with more paint

and bling

and noise

than substance,

the darker slant of

a pony-tailed blonde,

hustling to class,

her teal shirt

attempting to mask

the worry

and doubt

seen only through the shadowy

reflection.

The breezes shift,

and the enhanced clarity

of the glass

captures her

exuberance

for life.

The shuttle pulls up

and blocks the play

of light

and dark,

freezing the moment,

eliminating

the shifting patterns of

shadow,

capturing a second

where the ever-

changing influences

of the winds

die.

This protected moment

shows the scene

for what it is—

no guesses,

no façade,

no deceit. But

when the respite passes,

when the bus pulls

away from the hard curb

of reality,

the endless possibilities

hidden in the

changing light

come alive.

Sometimes

nobody else notices

the flashes

of potential,

sometimes we try

to hide

in the inconsistent

comings and goings

in the breeze,

insecure

in the truth trapped in the

silence of the reflection;

although the stillness

is what

sets the truth

free.