I Stole This But I Like It Anyway

On Janette Rallison's web page she provides her Top 10 Reasons to be a Writer:

1. Librarians think you're cool.
2. You have an excuse to be cluttered: you have no time for cleaning; you're creating ART.
3. You get a collection of stories you'll always enjoy reading because you wrote them.
4. If you publish, you don't have to think about what you'll get your friends and family for Christmas—they're all getting your book!
5. You can name your characters all the things your husband wouldn't let you name your children.
6. You can work in your pajamas.
7. You get to network with other writers.
8. Money and fame. Ha! Ha! But I just had to throw that one in.
9. You can pattern your villains after the guys who dumped you in high school, and
10. You don't have bad days; you just have more writing material to draw from!

More Zombies!

For those who just can't get enough zombie haiku, I wrote these during a district training session last semester:

Enduring district
Training sessions turns teachers
Into zombie hordes

Reverse zombie-ism:
Giving seventh grade numbskulls
Life Monday morning

Hygienic zombies
Always floss with arteries
After every meal

Losing gray matter
Voluntarily won’t ward
Off pot head zombies

Actively engaged
Students are more resistant to
Sudden zombie raids

The zombie brain lust
Proves difficult for teenage
Hemispheres to slake

Teachers are easy
Targets for zombie feasting
After P.T.C.

Valentine Splat!

I know I profess not to like Valentine's Day. That's not a lie. I don't. But that doesn't stop me from writing about the love of my life. Stop puking now. Save it for after the cheese.

“Still…After Twelve Years”

If I say
that when I glanced
across the room and
your eyes
caught mine
in a tractor beam, that
my heart skipped a beat,
it would be a gross
miscommunication,
an underestimation of what
I really mean to say.

And to describe my sentiment
by saying it
was as if my guts turned
somersaults
or fluttered
would seem
too cliché; it's more
of a stutter,
a seventh grader sweating at
his first dance, ogling
at the head cheerleader across
the grubby gym floor: infinite
space and streamers and
longing
in-between.

I couldn’t use the words
palpitate (too scientific),
or salivate (too…well, you know) either,
to describe
that instant;
and twitterpate is too
childish and insignificant,
like I’m expecting a do-over for shanking
a kickball across the white-lined blacktop
while you stand watching.

No,
it's more
of a ratta-
tatta-
splat
that hits you square
in the chops—drenches you
like the sudden shock of an
unexpected
water balloon filled
with stale, cold
hose water on a
muggy summer morning,
along with the breathless
impact of a cornerback
upending an unsuspecting receiver
on a simple comeback
route thrown inches too high.

Yeah, more
like that, but then
again, it’s still not quite
right, because there are some
moments that the brain perceives,
with all its intellect,
all its knowledge and
power over language, but
will never
be able to communicate
my love
accurately.

A Few Tips from a Psycho Genius

Unfortunately, Stephen King's language in On Writing isn't really appropriate for school. It's an excellent book for writers--a memoir on the craft. Here are a few notes that I pull out for my student writers:

Notes from Stephen King’s On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft

(page 37) There is no Idea Dump, no Story Central, no Island of the Buried Bestsellers; good story ideas seem to come quite literally from nowhere, sailing at you right out of the empty sky: two previously unrelated ideas come together and make something new under the sun. Your job isn’t to find these ideas but to recognize them when they show up.

(page 57) When you write a story, you’re telling yourself the story…When you rewrite, your main job is taking out all the things that are not the story.

(page 74) Writing is a lonely job. Having someone who believes in you makes a lot of difference. They don’t have to make speeches. Just believing is usually enough.

(page 77) …The writer’s original perception of a character or characters may be as erroneous as the reader’s.

(page 77) …Stopping a piece of work just because it’s hard, either emotionally or imaginatively, is a bad idea.

Toolbox: It’s best to have your tools with you. If you don’t, you’re apt to find something you didn’t expect and get discouraged.
1. Common tools go on top. The commonest of all, the bread of writing, is vocabulary.
2. You’ll also want grammar on the top shelf of your toolbox.
3. Avoid the passive tense.
4. The adverb is not your friend.
5. Fear is at the root of most bad writing.

(page 142) …Good writing consists of mastering the fundamentals (vocabulary, grammar, the elements of style)…It is possible, with lots of hard work, dedication, and timely help, to make a good writer out of a merely competent one.

(page 145) If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot. There’s no way around these two things that I’m aware of, no shortcut.

(page 147) You have to read widely, constantly refining (and redefining) your own work as you do so.

(page 150) If there’s no joy in it, it’s just no good.

(page 153) Writing is at its best—always, always, always—when it is a kind of inspired play for the writer.

(page 163) In my view, stories and novels consist of three parts: narration, which moves the story from point A to point B and finally to point Z; description, which creates a sensory reality for the reader; and dialogue, which brings characters to life through their speech.

(page 173) Description is what makes the reader a sensory participant in the story. Good description is a learned skill, one of the prime reasons why you cannot succeed unless you read a lot and write a lot. It’s not a question of how-to, you see; it’s also a question of how much to. Reading will help you answer how much, and only reams of writing will help you with the how. You can only learn by doing.

(page 174) Description begins in the writer’s imagination, but should finish in the reader’s.

(page 178) When it’s on target, a simile delights us in much the same way meeting an old friend in a crowd of strangers does.

(page 200) Symbolism exists to adorn and enrich, not to create a sense of artificial profundity.

(page 208) Good fiction always begins with story and progresses to theme.

Zombie Breakfast Set

With a CUWP reunion meeting looming, how could I help myself?

Zombie sunrise brain
dilemma: over easy,
scrambled, hard, or raw?

A side of tendons
goes well with Benedict's brains
and spleen on wheat toast.

Breakfast brain platter
is never complete without
a good cup o' Joe.

Bob Wiley Meets The Great Hambino

So now what? I’m doin’ the work. I’m not a slacker. Dr. Leo Marvin would be so proud. Baby steps to publication. Baby steps to who know where. I’ve done this before. The hard part. I feel like my two-year-old at dinner. I know it’s good for me, and that I actually enjoy eating, but before I even sit down, I must proclaim to the neighborhood how much I hate dinner (and I don’t even know what it is yet).

So I’m here, writing, or at least rambling. I’m putting in my time, just like I said I would…only three more sessions to go, and it’s only Tuesday. Word. Just rambling won’t bring too many fruits, but I think that developing the habit is actually the best thing I can do for myself right now. Put the projects on hold, and just wait until I’ve built back up my flow. I can feel it trying to resuscitate after being throttled by seventh graders who are just a little on the needy side, but I’ve got plans to run the second semester for my 9th graders primarily as a writing workshop. Why? Because I’m sadomasochistic and sick. I’ve got the bug, and I need to infect as many unsuspecting students as possible. Mwa-ha-ha!

I’ll work out the bugs later; I just need to jump back into the pool and soak as many sunbathers as possible. Just think The Sandlot’s Hamilton “Ham” Porter at the pool just before Squints gets his groove on with Wendy Preffercorn. That reminds me— I started a piece at our CUWP institute about a kid on a high dive…wonder where that is…I should finish that one of these days…use it as a scene….

And who said rambling couldn’t be productive?

Cannonball!

Goooooooooooooooooooooooaaalllllllllllllllll!!!!!!!!!

(If you don't read that title with an overly-loud Hispanic announcer voice, you're doing it wrong.)

So here they are, as promised, but not with any kind of money-back warranty. If you don't like them, well, that's just too darn bad. I've got other goals, too, but I'm not going to post those. I'm keeping them all to my fat selfish self. However, if any of you want to keep tabs on me, and needle and annoy me and hold me to my own standards, I would certainly appreciate it (grumble...grumble). Please hold me to these!

1. I’m making time to write for at least 15 minutes a day 5 times per week. It could be random nothingness, or it could be something I’m squeezing toward completion. I’d say that I’d finish one of my novels, but I’m not that brave yet. It may not sound like much, but it's more than I'm doing right now so pppbbbbllltt!!

I want to write more, but this is my goal. It’ll probably end up happening while I give my 9th grade dorks writing time, or hopefully even more so with my Guys Who Write Club—so far only one loser has signed up. It might take more than a miracle to get this tub o’ lard off the ground.

2. Before the end of the year I need to have another professional piece ready for publication. Maybe I could get paid this time. Oh, what’s that? Payment from educational journals comes in tender not accepted in most free markets? Crap.

3. I need to take the time to listen to the muses and WRITE DOWN what they say—not just bat them away. Sometimes I get them mixed up with mosquitoes. What can I say? I worry about that West Nile stuff. I think they’re getting tired of me not listening. Maybe I should turn down the music, too. Hmm…. Along with this, I need to finish projects, not just start them. I’ve got an epitaph for Buddy sitting on the shelf, the poem I started about tenderhearted little Zac, one about Sariah and her slant of light. My short story about a kid who actually learns through osmosis is still incubating. My self-promised research on osmosis still dreads my 10th grade biology experience with Mr. Brock. Maybe I’ll just include that spindly dork of a reed and his paintbrush of a mustache in the story. Ha! That’ll teach him to give me detention. There’s also the piece I want to write for Amy that should have been done by Christmas but I’ll be lucky if I make any headway by Easter—and I still don’t even know what genre it needs to be cast in. So I guess #4 will be to finish a project or three.

5. I’m going to post on my blog at least three times a month. Don’t hold your breath, though. I'm not sure how many actually read this anyway.

There. As always, any suggestions, corrections, or blatant honesty is always welcome.

Same Old Joe

Yeah, I know. I haven't posted in a while. I'm still not posting anything new, but I thought I should at least do something. You can scold me all you want, but I already feel guilty about not writing more. While I was reading my friend Carol Lynch Williams's blog that she does with Ann Dee Ellis, Throwing Up Words, I couldn't help but feel like the scum of the earth, or at least the thing that's STILL sticking to my left shoe, for not creating writing goals for 2010. I swear they're swimming around in my head somewhere. They usually surface while I'm in the shower (not a pretty picture), but they seem to disappear before I get to my desk at school.

I promise to have my goals for writing this year (in writing) and posted for the world to see sometime in the next week or so. Maybe I should take Carol and Ann Dee's hint and not procrastinate.

In the meantime, here's an old piece that I scraped from the inside of my drawer:

“Revelatory Reflection”

bloodshot eyes at four-thirty a.m. stare at
a heavy-set reflection staring back at the
five o’ clock shadow that looks more like seven-thirty
and growing later

I blink

and catch a glimpse of my father staring back,
clean-shaven in his dress blues, ready for the general’s briefing,
and he walks out
the door;
Old Spice and teenage resentment
linger from his morning kiss

Why do you have to go?

You’ll understand when you’re older . . .

seven
months of wondering if you were coming home,
seventeen
years of wondering if you really cared . . .

late night chastisements—
after you had fallen
in and out of sleep
in the la-z-boy while I paraded around without regard
to you,
to curfew,
to anything not me—

they still burn
but now with different ardor

Why do I have to go?

predawn sighs surface from the kids’ room
down the hall;

seven
years of ends that barely met,
seventy
months of payments and pacifiers,
seventy
thousand soiled diapers later . . .

bleary-eyed,
I wipe the steam from the mirror
as I rub the stubble of yesterday,
mold my countenance—
my future—
in my hands

Dad,
I understand now,
I whisper through the lather on my chin
and scrape and shave the foaming bitterness down
the drain

This was written around 2003 or so--you know, one of those aha moments. My dad is now one of my best friends, even though at one point in my life I made that difficult.

Low Brow

I recently had to reprimand Ally for sculpting poop out of brown play-doh and throwing it at her little sister. When said pseudo-poop was confiscated, she just shook her head and muttered, "Oh, man. I guess I'll have to go back to making poison."

(Gear shift)

Why is it every child has a fascination with feces? I mean, besides the obvious "Oh-wow-this-came-out-of-me? factor," what is there to laugh about? It's warm, squishy, and can clear a room through a super ultra protective odor-locking diaper with plastic undies and two pair of sweatpants. Any mature adult will tell you that excrement and/or any other bodily functions are not funny.

But for whatever reason (the sounds, the odors, the twenty thousand ways to describe dropping a load), some of us never grow out of it. (Heh-heh.) Shut up, Beavis! At least there will always be a market for potty humor as long as there are 7th grade boys...or anyone who used to be a 7th grade boy.

Maybe it's the connectivity factor. We all do it, so it must be funny, right? Maybe.

Just the other night, I was flipping channels--as I am wont to do when I can't sleep--and I paused for a moment on My Name is Earl. I never watch the show normally, but for some reason I followed for a minute or two. One dude (Randy) is supposedly trying to mentor an elementary-aged Hispanic kid (Oscar), just trying to be his buddy, a "big brother" or something. I don't remember. At one point Randy asks Oscar if he needs to go "drop a 'dos'." The kid nods and heads into the men's room. Randy then turns to Earl and 'translates': "In Spainsh, 'dos' means 'poop.' ("Little Bad Voodoo Brother" My Name Is Earl, Season 4, Episode 8. 10/30/08) I hadn't laughed that hard since reading Gary Paulsen's Harris and Me. Why it tickled me I'm not sure. It could have something to do with the ungodly hour of night, the number of braincells in operation, or just the fact that I eat 7th graders for lunch.

Those of you who have seen me read from Guys Write for Guys Read know that I go into fits when I read these grossly immature shorts to my students. Sidenote: this year I was finally able to read Jack Gantos's "The Follower" to one class without pausing to wipe away the tears of laughter.

Another example of our low brow collectivity occurred a few weeks ago when, while talking about creating tone and voice in writing, I told my 9th graders that there were two words that would cause them to laugh any time I said them in class. They didn't believe me, and even tried to prepare themselves against it. Stone-faced, they dared me to make them chuckle.

"Fart. Naked."

No context, no running gag or punchline--just two words.

They held strong for just shy of a millionth of a second before the boys started snickering. I said them again and before long, no one could keep a straight face--girls included. One pubescent geek started into one of those laughs where his whole body started shaking, but no sound came out. You know the one I mean? You're not quite sure whether he's laughing or having an epileptic fit? Yep, that's the one. His face started turning red, tears streamed, and we started to fear that he might literally bust his gut (not a pretty sight). He had to be reminded to breathe. I sent him to go wash his face and collect himself, but much to the delight of his classmates, throughout the rest of the morning, he would not-so-quietly chuckle to himself.

My inner imp wants me to say those magical giggle buttons in my 7th grade classes, but if I do, I'm afraid I'll have to clean up a stale smelling spill shortly thereafter...and that's not funny; at least not until I tell the story later. If it gets too bad, I'll just have to go back to making poison instead.

P.S. I'm starting a writing club just for boys in January.

Sorry it's so disjointed. I'll probably just remove this later.

Kurt Vonnegut's Rules for Writing Short Stories

I found these online and sent them to some teaching friends. I've had a few requests in different formats, so I thought why not post them here--they're about writing, so why not? Perhaps, from time to time, I'll post tips about writing as well as continuing to post my own crap.

1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.
2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.
3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.
4. Every sentence must do one of two things -- reveal character or advance the action.
5. Start as close to the end as possible.
6. Be a sadist. No matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them -- in order that the reader may see what they are made of.
7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.
8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.

Just a side note, Vonnegut was quoted saying that great authors will often break all of these rules except for the first.

Mr. Anson's Rules for Writing

1. Be afraid—be very afraid.
2. Mr. Anson is always right (most of the time).
3. Mr. Anson does NOT do cute.
4. Don’t take Mr. Anson too seriously (unless he says so).
5. Read.
6. Reread.
7. Proofread.
8. Read it aloud.
9. Read it again.
10. Don’t feed the bear.
11. Rhyming is overrated.
12. Always carry a pen.
13. Write.
14. Rewrite.
15. Revise.
16. Try again.
17. One more time.
18. Don’t put the bear to sleep.
19. If the bear is hibernating, leave him alone.
20. Conflict is essential.
21. Never throw away your writing.
22. Don’t force the rhyme.
23. Balance.
24. Don’t poke the bear with a stick.
25. Don’t be afraid to work hard.
26. Don’t be afraid to play hard.
27. Learn all the rules.
28. Use the force
29. You have to know the rules before you are allowed to break them.
30. The rules are subject to revision, change, or complete overhaul whenever and however the bear feels.


This is based on a prompt I had my creative writing students do a few years ago. They had to come up with a personal set of rules for a particular situation or activity.

"Embers of Day"

Sporadic winds swim over the
Sea of concrete,
Churning the life away,
Sweeping the warmth of day
Away with the time.

Into obscurity, day’s blue
Escapes over the rooftops,
Fading the dying sunlight amidst
Blackening heaven lightly kissed --
A mist of dusk sublime.

The ultimate ember smolders, solitaire
Into the horizon,
Abandoning the night’s array,
Dying as do people; pray
A ray of life returns.

This was written in Sevilla, Spain, 1996.

I'm Bored

This was an off-the-cuff example while my student teacher was trying to get the students to "show" rather than "tell" their stories. The class example was to reconstruct the sentence "I was bored."

There are exactly 2137 holes in the ceiling tile above my desk in algebra. Or maybe there are 2139. I counted that many once one Friday when I really had to pee. Twice there were 2136—both on Mondays after three-day weekends. How do I know? I’ve counted them each day since 7th grade started. All I know is that counting hasn’t improved my math grade any.

Lately I’ve thought about adding a couple of my own, just to round it off nice and even. No. That would be too obvious. Mr. Cisneros would definitely notice if I started using pencils as javelins. And my goal here at Brookside Middle School is to remain invisible. So far it’s worked.

So, any ideas where to go from here? All ideas are welcome.

Something New...?

I think I might use this rough intro to begin a new short story about a kid who actually (for a time) learns through osmosis. I'd like some feedback on this. What works? Where do you have questions? Any suggestions?

I could smell her before I could see her. As I plowed my way through the jungle of jocks and jerks, goths and geeks, toward Mr. Pemberton’s chemistry class, the aroma of her Blushing Violet body spray grew stronger. I felt a lump of what felt like a grapefruit try to force its way down my throat as the crowds thinned. Rayna stood in front of her open locker, surrounded by a pack of jackals hoping she’d take notice, brushing out her long dark hair as she always did before fourth period.

My palms sweat and started to tremble. Forty pounds of books began to slide from my grasp as I fumbled for my inhaler. My glasses fogged. “Watch out, weirdo” was the last thing I heard before the bell broke my concentration and I went down in a cloudburst of algebra assignments.

Within seconds, the hallway became as lonely as a graveyard, the cold, gray lockers standing solemn as headstones. Apart from a few spooks haunting the bathrooms, I was alone. Gathering up my papers from the dusty tiles, I heard the distinct tapping of the hall monitor Mr. Buckton’s combat boots echoing as he patrolled the halls. I blew the hair from my eyes, wiped my lenses clean on my T-shirt, and scurried into class, late yet again.

Zombie Haiku

While discussing my latest zombie haiku at lunch today, one teacher asked, "Aren't hakiu[s] supposed to be about nature and stuff?" Before I could finish chewing and swallowing, another piped up: "Zombies are nature; they're all about decomposing." Made me chuckle.

This was inspired after watching Michael Jackson videos at night, then going for a morning walk in the cemetery.

How unfortunate
to be cast as an "extra"
in MJ's "Thriller."

Question for You

I'm wanting to write another professional article while I juggle and sift through a few fictional ventures. The topics somersaulting around currently are motivation, voice, flow, and risk-taking in the classroom. Any suggestions? I'm open to anything. I only have three weeks until I lose my student teacher.

"The Ultimate Sin"

As requested, here is a piece I wrote in 11th grade U.S. history. 'Nuff said.

A bolt of lightning illuminated the outside world as the rain pelted the window. Sitting at my bedside, biting my nails, I pondered an appropriate course of action. Something had to be done . . . and it needed to be done immediately! I knew then that only one of us would survive.

I hesitantly crossed the lonely, two-room apartment and withdrew a long carving knife from the kitchen drawer. The street lamp outside radiated a dull yellow light, which struck me sharply in the eye when it reflected off the hard steel. Anger and abhorrence raced through my body. I needed to rid myself of this madness that I had restrained for so long! Now, the dam was about to burst.

Shadows momentarily came to life as another flash of light struck in the distance. Without warning, the window flew open and let in a cold world of cruelty and despise. I couldn’t hear the thunder roar for my heart was throbbing ever so forcefully. Vivid images of what was to come ambled through my mind. I could visualize the entire crime!

Ever so slowly, and, oh, ever so silently I would creep. The knife, ascending above its target would glisten in the scarce light—the residue left from previous victims burning my nasal passages with satisfaction. With one swift motion I would be free. Free . . . from this gutting pain that had been held within!

But wait! My conscience throttled me.

Someone would be sure to notice! An icy chill raced up my spine. Every single hair on my back bristled as a gust from the open window rushed across my neck. I dashed across the room to shut it, dropping my weapon on the cold, tile floor. As if the window knew what abominable sin I was about to commit, it slammed shut, before I reached it, vibrating the streaked glass in disgust.

“I can’t stand it!” I screamed.

I was going insane. I needed to stop myself before I did something rash . . . but that was exactly what I had to do! I had to clear my mind! I returned to the kitchen, ever so silently. In an effort to soothe my nerves, I slowly filled a tall glass with milk. But as the cold, white liquid slid down my throat, my mind snapped!

There was no turning back now! I dropped the glass, still half-full, and lunged for the knife where it lay on the floor. My knuckles went deathly white when I clenched the instrument with both hands. The glass, shattering on impact, did not sway my concentration in the slightest. My bare feet, now bathing in a pool of whiteness, began to move. Slowly, I stumbled towards my victim. I could hear my adversary calling me, taunting me. It was either now or never.

Within seconds it was over. I don’t care what happens to me any more. The only regret that I have now is that I didn’t save any of the cake for later.

3 Poems

These are the poems I mentioned in my post about writing places. There not so hot, but they were a start. The last one, is garbage, I know (It was a class assignment), but it was printed twice incorrectly, and I just want to see it the way it was written.

“Subway”
Steel centipedes
Zigzag for miles
In darkness.
The violence of graffiti grows greatest
When the drones exchange
In a high-pitched squeal
That pierces the night air.

"Subway" was the runner up in a school contest in 10th grade and subsequently published in a literary magazine in England.

“Autumn”
Amber swallows up the sun
and red reflects the sun.
A freshness is freed
and rides on the wind.
A golden age of color
arises only to die
after its brief glory.

"Autumn" was published in the newspaper my junior year of high school.

“The Sun Will Be Shining” (for graduation, 1994)

I sit and ponder—
Where am I going?

These years of change,
These years of growth
Have all come down to now.

I reflect and discover
That I am ill prepared
Or rather scared ,
For what is to come.

Did it have to come so soon?

Exponential responsibilities,
Harsh reality,
And real life
Are about to welcome me.

Can I do it?
Do I have what it takes
To survive the trials
That will shape my life?

Can the courage be found in me
To unlock the door
And step outside?

Of course,
For the storm will cease
And the sun will be shining.

Blah. I still don't like it.

"Quality" PIece

This exercise was hatched from a Tom Romano workshop this past Saturday. Cool idea!

Doubt called for the fourth time this morning…just to make sure. Her “ooh, just one more question, dear” sucker punched me, just as her previous three concerns had. Had she thought out my life more carefully than I had? Really? “You won’t forget to write, will you?” The apprehensions she instilled left me stammering like a seventh grader who had been caught cheating, as I shuffled my feet back and forth in the front hallway and gazed across the mist covered autumn patchwork pulled over the mountains on the horizon.

Just by the tone in her voice, I know she’s mimicking a conversation she’s just had with Guilt: “Are you sure you need to go all that way?” She prattles on. “Have you packed your toothbrush? Extra underwear?” But I’ve stopped listening to her nagging and have tuned in to the background noise of her children: Regret and Reflection beg, pull her apron strings and each other’s hair, tattling, retaliating.

“You're always welcome back,” is the last thing I hear she mumbles as I hang up. Resolution has just rung the doorbell.

But just as I turn to let him in, I look down and see that reason has sent me yet another text.

Where Do I Write?

I read “Do You Have Any Advice for Those of Us Just Starting Out?” by Ron Koertge to my 9th graders this morning. One of their possible writing topics (among others) was to reflect upon a place they enjoy writing. This is what I wrote with them:

Over the years, I’ve had several hidey-holes and isolated spots where I’ve escaped in order to put thoughts to paper. I believe I first started to develop a personal writing habit on the bus traveling back and forth from Newmarket to Lakenheath every day. Good old Bus #11 with the drivers we’d harass until their dentures would come loose or their hair came out in clumps: Trevor, Surfer Joe, and a few others. Quickly tiring of the gossip and drama, and having proved myself not the best poker player, I turned to sketching out poems on colored graph paper, feigning homework. Publication of “Subway” in some obscure British magazine that I never knew the name of gave me the confidence I had lacked throughout junior high.

I remember sitting on a fallen tree at Scout Camp near the English-Scottish border supposedly writing about the environment, taking note of the silence, the flora and fauna, the smell and shape of rain, the interrupting screams of a twelve year old on the receiving end of a wedgie.

Mr. Bainter’s history class became my fiction workshop. “The Ultimate Sin” was a gift. In Mrs. Misselhorn’s, poetry sprouted in the margins of the mundane grammar exercises. Medieval Lit gave birth to haphazard sonnets. Ironically, the only writing that didn’t happen was when I signed up to write for the school paper. Deadlines ate me for breakfast. But the passion to write and publish intensified. “Autumn” somehow appeared in the school paper without a name. I remember overhearing the two advisors for the writing club “Lancer Lot” debating over which of their students could have written it. Ha! I never told them.

I took a creative writing class my senior year and suddenly I had an eager audience. The first pieces of the year sounded like Lord of the Flies. Guess what I had been reading. My writing teacher said my description reminded her of Joseph Conrad, whom I had never read before. So guess what I went to find in the library. Guess who I started to imitate. Then Roald Dahl. Jack London. Poe. I started my own novel, a story about a kid whose life was a living hell, tortured by everyone in his family and in the community—a story worthy of any black turtleneck wearing beatnik, or so I thought. Everyone told me the writing was incredible, so realistic. I’ll confess. Everything I wrote was a lie; all the gut-wrenching pain and angst I poured onto the paper never happened. It was complete garbage. I thought I was pretty hot stuff, though, being able to fool so many people, manipulating emotions and crap like that. Now, looking back though, all I gained was a big head. Weird. I look back at what I wrote and get a little nauseated. I stunk. I was a liar…but I was a writer.

Not too many people know this, but I was voted the graduating class poet—a post the student council created for me. I had buddies ask me to write a poem for their girlfriend to commemorate their two-week anniversary. Kids asked me to write lyrics for their bands: metal, rap, country (which I refused), and even Christian rock. I’m still a little ticked that the poem I wrote for graduation was misprinted in the program.

Frequently, I’d wake up on the floor of my room, pen still in hand, arm contorted from falling asleep on it. I once had to use a muscle relaxant for three weeks to get the feeling back—a fact my mom still doesn’t know about.

At Ricks I’d make a daily pilgrimage to the computer lab, plug into my Discman, and depending on my mood, lose myself in Pink Floyd, Toad the Wet Sprocket, Cause and Effect, Candlebox, or local favorite Agnes Poetry. I began carrying a thesaurus and a dictionary in addition to my notebooks that I’d scratch in. I took a poetry writing class, where we had to write a one poem each day of the semester. My brain pulled more than a muscle from that stretching exercise, and I swore to never write poetry again. But again, I lied.

I’d escape in the middle of the night to watch the harvest moon collide with the Tetons, hole up in the quiet recesses of the performing arts center—a silent sunbeam coming through the semi-curtained glass alcove. I’d bury myself in the stacks on the third floor of the library—bare feet hugging the heat register—and smother myself in mountains of words modern and classic. But the muse only found me when I frequented my favorite haunts. In my apartment with all the roomies, in class, walking across campus, the well was dry.

Now, what seems like several lifetimes later, the locations have changed, time has passed, I have a lower center of gravity. But inside, with the exception of a missing appendix, I’m still the same me, only I’ve molted—shed my skin a few times when it became too restrictive. I’ve found new places to write: my desk, my car, the side of a newly-frosted autumn carpet mountain in October. But now I don’t hide. I don’t need physical isolation to write any more. The turbulent stream of life continues to rush past, but the difference lies in the fact that now I can call a time-out in the busiest of traffic jams, the noisiest of restaurants, and even the most trying of bedtimes; and capture my thoughts in words no matter where I am.
And whether I can scribble down notes in the moment, or if I have to mentally capture an image and reconstruct it later, I can still find the solidarity that writing brings no matter where I am. It’s more of a mental construction site, if you will, rather than a shadowy corner or a sundrenched bedspread—my own (un)tidy hobbit hole, where no one can enter unless they’re invited. My special writing place materializes wherever I make the time to lose myself in my thoughts and my words. It exists whenever I invite specific chunks of memory and image and emotion over for pizza and the game. I write wherever an idea stops to say hello, or goodbye, or whatever.

It's rough, I know, but it needed to come out.

"Duncan"

Here's a little one-minute story I wrote as a high school senior:

It never should have happened. He never had a chance! I mean, he didn’t even see it coming. Some things in life just aren’t fair.

There we were, minding our own business on that glorious April morning. The air was cool; the daisies stood ever so perfectly in the long, green meadow. Nothing could have been more tranquil.

All of a sudden I looked up.

“Look out!” I wailed, but it was too late.

I miss Duncan. I wish it had been me instead of him. But no, the flyswatter had to get my best friend, my brother. May he forever rest in peace.

Mr. A's Not-To-Do-List

1. I will never do cute.
2. I will never sell out.
3. I will never become zombie food.
4. I will never forget the crack of the bat.
5. I will never use aluminum when wood will suffice.
6. I will never say, "No, I'd rather not grill tonight."
7. I will never be skinny.
8. I will never go pink.
9. I will never escape junior high.
10. I will never be completely sane.

6 Word Autobiography

Honestly, good guys don't finish last.

Haiku

cottonwood drifting,
apathetically floating—
like a teenage mind


This was inspired as I accompanied junior high students to Lagoon (an amusement park) last spring.

"Ode to My Dorito Crumbs"

This was another exercise from the Central Utah Writing Project called a "Bring Me" poem.

How rebellious,
how impetuous,
you tweezer specks!
Uninhibited by destiny,
your spicy cheesedust-laden
bodies leave their mark
upon my fingers,
lava-intensive and salty,
cheddar and sticky;
You leap from my mouth—
jarred and broken,
Unwilling to die,
to feed
my insatiable appetite.
Oh, chip crumbs,
stay!
bring an end
to my hunger
so I don’t get my fingers
greasier
while scavenging
for more.

Sudden Slayer Snuffing

This was an alliterative exercise during the Central Utah Writing Project this summer. The goal was to create a paragraph/story using the same sound as much as possible:

The somewhat psychotic slayer slipped silently onto the sad scene. Surreptitiously, she spied the sortie of zombies sipping and slurping slimy substances from something, or someone recently smothered and smashed and squished.

Suddenly, she shouted. “Stop, you spleen suckers!” Screaming sadistically, she sent a smattering of shotgun shells into their subhuman skulls.

Stunned for a second, the simple, slobbering subjects smiled stupidly. Sammy the Slayer shortly shrieked in shock then slumped slowly. Someone, or something, had circled, sneaked up, seized, and strangled her.

Suppertime!

Published!

Check out this link to a specific piece in the National Gallery of Writing:

http://galleryofwriting.org/writing/305481

It's also being published in the 2009 Utah English Journal.

"For Zachary"

“For Zachary”

Not even
the crack-sing-smack-sting-
barehanded snag of a foul ball
while balancing a foot-long
with yellow mustard, onions
and sweet pickle relish,

nor the
sky-slash-earth-crash-
explosion of light and adrenaline
while lightning’s intensity charges each arm hair
through the double-paned window drizzle
and safety of four walls,

nor the
sit-back-deep-black-
deep thought expanse of infinite stars
while a dying fire toasts backsides
like perfectly golden marshmallows
slipped between grahams

is worth experiencing
without a son to pass it on.



*This is just a piece I put together based on vivid images from a dream and a few sounds that stuck in my head.

"Death to Emo"

“Death to Emo”

Take your over-clichéd,
tear stained,
eye liner streaked,
grief ridden,
sucks-to-be-me
excuses
for poems
from the stone-washed,
trash tossed,
shadow skinny
girl pants, and
bleed
the gothic ink
stains and
wannabe
angst
through the bent
wire mesh condenser
drenched in two-
day old saliva
and evidence of
non-existent
Right Guard;
and dump the malice
into a lonely
metal dustbin
where it belongs,
and douse it with
kerosene
before striking
the soul-emancipating
match.

*I wrote this while observing a particular group of "misunderstood" students interacting with their parental units at a parent-teacher conference.

"Middle School Menagerie"

During zoo hours
most beasts slump over desks,
sluggish and lethargic,
oblivious
to their keepers’ attempts
to preserve the species.

Apathetic
cud-chewing camels
stare through
the morning lessons
while a pair of chipmunks
in the back row
precariously
pick and poke
the sleeping grizzly
in the corner.

An overly cheerful peacock or
a howler monkey
who forgot his meds
occasionally
breaks the morning monotony
with a sudden outburst of joy
(or fear)
at the predator
in the next aisle
two seats behind.

Whinnies and trumpets and chatter
escalate toward a climax
when the cages open
for feeding time—
a mixture of musk
and manure
and mealtime manners
cut loose into the hallways.

Glassy-eyed gators and
pathetically overstuffed pythons
attempt to absorb
more than their lunch
after they return to their
artificial biomes
and four-walled
habitats.

Heads still in the clouds,
the giraffes
are oblivious to the
pack of hyenas
scheming,
waiting to prey on the weak
and young
and insecure.

Late afternoon
a troop of gorillas
stirs from docility
(and civility)
with occasional grunts
and thumps
and bumps—
and the animals
escape their enclosures,
the more timid creatures
slinking away
to take their chances with vipers
and other venomous bottom dwellers
in the undergrowth.

But even the most
(semi-)
ferocious lions—
with their voice-cracking,
deep-throated growls
and their whiskers,
and their bared claws—
reach out.
Inside
they are just
overgrown kittens
hiding behind wisps of manes
craving
individual attention
and a scratch
behind the ears.

*This came from a brainstorm I had after taking my own kids to the zoo. I wrote the 1st draft while sitting in a reading endorsement class.