Story Thoughts

I feel extremely guilty that I've been neglecting my blog as of late. But I realize that that fact alone tells me something...that I haven't forgotten about my blog! See, if I just didn't care, there wouldn't be this nagging guilt poking at the back of my conscious like that filing cabinet that always spills open when you walk into a room, spewing overpaid bills onto the floor. That actually happened once in a house my parents were looking at two years back. But that's not the point! I just want to let all of my readers know that I still remember my blog and have full intentions of keeping it up.

It's just that sometimes, no matter how much I poke the creative fire, I can't keep the meager flame from dying out. And it happens to all of us. We have the urge to write anything, to just get words on paper, to find that precious outlet for our short cord - a line I stole from one my own stories! - to feel that release of characters, random images, plot lines, a single scene or interesting snippet of conversation...but that outlet isn't to be found. A line from one of the rare Christian songs I listen to by Michael W. Smith comes to mind "it's like wanting to sing, but needing a song." Every time I hear that line - and the song for that matter - it always makes me contemplate things, and even gives me chills! And I can't say that about a lot of songs. When people say "this song gave me chills" I always scoff at that, thinking how can a song actually affect you that much? But this song did. Sometimes we surprise ourselves!

In lieu of that line, that is exactly how I feel sometimes where my writing is concerned. I'll have this great urge, this great swell of words and ideas within me like a thousand puzzle pieces falling haphazardly to the ground and I have to find the uniform picture blindfolded. Then I'll sit at my computer, fingers poised above the keys, ready to fly faster than my brain, or even my own thoughts, but that sudden swell of words and thoughts is gone. A tornado dissipating into swirling tendrils just before it touches the ground. There are a million reasons for this. I know for me most of them involve intrusions from the outside world. I'll admit, I could never completely block out the world entirely when I'm writing. Although today I think I might've managed that while I was writing outside on my laptop. Even still, there are going to be distractions for everyone. The key is to filter out the noise and focus only on your story. Put yourself next to the characters, live their life with them, become the character even. Which is another thing I do. Because I'm a dominantly visual person, I picture the story panning out in my mind and then my fingers act as rapidly moving paint brushes that instead of transferring the image as paint, they transfer them as words. But words can act just like a paint brush, each forming a paragraph, a picture of a character, each connected to the last.

Other times my lack of creative spark will be due in part to a temporary departure from any kind of writing. But just like with my blog I am constantly haunted by the fact that a dozen or more stories are sitting in various stages of completion on my laptop, just waiting for my fingers to return, for that plug to be fit snugly in the outlet. Think of all of these stories I've started as a rural junk yard. There's cars stacked on top of one another like a rotten cheeseburger, there's some with trees and weeds sticking through the hood and windows, there's others with hollowed headlights and just a rusted shell to define itself as once being an automobile and there are those which just arrived, not yet inflicted with the dilapidation that others have suffered.

Now I'm not saying my stories are junk. Well, I suppose that conclusion would be up to you! But what I am saying is that the stories I have saved on my laptop are in various stages of completion. Which, come to think of it is the exact opposite of the junkyard metaphor I just gave but in my defense, that's the way my mind works. Sometimes ideas skip the processing room and go straight to the 'out box.' The problem I have is that while I'm working away on one story I'll think of another and then of course get excited about it and start working on that. Therefore I end up playing hopscotch between three or four stories. Most of them have the same plot line and location - characters living in the countryside in an old house, storms are involved one way or another - yet all of them are blatantly different.

Am I saying some are better than others? I am, yes. For instance, when I was cleaning out the baskets underneath my meager bookshelf - I say meager because it's not nearly big enough - when I stumbled across my first attempt at a horror-supernatural themed novella. It was interesting to read! I'll admit, I hate most of it but the general plot line and characters I love. It's like gutting a house and keeping the outer shell, then replacing everything within it to make it whole again. A few years later, inspired by my favorite television show and a certain Victorian cottage I took a stab at another supernatural-themed novella. This time around I'm more satisfied with this one, but I have yet to dive in completely. Perhaps I've gotten into too much of a rut with the country, small town life and storm chasers but...I believe we should write what we're passionate about, because our writing will be richer because of it, and therefore we'll be able to better connect with readers. The thing is, I am interested in the supernatural, but only from a literary viewpoint, mind you! I'll save the haunted house encounters for my characters.

All of this reminiscing of old stories has brought to mind the first ever novella I attempted to write. I believe I started it in sixth grade. It was entitled Eye Of The Storm. Which is no surprise right? Even way back in the beginning of middle school I was interested in writing about storms. Perhaps I shouldn't worry about writing myself into a rut after all! I still the notebooks in which I began diligently writing the story - by hand - and now get a good laugh out of it. Although it's needless to say, the story was horrible. I had intended it to be about two sisters and their father who live in rural Wyoming and endure a huge thunderstorm that devastates their family and town. Instead, I ended up writing about a million other things and never really got to the storm itself. Then early on in high school I attempted to pick up the story again, only this time I tweaked it a bit, but even then it flopped. I know I can't abandon the story - or characters completely. Hell, I still remember the house I had originally pictured the two sisters from Eye Of The Storm living in, even though I never drew it on paper! Which may say a lot about the visual side of me, or how invested I am in my stories and how real they are to me.

Speaking of visual, I just started working on yet another story today. Like many others, it started with a single image or scene I had in my mind. I call these "story thoughts" because although they're the beginning of a story, they are merely thoughts i am writing down just to give the story a concrete shape, to give my vague ideas something to cling to like a sweaty hand grasing a jutting rock on a slick rock face. This particular story thought that I started today is simply entitled The Bus Stop. Because the scene I had in mind was of a young mother and her five-year-old son waiting outside their - of course! - rural, Victorian farmhouse for the bus to come pick him up. Actually, I remember that I was in the midst of straightening my hair one morning when I thought of a background story for the mother and son. I ended up with six pages after two hours. Tomorrow I'll go back and reread it, then possibly continue on with the next chapter, or rethink some things I wrote.

Although it's not a good trait, I find it very hard to go back and edit my work. I'd rather just leave it the way it is. Which never works for any writer, and I'm trying to change that. I'm not even sure why I feel this way to begin with. I know it's not because my lazy, but perhaps it's because I'm so fiercely defensive of my work. Because each piece I put out there is an extension of myself. Whether I'm reflected in the characters or the plot it doesn't matter. I feel close to any character I create, which I'm sure you can all agree with me!

It's a mystery how a story comes to me. A couple blog posts back I talked about another novella I'd started a couple months ago that started from a mental picture I had of an outdated, 50's-era kitchen within an equally outdated but handsome, brick Bungalow. Now, if you've been reading my blog posts long enough you'll realize just how influential houses are in my writing. Literally everything I write relates to houses, or even if not directly than makes some subtle hint at them. So I guess this story's beginnings really isn't a mystery, seeing at how my second supernatural-themed story, Ties That Bind, was inspired by a beautiful, Victorian Second Empire cottage I only saw once. Yes, I can look at a house once and build a story around it. It happened while I was traveling the country route to the horse rescue farm I volunteer at in Reedsville. Of course I had a eye on the look-out for historic houses, which much to my delight I found plenty of! There was one house that stood out in particular, and even though the image of it is foggy around the edges like an aged pane of glass, I remember the basics of it and when I got home used it as the anchor in another story. All of these random story thoughts not having official titles is what is most vexing. Until I can anchor down a title I feel as if they are simply mighty ships tied loosely to the dock with fraying rope, rather than a sturdy, metal anchor. Of course, like my Creative Writing professor told us, don't under-estimate the power of a title. Sometimes they come at the beginning, sometimes at the end. Sometimes right in the middle! My problem has always been needing that title in the very beginning, needing that anchor to drop to the ground and feel it resting there, that solidity, that assurance that the story won't slip from my grasp, vague ideas fading away like cigarette smoke within a room.

Even with all of that, I have no doubts that my 'story thoughts' will come day become the true novellas they deserve to be. I would find a better way to tie off this rambling blog post but frankly, it's almost midnight and my laptop battery is low! So I'll leave you with this: I am always interested in your own writing habits or woes. Feel free to post a comment at any time. And remember, anything can be a story! If I can write a few chapters on a farmhouse I've only seen once in my life, who's to say you can't build a story out of something just as vague?

Lost For Ideas, So I'll Post A Poem!

This blog post, albeit three days late, is about exactly what the title implies. It's late on a Saturday night, I'm home alone listening to Pandora at full volume - which is what I always do when I'm home alone, and in all honesty I don't really feel like writing. So I'll post a poem I just completed a few hours ago. My mom has been after me to write a poem about my Great-Aunt Evelyn's farm in Dagget, Michigan so I finally sat down and wrote one. I surprised myself by writing four pages! It's amazing the difference between what you think will come out on paper and what does. Never underestimate yourself, that's for sure.

Anyway, just some quick background on my Great-Aunt's farm. It's one of my favorite places ever, and I don't get there often enough. She has an old house that used to be a log cabin when it was first built. Now it has clapboard siding outside and paneling inside. There used to be cows in the huge white barn but now there's just old farm equipment and art supplies that a guy uses to paint on pieces of wood. His work is absolutely beautiful. She lives in an area that has a lot of abandoned barns, farms and houses around. Of course, those of you who know me find it has no surprise that I would be strongly attracted to such things. Someday I dream of driving around and snapping a thousand pictures of each of these beautifully dilapidated structures. There's even a house that was struck by lightning at some point a while ago, but sadly it fell down sometime last year.

But, before I start writing a blog post instead of posting my poem...here it is! Enjoy. And to my readers, thank you for enduring the spaces between posts. :)

My Home of a Different Color (Tribute to Aunt Evelyn's Farm)

Fields bend inward, creating
hollows where farms are clustered.
Each outbuilding reflecting the land around it.
Barn stands proud, curved roof mimicking rise
of hill beyond, or ray of sun slanting down to arch
across whispering wheat fields. White paint flaking
upon graying wood like layers of aging hair slowly
thinning out. Hayloft soars above, remnants of hay
cows linger amidst web-adorned rafters, a simpler
time trapped within its walls, like a book from long ago
stored on a shelf, stories within yellowed pages forgotten.

House faces the barn, two old men rocking aimlessly on a porch,
nowhere to go, no one to meet, just a cud to chew.
Like an old afghan stuffed in an attic trunk, it has
taken on the smells of country life. Faded couch
before a window, chair beside a table stacked with
magazines new and old. Wooden door where
a skeleton key still turns its lock, faint click of
intricate parts beckoning of a vintage time.
A time this house still remembers from photographs
faded and darkened, from windows staring out at
fields still the same, yet forever changed.

Kitchen the place where all the veins unite,
a beating heart whose lifeblood is the amiable
burst of laughter, the clank of dishes
and forks, the open and shut of cabinets
as meals are served, more than hunger satisfied.
Narrow staircase leads to a labyrinth of rooms.
Floor sags, forcing the foot to acknowledge the
history that sleeps beyond the floorboards.

A lumpy mattress, springs poking like a
mocking finger from beneath fabric is still
somehow comfy. Is it this place that brings
such comfort, such peace? I know in my dreams
it is. Smaller room tucked beneath the angle
of the roof, a shadowbox of a life now passed,
memory imprinted within the space like so many
others before it. Another chapter written and
concluded, fresh pages fluttering in the wind,
awaiting time's pen, awaiting another century.

Creaks and groans follow as you walk the halls,
a mischievous floorboard? Or yet another stroke
on the violin of country life, that violin where the bow
is woven back and forth like the rustle of leaves
in a tree or a field of wheat shifting with the breeze?
Tiny feet scuttle across the ground, a shock of feathers
and comical explanations all you see and hear, A red house tucked
beneath a tree their home. Another type of feet does
roam, a quick eye scanning for a pink tail weaving
through long grass in a ditch. Fed on the porch,
sometimes stroked by a loving hand, always searching.

Succession of of pets and animals have come before them,
some remembered, others vague memories like an
ornament high on a tree, barely discernible.
Driveway bends with the grass, leading to a narrow
road. Hill obscures barn beyond, its broken spine
a silent reminder of the trials of country life. Do
other barns which stand empty look on in fear?

House stands in its dilapidated shadow, befalling
same fate. Families passed in and out its door,
never staying, a heart fighting to find a vein that
isn't dry. Down the road another farm, stripped of
paint, windows broken like a mirror no longer
wanting to reflect its eminent future. A miniature
ghost town, a blank gravestone marker, yet it
is intriguing nonetheless. this country life,

this home of old and new, is where I find
a part of myself instantly runs for those hills,
for that lumpy mattress, for that aging barn,
for that narrow staircase...when I find myself
in the city. I have known the whine, the twang,
the melodious tune of that country violin in
my stories and dreams since long ago. How I

reach for it amidst chapters and words, amidst
photographs an magazines, within my
imagination like watching a painting unfold
before you and knowing it was familiar, like
you would treasure it deeply before the first
stroke had been laid on the canvas.
Someday I will stop abandoning that part of
myself like so many homes left to decay
and be slowly robbed by nature, and embrace
it instead. That place where I write will be real,

that magical house full of drafty windows,
complaining floorboards, scarred woodwork
and cracked, plaster walls will be not the home
of a beloved character...by my own. Until then
there is a place where I can go, to satisfy the thirst
for that sparkling stream running thickly through
my veins. It is at the end of a gravel drive, where
a white house and barn stand as quiet and humbly
as the woman who owns them. A place where I
feel at home, the place where my imagination
and heart lie. A place that is both near and far.
A place I call my home of a different color.

Another Reason To Avoid Commericals

You know the feeling, you're watching your favorite show or television program and then...the commericals come on. Everyone gets up simultaneously and its time to get a refill, that crinkly chip bag that instantly earns you frowns and a finger over lips every time you open it or a trip to the ol' bathroom.

No one watches commerials, and if we do it's only for a handful of reasons. Either we're too lazy or comfy to get up, we have a blessed mute button or...we actually enjoy them! Like during the Super Bowl for instance. And the whole point of commerical is to get us to buy stuff. I can tell you right now, it rarely works on me. I'm more likely to buy something when an ad is in my email inbox, or in a magazine. It seems more personal that way, where commericals are just attempting to throw a broad net over the entire public watching television, and you just happened to be within the vicinity.

But, I didn't log into my account just to talk about commericals. Because truthfully, that would really boring. But what I am going to talk about is one commerical in particular. It was discussed fleetingly in my American Literature class what seems like ages ago, and also foreshadowed in the last post I wrote! In case you can't remember what I was referring to a week ago, here it is. Although I couldn't tell you how the topic came up, my fellow students and professor began talking about a certain Sears ad that portrays a completely clueless father staring slack-jawed at the fridge, unable to cook a meal for his children or even function in the slightest without his wife around. Then - presto! - she comes in and takes control of the situation. Dad switches back to functioning mode and all is well.

Now I obviously take a strong stance on that commerical, though I've never seen it. And honestly? The only place I can talk fully about it and truly show my opinion is in the written word. You won't see me arguing with my classmates or professor and defending my position. Why? Because it's not my personality. Usually with debates I'll just sit back in my chair and let my gaze travel to whoever is speaking, soaking it all in...or not. I have a habit of drawing abstract flowers on loose leaf paper when I'm bored. Though they say when you doodle, you actually listen better. So hey, maybe it's not so bad after all!

Okay, I can feel the wheels of my train of thought derailing just a bit here, so I'll leave the wandering tendencies of my mind for another day. Of course, it's not just in that sense that my mind wanders. Hell, this blog is proof of that! Every post is just a stream of conscious thing, where my fingers are doing the thinking and my mind is just sitting there, constantly feeding a strip of paper through. So in reality there are actually many ways in which my mind can wander, will I ever be able to tie that frayed rope to a dock? Or will the ship forever whip across the storm-tossed seas?

All right, I'm going back to the topic for real now. I don't know if anyone reading this particular blog post has ever seen that Sears commerci. I hadn't even known about it until it was discussed in my class. Of course, I remember something similar to it but can't be sure if it was the same one. But regardless of whether you've seen it or not, what I'm more interested in is your reaction. How many of you, after viewing the commerical or reading my description, had this look upon your face where confusion and incredulousnss pokes and rudely pushes your face at odd angles? I know I sure did. Since when were dad's viewed as the clueless one's in the family?

Now obviously they're the main caregivers in a family are meant to be the leaders, and although that's not the case with every family I understand, it's the basic outline that builds the house of what is considered the traditional family. But honestly, do mom's pull that much of the weight that father's are virtual strangers to - gasp! - the kitchen and preparing a meal for their children? If that's true that all guys when they bought their first apartment in college and before they were married, didn't know how to cook for themselves, couldn't clean up after themselves, always had dirty laundry everywhere and was never cleanshaven.

That's the typical stereotype of a young, unmarried guy isn't it? Why? Because he doesn't have a woman to pick up after and take care of him. It's the same scenario, only minus the children! What's to blame for such strong mental images and stereotypes? A finger could be pointed at the media, as with many things. There are plenty of movies out there where children and adults alike get huge kicks of out dad's portrayed as the clueless parent and then mom steps in complete with a glory-hallelujah chorus and everyone practically bowing at her feet and - viola! - she saves the day. Dinner's on the table, dad is saved from a panic attack, and the house is in order.

Unfortunately it's true for some guys that they literally couldn't function without a woman hovering over them, and I don't take pity on them. Because they're not helping these pre-determined judgements, and also its showing something deeper here. Whenever I think of commericals like the one Sears is apparently running or has run, I think of the dad as simply that part of the family that brings home the money, and that's as far as it goes. Like letting a wet dog as far in the house as the mud room, then closing the door. The father seems blatantly removed from the rest of the family, as if it's the mother's sole job to care for the kids and house. The dad is just the final puzzle piece to polish off the picture, so the frame will fit snugly around it. That may be a cynical way of looking at it, but to be honest, my cynical side comes out at times like this. Why can't the father be portrayed as coming home from work, loosening his tie, greeting his children and casually scanning the fridge, asking the kids what they want, then pre-heating the oven, popping something in and when the wife arrives offer her to finish it up?

I understand that most fathers get home later than the mother, and a lot of mothers are stay at home moms but that's no excuse for scenarios portrayed in media worldwide. I don't know much about the statistics but I believe the number of stay-at-home dad's has increased over the past few years. Whether it's due in part to the declining economy I can't be sure, but it's definitely an interesting shift in the supposed roles of fathers and mothers as put forth in the media. Now the mother is the one arriving home late, leaving the father to start dinner and take care of the children. Even with this reversal of roles I can assure you we the public won't be seeing a second Sears commercial whre the mother is the clueless one and dad comes in to rescue her from the horror of the fridge and freezer. It's just too bizarre to think of such a thing isn't it? We can't wrap our minds around something like that. And why is that? It all goes back to the media's viewpoint and that nifty way they have of plastering such viewpoints and stereotypes upon every moving screen and surface until we somehow accept that as truth and see nothing wrong with it.

Maybe guys brought it on partly themselves, I don't know. It may go back to the stereotype of the typical young, single college student living amidst the filth at the bottom of his grimy coffeepot where day-old burnt coffee hardens and crusts over like a knotted scab. Or take a fairly new country song entitled Beer On The Table by Josh Thompson. The chorus goes as so: "Gas in my truck, butter on my biscuit, couple bucks when I'm itchin' for scratch off ticket, that broker makes me broker every Saturday night (not sure of that line), but I still got running water and they cut off the lights, come Friday night my friend's and I start peeling off them labels, working hard all week, put some beer on the table."

I apologize for the length of that but, obviously Thompson wanted to put a spin on the whole idea of working all week to put some food on the table, versus beer. And this song goes back to the stereotypical college student, or not necessarily college student but just your typical young guy in general. Perhaps society carries these notions over into the male gender's adulthood and automatically assume that because they didn't deal with the particulars of life or any grooming habits or cleaning that they wouldn't worry themselves with where they're families were concerned. They'd leave the kids, the cleaning, the cooking, the general day-to-day nuisances to the wife, and just focus on their job and keeping the belt around the family's waist nice and snug. It may be true of some guys who work so hard at their jobs that they are virtual strangers to their families, but it wasn't intended to be that way was it? I believe that most fathers can handle the wife not being there just fine, whether it's for a few hours, a day, a week or hell, even a month!

Take this for example, although it could just contradict what I just said. Every year my church holds their annual woman's retreat, where all the woman of the church travel to a lodge of some sort for a few weeks in order to worship with one another and enjoy each other's company. My mom told me that some of the fathers, before their wife's departed, jokingly told others that they would have a hard time getting themselves out of bed, never mind get the kids ready, without their wives there. I mean, really? Are you that dependant on your wife that you can't get yourself and your children ready? Granted, it's never an easy job. Kids are notorious for clinging to their beds in the morning like a lead balloon to the ground but honestly, again I have no sympathy. If mothers can usher the children up and into the shower, who's to say the father can't?

Of course, people can argue that what I have to say isn't credible because I myself have yet to be in such a situation, and on some level your right. I'm only taking from my own opinion and gleenings, but I'm positive that many other people not only reading my blog but just viewing the commercial others like it will feel the same way I do. I didn't expect to write this much on this topic, seeing as how I have zero relation to it. Where my own father is concerned, he definitely does not fall into the category of the pathetic father Sears portrayed. He cooks very frequently and likes to experiment with different things, he has no trouble getting my brother up in the morning and in the shower (I get up on my own, I cannot stand people nagging me to wake up!) and he can most surely stand on his own two feet without my mom having to rush to his side complete with red and blue lights flashing.

I don't know if you know a father like the one portrayed in the Sears commercial if you do, he needs a serious wake-up call. In my belief, there is no excuse for fathers all around the world to be helpless without their wives. Sure, each are a vital part to the structure of any family, but the family as a whole is a house. If you take out a window, the house can still function, whereas if you take off the roof, then you've got a problem. A father being left alone with his children to prepare dinner is that one window being taken out, an easy fix. Anyone who view it as the roof being taken off...needs to take a look at their priorities and how they arrived at their clueless state to begin with.