What Part of Thanksgiving Are You?

Thanksgiving is coming up, and many of us eat until our waists expand and our top button is freed. I figured this is the perfect time for me to ask, What Part of Thanksgiving Are You?

You Are The Cranberry Sauce

A little sweet, a little sour - you've got the flava!
Though, you do tend to squish in people's mouths...

Hmm… that last part doesn’t sound good.

What Dessert Are you Most Like?

You Are a Brownie

Decadent and intense, you aren't for the weak hearted.
Those who can deal with your strong flavor find out how sweet you really are.

WOW! That is so true. *winks*

Your turn!

From an Established Writer!

John Irving wrote one of my favorite books, “A Prayer for Owen Meany.” For some reason he reminds me of one of my favorite classic novelists, William Faulkner. I bought his new book, “Last Night in Twisted River,” which I haven’t read yet and came across this interview on Big Think. Below I picked out a few highlights from the interview.

An Interview with John Irving

Question: “How often do you rewrite your books?” Mr. Irving responded saying more of his years are spent rewriting then writing the first draft. *wipes brow* Now I don’t feel so bad about my revisions taking so long. What I find interesting, and what I did with my first novel, is he writes his first drafts in long hand because it helps him slow it down—keep the pace.

Question: “What your thoughts on the future of the book?” Mr. Irving responded with if he was young and trying to publish a book today he’d probably want to shoot himself. He feels it’s much harder today to start out as a writer then back when he published his first book in the late 60s. I’ve heard this from several published writers that publishing today isn’t what it used to be years ago. I think we can safely say nothing is anymore. John Irving also said he worries about what will happen with young, good writers, but the book will survive. Hmm… does this mean I’m safe because I’m older? *smiles*

Question: “As a writer, what is your relation to America?” He responded, I’m paraphrasing, “If he is going to pick on his country, he better be here first hand instead of as an ex-patriot.” He completely won me over with that comment, since I’ve pretty much had it with hearing from foreigners about the negatives of America. Yes, we do have our faults, I’m not going to deny it, but we’ve also done plenty of great things.

Question: “What keeps you up at night?” John Irving said being a young father, from 22 to 67 he has had one of his children living with him. His principle anxieties are parental. A natural worrier. I don’t have children, but I agree that my principle anxieties are loss of family. And Mr. Irving and I have something in common, because I’m a natural worrier too.

Thank you, Mr. Irving for your storytelling and your thoughts as a writer.

Our Veterans!

For my Uncle John, a Navy man, and to all those who are with us and who have passed on, I salute you. You’re my heroes.

Picture from Life - Time Inc

I saw you from a distance
Sitting there in your fatigues

Hands clamped to hold your chin up
Eyes closed to shut out all the rest

It was then I began to wonder
What it felt like to be a soldier?

Coming home after a long time passed
With only a duffel bag at your feet

Do you feel alone in this world
‘cuz chaos hasn’t left your sight?

Am I oblivious to what is out there
‘cuz you kept immediate danger away?

Finally you opened your eyes to us
And my questions were answered

Part of you sits waiting for your flight
while war imprisoned the rest

Not sure whether you surrendered it
Or it took without your consent

Back on Freedom soil to continue on
Part of you that still remains strong

My hand on your shoulder you look up
Have I said, “Thank you for your sacrifice”

Words seem hollow compared to your actions
All I can offer are these simple things

You look at me and smile with a nod
For starters, it is good to help with the mend

Walt Whitman

Recently I’ve come across a site called Poem Hunter where you can look up your favorite poet’s poems or read new poets’ works. I’m sure anyone interested in poetry has heard of this site already since I’m a little behind on internet time. While I was browsing the “classic poet” section, I came across a poet that always touched my heart from my school days—Walt Whitman (1819-1892). Even back in the days when poetry did not entice me for some reason Walt Whitman’s did. It’s like I felt every word he put down as oppose to other poets. I’m not saying that I don’t like other poets’ works, but it was Walt’s that always stayed with me.

His poetry still affects me, which is surprising since much of his poetry is free verse. This is the form of poetry I recognize in his writings, although I’m not an expert in poetry. Free verse isn’t my favorite style of poetry and I sometimes feel it’s too free allowing anyone to throw some words down and call it poetry. Or maybe it’s about me being old-fashion and wanting meter and rhyme, effort put into a style along with the result making the reader feel and think about what was said. But I must admit, I have written a few free style poems in an effort to fit in with the popular kids.

In reading about Walt Whitman, I found he was self-educated by reading the works of Homer, Dante and Shakespeare. Due to a large family, he left school early to help support the family. I also read that he used music in many of his poems using terms, instruments and composers. This is probably part of the reason that draws me to him. Music was a big part of my upbringing, and found an appreciation for all types of music.

Do you have a favorite poet? If so, what do you like about their poetry? Is it the rhythm, choice of words, the style, or their main themes?

To end this post, I’d like to post a Walt Whitman’s poem. This one really touched me and the end is like a punch in the stomach.

I Sit And Look Out

I SIT and look out upon all the sorrows of the world, and upon all

oppression and shame;
I hear secret convulsive sobs from young men, at anguish with
themselves, remorseful after deeds done;
I see, in low life, the mother misused by her children, dying,
neglected, gaunt, desperate;
I see the wife misused by her husband--I see the treacherous seducer
of young women;
I mark the ranklings of jealousy and unrequited love, attempted to be
hid--I see these sights on the earth;
I see the workings of battle, pestilence, tyranny--I see martyrs and
prisoners;
I observe a famine at sea--I observe the sailors casting lots who
shall be kill'd, to preserve the lives of the rest;
I observe the slights and degradations cast by arrogant persons upon
laborers, the poor, and upon negroes, and the like;
All these--All the meanness and agony without end, I sitting, look
out upon,
See, hear, and am silent.

Writer's Block

It would be nice to knock on the door of Writer’s Block, enter and party with the muse. For me, Writer’s Block not only locked me out but padlocked the door. Maybe a little coddling would have sufficed. There are a plethora of prompts and ideas on the internet and in life, yet something needs to press the trigger for me to even consider it. So far, nothings pressed my trigger… well, nothing writerly anyways. *winks*

The best prompts for me are one liners or phrases. Setting up a scene then asking me to finish it freezes my thought process. A recent example that let my muse get in touch with her emotions was a prompt from The Writer’s Block – Beating the Block section. One of the administrators posted a bunch of one liners and one turned into a poem, A Soldier’s Wish, which I submitted for possible publication.

I wish this blog post offered how to overcome Writer’s Block, or convince me I don’t have it. Instead, I posted about Writer’s Block to reach out to you for a plate of prompts. If you can’t come up with anything then leave a hello with a comment about who you’d like to see on the other side of this door. I'd like to see the Love of my Life behind this door.

Take care and have a safe and happy week.

A Childhood Ghost Story

The ghouls and goblins will be out today and tomorrow, so I thought I’d share a childhood ghost story with all of you. When I was real young, my cousin’s would turn off all the lights, light a few candles and we’d sit in a circle waiting to hear their story. *lowers voice* Now turn the lights out and listen to this story about Johnny, AND whatever you do, don’t turn around.

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On a cool fall day, Johnny’s mom asked him to go to the store to pick up some liver for dinner that night. He opened his hand and watched as she put dollars and coins in it then told him to put them in his pocket. Since he wasn’t responsible with money, Johnny’s mother worried whether or not he’d come home with what she asked, but he needed to learn. His eyes lit up like a Jack O’ Lanterns at night. Setting out towards town, Johnny thought about all the things he could buy with the money, candy, toys, ice cream, but knew he couldn’t.

When he came upon a candy store, he found Becky sitting outside staring into the store through the window licking her lips. Johnny had always been fond of Becky, so he took her hand and they entered the store. Without even thinking about it, he let Becky pick out anything she wanted, and so she did. Licorice. Chocolate. Butterfingers, and more. Johnny found a few things of his choosing and with that paid for his and Becky’s sweets then walked out to sit in front of the store. They devoured their candy while talking about school.

An hour passed, and Becky had to get home, so they said their good-byes and Johnny started towards the grocery store. He dug into his pocket to find it empty. All the money was gone. It paid for his and Becky’s delicious treats. He started to head home sweating with the knowledge he’ll be grounded for spending the money on sweets. As he was passing the cemetery, he noticed a grave was not filled in, so he entered the cemetery and approached the site. Down in the hole he saw a shiny casket. Johnny climbed down, opened it up and with his pocket knife, cut into the dead person to get the liver.

It was dark by the time Johnny made it home, but his mother was so happy he got the liver that she couldn’t be mad at him. The family enjoyed the dinner and soon after retired to bed.

At midnight, Johnny woke to a voice and opened his eyes to see if anyone was in his room. It was dark and empty, but again he heard a whisper, “Johnny.” He sat up pulling the covers up to his chest.

The whisper continued, Johnny, I want my liver back.

Tears began to slide down his face, and he found out soon enough that he had become mute.

Johnny, I want my liver back.

He shook his head hoping to release the voice in his head.

Johnny, I’m on the first step.

He found it hard to breathe. Was he imagining these voice?

Johnny, I’m on the second step.

He wet the bed.

Johnny, I’m on the third step.

Johnny covered his ears mouthing the words, “Go away.”

Johnny, I’m on the fourth step.

With ears still covered, mouthing “go away,” he shook his head and closed his eyes.

Johnny, I’m on the fifth step.

A whimper finally escaped his mouth.

Johnny, I’m in the hall.

He stared at is bedroom door while tears poured down his face.

Johnny, I’m by your door.

He threw the covers over his head hugging his body.

Johnny, I’m in your bedroom.

He grabbed the covers tight.

Johnny, I’m by your bed.

AND I GOTCHA!

Have a Safe and Happy Halloween!!!!

You have just crossed over into the Twilight Zone!

Twilight Zone

As a child I loved watching the Twilight Zone, which surprises me now as to why I don’t read or write sci-fi, fantasy, or horror. To me, the ideas and story lines were so brilliant and ahead of their time. Today I was talking to my friend about ghosts and ghost story, and this made me think back about my favorite Twilight Zone episodes.

One of the scariest for me was about a woman in a wheelchair. She kept receiving phone calls from a man asking if she was all right and taking care of herself. She’d respond but kept asking who it was, but they would never say only inquire about her well being. Then one day, her nurse brings her to the cemetery to visit her son’s grave and a telephone wire leads into his grave. *chills*

One I thought was scary sad was about a guy who loved to read. He worked at a bank (I think) and during his lunch hour went down into the vault to read. During that time there was a nuclear explosion and everything wiped out. He comes out and everyone is gone, but he wanders around and finds a library with books galore. The man is so excited to be able to read all he wants. Then he trips and falls, his glasses fly off and when he feels around for them he accidentally steps and breaks them. It ends with him crying on the library steps because he cannot see, therefore, read.

What are your favorite Twilight Zone episode(s)?