My mother is a brilliant woman.

She's brilliant in many, many ways (her spiritual walk and her cooking both spring immediately to mind), but what I'm thinking of today is her clever take on literary education.

Step one: she got her children addicted to reading. By addicted, I mean we are those curious, anti-social creatures that read at all meals (except mandatory family meals), read at the beach, the putt-putt golf course (actually not recommended if you want to be somewhere above last), and, on house-cleaning days, read in the bathroom.

Step two: she removed all books that were not classic literature. (Should've put this sooner: warning, this post may contain exaggerations.) This forced us to rely on books such as The Chronicles of Narnia, the Lord of the Rings, The Scarlet Pimpernel, and history books for entertainment.

Step three: she turned us loose at the library. Having had our reading tastes shaped by her clever ways, we immediately headed for the classics. Some of us discovered classics like Shakespeare.

The end result of our literary education is that not all of us know how to connect to our peers.

Me: Hi! Read any good books lately?

Other Teen: Yeah, I just discovered the Twilight series. Ever read those?

Me: No...

Other Teen: Well, what do you like to read?

Me: Ooh, I just read a great Shakespeare play! Ever read Julius Caesar?

Ah well, at least I can quote the Bard with reasonable accuracy.

Ever reread something you wrote and wonder

what on the green earth you were thinking? Yeah. I actually deleted a poem last night, something I pretty much swore I'd never do. But it was that bad. I'm also thinking of my "void" tic that I tried out at the start of the blog. Cutesy is not my style. The world will be glad to know that I do not intend to do that again.

And then there are the things you write that aren't necessarily poorly written...but you kind of wonder how on earth you wound up going there. How did my comic caper novel wind up veering into a drama? Wait, my princess story has dwarves now? (That actually worked really, really well. Dwarf as a dentist? Don't think it's been done!) That scene with the guy talking to the girl that somehow became incredibly awkward? Yeah. Some days, the story just waltzes away from you.

And some day, the story doesn't waltz, it stomps away and sulks in the corner. That's where I am right now. I've been struggling to get more than three words written on this story. Per day. Possibly per week. And the really sad thing is that the kids I teach in my Sunday school are adorably faithful about asking me, "What comes next? Have you written any more?" They get disjointed synopses. They get bare snippets. And they keep asking for more. I think it's partly because I have promised, on my word as a Sunday school teacher, that I will let them read it. If it's ever finished.

I really like this story. I'm working on my second draft, seeking to expand, to better characterize, to remove plot holes. I have the plot worked out; I have the filling material for the holes on my mental shelf; I have a more-or-less idea of how characterization will improve. (Yeah, it's a little more hit and miss...) And somehow, I get far more stuck on this draft than I did on the first! Right now, I am trying to write a ballad for the Bard to recite. I have a verse and a half. I need at least three. And it doesn't help that I gave myself a kooky rhyming meter to work within. It's got to tell a story, and it's got to be a halfway decent poem, and it's got to fit the Bard's personality.

I must be out of my mind.

I am determined

to write more. And if my stories are going nowhere--which, to a page, they are--I shall write on my blog! This, at least, requires little coherence.

I like my stories. I really, really do. I like spinning them. I like inventing characters for them. I like trying to challenge myself to write different characters. There's one, who is mostly just chilling in my mind, but spilling over a little bit to my computer, who is as nearly silent as I can possibly make him. First time I've ever deliberately made a character who did not talk his head off. Usually, I have a fair idea of where a story starts, what'll happen in the middle (a vaguer idea there, admittedly) and every once in a while, a good idea of how it will end. The people are easy. The story line isn't too difficult. It's the individual scenes that have me wandering in circles, muttering "And then she says...what? He says, 'oh yeah?' and then she says....what?" (Yes, that is how the creative process goes. In circles, muttering. Yes, it resembles insanity. No, they're not always the same thing.)

I find my favorite story ideas are the ones that stick with me, long after I've abandoned the original writing project, long after I've told myself there's no story there. The characters stay, for years and years, changing, growing, meeting new people, rewriting endings, discarding and acquiring characteristics. All in my head. Sometimes this leads to staring vacantly into the distance, but not always.

I have many favorites. One of my old favorites is the cop story I've had bouncing around for....two years? Three? I'm bad with dates. Another is the war story that is definitely shelved, but has remained comfortably on a mental shelf for four years. And once in a while, I dredge up the truly ancient stories, the ones from six and seven years ago, the ones that, were they to take human form, would be doddering simpletons. But they had some nice things. Like names. I tend to be consistent about the names I like.

Archie Devereaux is a name I used quite a while ago. That one needs to make a reappearance. And though it is imbued, for me, with the character of its original owner (with the character of its character), Michael Holbeton. I still like that one.

I have written.

Saturdays in Rhode Island

I’d get up
between 6 and 7:30--
early enough to hear
the echoes of the crack of dawn--
bolt downstairs in my
green sweatpants that were
what all true adventurers wore that year,
and devour my breakfast of champions:
milk and sugary cereal, guaranteed
to fuel my deeds for the day.
And then I’d beg,
“May I go ride my bike now?”
The other kids would be out,
dashing up and down the streets in friendly packs.
And my parents would ask that question,
“How’s your room look?”
And that question usually sent me
back up the stairs, a little sheepish.
And then I’d rush back down,
“Now may I go ride my bike?”
“The dishwasher,”
they’d say,
“you still have to finish your chores.”
Amazing, how quickly I could work
when I ached to be outside.
And then they’d let me go,
with smiles on their faces,
watch me fly to my bike and join the crowd.
We would go all over the neighborhood:
play cops-and-robbers,
go to the local playground
race each other up and down the streets.
One family had
an enormous oak tree that
spread hugely across their yard.
And if you knew where to step,
where to put hands and feet,
you could
climb up into it,
and sit where two gigantic branches spread
away from the trunk,
or climb into the branches to
make room for others.
There was a man who had a dog,
a Golden Retriever named Ranger.
That dog was my hero, for,
at a word from his master,
he would leap up the oak tree, jump
through the cleft at the trunk where the
branches spread,
and jump down on the other side.
It always took me a minute to climb up,
but Ranger leaped like a squirrel.
And finally, we would go home,
when the world got dusky
and the street lights
were coming on,
calling our goodbyes,
challenging each other to
another game of cops-and-robbers,
and I had decided I’d be a cop next time,
because the robbers
always got caught.
And we’d head in to our dinners,
and say hi to our parents, who must
have noticed that we smelled like dogs
because we’d been playing so hard.
but they never really mentioned it. It
was just part of Saturdays.