Squirrel Thoughts - 3 (and The Right to Write)

I've begun to work my way through The Right to Write by Julia Cameron. 

" . . . most of us try to write too carefully. We try to do it 'right.' We try to sound smart. We try, period. Writing goes much better when we don't work at it so much. When we give ourselves permission to just hang out on the page."

So I was sitting here, not working, not trying, just hanging out on the page, when Scruffy, who was curled up on the back of my chair, suddenly stiffened, and her pupils widened, and her tail twitched.

I looked out the window, and . . .  SQUIRREL!

I mean. . . TURKEY!

Sidetracked, but just minutes before she (he?) strolled down the center of the road. Just hanging out. Taking in the sights, the sounds, the smells.

Probably a turkey writer.

Heading toward "a wavery magical spot" shimmering ahead.

I wonder what kinds of words a turkey writer uses. What does a turkey call a human? How would a turkey describe me as he peers from behind that tree? What stories does he tell his turkey friends? Does he talk turkey, get serious, pull out the white board and try to solve the problem of humans in their habitat?

Or does he just go with the flow? Forget himself while his feathers quiver with the wonder of "rich treasures, beautiful souls, and interesting" humans. Does he just put his little claw in the dirt and write what he hears?

"We can either 'think a plot up' or we can 'jot a plot down.' We can either 'think of something to write about' or we can write about what we happen to be thinking about."

"How much control are we willing to surrender for the sake of allowing creativity to move through us rather than our trying to flog it forward for agendas of our own?"

"Most of us are really willing only to write well, and this is why the act of writing strains us. We are asking it to do two jobs at once: to communicate to people and to simultaneously impress them. Is it any wonder that our prose buckles under the strain of doing this double task?"

Wait.

I've forgotten I'm supposed to be disturbed today. Maybe I am since I'm writing like this about turkeys.

Which brings up the question.

Did you know that three consecutive strikes in bowling is called a "turkey?"

Nobody really knows the origin of that, but here's a possible answer.

"There used to be sweepstake tournaments during the holidays, Christmas and Thanksgiving. If a person bowled three strikes against the heavier pins (usually four pounds), the crowd would scream 'turkey," and the bowler would receive a live turkey for his or her performance." (from Life's Imponderables by David Feldman.)

And now you know.

So go write something.

Just

start where you are.

And be sure to check out all today's other pleasantly disturbed posts over at 

Duane Scott's Pleasantly Disturbed Blog Carnival.

What do you think of when you think of a turkey? 
What are you thinking of right now?

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Word Gardener

I tried to hand pull some weeds today. And then I hacked with the hoe. But it was so hot. And there were so many.

I couldn't find the mounds around which I had dutifully poked some cantaloupe seeds.

Back in the height of my May planting fever. 

I accidentally yanked out a sugar pea plant. I couldn't really afford to do that as it left a total of six plants, five of which are kissing each other, so I may have to separate them.

I thought beans were supposed to be easy to grow. I sowed a whole row. I have maybe three plants.

A cucumber tendril wrapped itself around a weed (or was it a bean--who knows for sure?) and would not let go. So I ripped it off in the uprooting.

The tomatoes thrive. So do the squash. And the peppers, though I thought I planted three plants instead of two. And I do have a whole row of nasturtiums. I suppose they'll flower sometime.

But everything drooped a little, and the ground was cracked. And so I watered the good plants and the bad plants alike. And I considered how we had delayed placing mulch (straw) and how I really need to layer it on now to simply cover up the mess.

So far I've found half a dozen zinnias in the space of where I scattered most of a box of seed.

Gracee and her little friend squashed some flowers with the hose.

So here's the truth.

I like the idea of a garden.

I love watching the flowers blossom and turn into baby fruit and then mature--turning from fruit to more fruit to much fruit.

I love sinking my teeth into a fresh warm tomato as the juice dribbles down my chin.

I love adding fresh basil to my spaghetti sauce and mint leaves to my iced tea.

I love the parade of colors and the fragrance of flowers.

I love to watch the butterflies and the hummingbirds.

I love everything about a garden.

Except creating it.

Except nurturing it.

Except worrying about it.

Except chasing kids and critters out of it.

It's not my passion.

Because I'm a word gardener.

I love to create new plots.

I loved to collect the seeds of stories.

I love to sift syllables and dig in paragraphs.

Prune. Weed. Uproot. Replant.

Before sunrise. In the heat of the day. After sunset. In the chill of the night.

In all seasons. In all weather.

That's my passion.

I'll probably plant another garden next year. If only to have something to write about.

But I'll probably be found inside with my computer. Or under a tree with paper and pen.

While the garden languishes.

Again.


Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Playing With Poetry

I've been playing with poetry and have dared to post some poems over on my other blog. I think it's helping me to be more creative in fewer words.

Here are a couple of my recent attempts.

Friday Night Baseball

Another Friday night wrapped
in soft cool leather arms
that hold me as I scream
at a box safe and secure
with New York Life
get a life
and the moon peeks
through the branches
as fingers of a soft breeze
reach through the screen
to tousle my hair
while the fireflies applaud
another hit, another run
and the Tigers win
seven to one.

Note: The above poem is in response to a Random Acts of Poetry prompt, A Tablespoon of Summer, by L.L. Barkat at High Calling Blogs.

Decluttering

Clutter berry days
suck sweet juices from my spirit
leave me dry and fruitless
steal my soul blood
and I am not any more
the kind of woman
who will sit back and take it.
I grab a garbage bag.

Note: This poem was inspired by L.L. Barkat's post, Julia Found Words for Me, and challenge to find words "around every corner, inside every ice cream cone." I "stole" some lines from LL.

How about you? 
Can you find words in the everyday mundane? 
Pen a poem about a simple object nearby? 
Something about the photo above? 
Incorporate one of my lines? 
Try it and post it in the comments. 
I dare you.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Squirrel Thoughts - 2

It's Thursday again. Time for Duane Scott's Pleasantly Disturbed Blog Carnival. He says it's a regular feature until October 23, 2013. I don't know how he chose that date, but . . . SQUIRREL!

"I am a bad wife. I handed my husband a stack of TV dinners and said, "Choose one." That's what I posted on Facebook and Twitter pages yesterday. I love some of the responses.

Jody: Hey! I like the TV dinner idea! You were very thoughtful to provide . . . well, something!
Susan: At least you didn't hand him a bunch of women and say, "Choose one."
Duane: That's so wrong. I have only eaten one TV dinner in my life.
Stephanie: Hey, if you're the one who put it in the microwave, it counts as cooking.
Amy: You're my hero!
Keiki: No worse than the rest of us, my friend.
Chad: The fact that you did not throw them at his head makes you at least a semi-decent wife.

For the record, he choose a Lean Cuisine of "wild salmon, whole wheat orzo pasta, spinach &carrots in a basil sauce." And I did throw a bowl of raspberries, blackberries, and blueberries at him. Can you picture that?

I had butternut squash ravioli. One of my favorites.




Then he (DH--Lainie, is DH okay?) went out and got me some DQ. He loves me.

How is it possible that Duane in all his almost 21 years has only eaten ONE TV dinner?

Speaking of Duane, I'm reminded of his beloved dog, Pokito, who has his own Facebook fan page but hasn't posted since the end of April when he tried to eat the gerbil. Or did the gerbil eat him?

And that makes me wonder how many robbers carry Bark Off?

I love birch trees. I remember how we used to peel the bark off to fashion and sew little canoes.

I love canoeing. I went white water rafting once down the Chattooga River, section 3 and part of section 4, with Wildwater Ltd in North Carolina. But that was in a raft, not a canoe. And I lived to tell about it. Barely.

We never owned a gerbil. But we had rabbits. Lots of rabbits. On purpose. Show rabbits. Pets. 4H.

Speaking of rabbits, here's a brave one.



Oh for that kind of courage! To tackle a writing project. To tackle life.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Lessons from Basketball Camp

Gracee's kind of a wimp.

Well, she used to be anyway. The littlest scratch required a magnifying glass and a box of tissues to absorb all the tears.

Drama queen.

So we were all thrilled, as well as more than a little apprehensive, when she agreed to play soccer last fall. And then she actually asked to go to basketball camp last week.

Run over to katdish.net to hear the story. 

When you're done reading, take a look around the site. And take your tissues because you'll find posts that will make you cry and make you laugh until you cry. Kathy Richards, who writes some pretty good stuff herself, is the writer's encouragement queen. I've started to call her "barnkat," in honor of the biblical Barnabas, "the son of encouragment."

I'm excited to be able to guest post for her.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

Book Review--Chronological Guide to the Bible

The Chronological Guide to the Bible is a handy little reference tool that attempts to provide an historical arrangement to the Biblical text. It's designed to help one "follow the flow of events in the Scriptures and see where sacred history and secular history converge into one story of salvation." To do that, the authors have simply rearranged the canonical order "according to nine epochs of time and providing a chronological Bible reading list within each of those epochs."

One does not need a chronological Bible to find this book useful. It's filled with colorful maps and timelines and reading guides and boxes that provide clarification on historical culture and customs no matter what version you use.

For instance, have you ever wondered how tall Goliath really was? Or what the deal was with concubines? Or how the prophets overlapped each other? Or who was in power where and when? Or why the Ephesians were especially upset with Paul for preaching against the goddess Artemis (Diana)?

I was reminded that clothing was handmade, and so tearing it as an expression of grief reinforced a depth of sorrow, especially if the item was a special possession, a robe of many colors. I also appreciated references to how clothing was symbolic of one's inner being and the symbolism of Jonathan's transfer of his robe to David.

The authors note that they tried to present a balanced view of debatable issues. I can't say I agree with everything, but I do find this book helpful as I explore the Bible in context.

This book can help provide some answers and give some food for thought. It's a bit pricey at a suggested price of $24.99 for 217 pages, but I do expect to turn to it again and again, and if I not received it to review, I would definitely have considered adding it to my reference shelf.

Copyright © 2010 by Sandra Heska King

NOTE: Disclosure of Material Connection: I received this book free from Thomas Nelson Publishers as part of their BookSneeze.com  book review bloggers program. I was not required to write a positive review. The opinions I have expressed are my own. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255 <http://www.access.gpo.gov/nara/cfr/waisidx_03/16cfr255_03.html> : “Guides Concerning the Use of Endorsements and Testimonials in Advertising.”

Write Honestly

Pull the curtain back

Reveal the real

Release the light

From soul holes

Where grace flows

From wounded places.

Honestly.

(Paraphrased from Honestly by VOTA)