I drive in my car nearly everyday, in my job as a real estate broker. I don't mind it. It gives me time to think, but more important it is a time when my mind pulls the trigger on mundane to crazy ideas, which I scribble down or record in my voice recorder. I never know, at the time, whether I will get a phrase, a paragraph or even a single word out of it. Often the scribblings, notes or recordings will be dormant for weeks or months, until I find a use. During a trip to West Virginia, I drove by an old barn and about a mile past I started having an idea. Corn was near harvest, the stalks high. It was WV, so moonshine came to mind. So, I turned around and drove back for some photos. Later that night, I came up with a few lines. I never know what will come out, humor, serious or a mixture. Mostly the pieces are not anything that will be accepted for publication, but it keeps my mind keen and alert.  Here is the pic and the scribbled words:

Through an elderberry thicket I watched several men carry load after load of corn and chopped wood into the old barn. I crept over a peeked between the slats; the inside was empty. A trap door flew open in the far corner and Calvin Birch crawled out with a small wooden crate.  He lugged it outside, set it near the path, then went back in and disappeared beneath the floor again. I hurried over and lifted the crate's lid, found 18 quarts of hooch and grabbed a couple for myself. This would create a headache for Calvin. There would be accusations, and maybe even violence against him. That was his problem.  I would have my own headache late Saturday morning when I woke up, taking on a bleaching by the sun, in the middle of Orry's corn field.

I have read several times now, at different sites or books, about the use of difficult words, particularly in poetry.  I don't know if someone had an original article and others have borrowed the idea, but all seemed pretty close in statement. The gist of it was that poets should not use words that are difficult or obscure, words that "would send the reader to google."  Say what!? Furthermore, the authors of the articles felt that there may need to be a footnote if the word, or place, or event, etc, may be something a reader is not familiar with. Personally, I think this is hogwash. I agree to a point. I don't want to read an entire poem filled with words I have never seen before. But a word here and there that challenges the reader is great. So what if someone has to do a little research? And who is to say how many readers do not have a vocabulary more sophisticated than the poet! I come across words all the time where I do not know the definition and, yes, I reach for the dictionary or keyboard. Two that come to mind are tessellated and xanthic. You can look them up, if you want.  I used both in poems, because they fit perfectly in a description. Both were published, so someone either looked the words up, or were smarter than me.

The same applies to places or events or anything else in this universe that has a name or word attached. If I read something that refers to some remote Temple in Asia that was built 1000 years ago, I will research it, if I am interested. I do not want a footnote explaining what, where, why, etc.

We read from necessity for joy, information, relaxation and numerous other reasons, and  it expands our knowledge.We need to have some mental challenges tucked away in the sentences and paragraphs. Next time you find a word you don't know, go to the dictionary. Be sure to read the word above, and the word below.

For those of you interested, here is the blog for my book, where I will be posting the poems. Get it free while you can!

http://throwingpercy.blogspot.com/

Here is a column about writing that I did for a small magazine in northwest Ohio, Boomer's Today.

“There were incidents and accidents.

There were hints and allegations.”

lyrics from You Can Call Me Al

by Paul Simon

We are becoming a nation of writers. It makes perfect sense, when you consider our aging population and the stories to be told. I don’t believe there will be another generation to see the scope of change witnessed by the grandparents of baby boomers. Boomer parents have done some head-shaking and gawking over the years. Even I am amazed at times and would defy any baby’s bottom to compare itself to the smoothness of my face, after I shave with the new six-bladed razor.

For many, there are questions about how to start the process and what to write about. People generally think of their lives as being ordinary and uninteresting. They feel they did nothing that anyone else didn’t do. This is where Paul Simon gives us some clues.

Before opening the vault to possible subjects I want to give you a few hints and tips about the process. Once you decide to begin your journey you will need a journal or notebook. You might consider a small spiral notepad that will fit into your pocket or purse. Ideas will assail you at the strangest times. Write them down when they come. I have found the perfect tool to be a digital voice recorder and never leave home without it. When I have a thought, they are often very elusive, I record it instantly. Sometimes it’s only a sentence or two, but that’s enough to trigger the original thought when I listen to the message later.

You need to set aside a time that is convenient, quiet and consistent, whether a few minutes or a couple hours, so you can work without interruption. It will quickly become a habit. My writing mood drops in between 1:00-3:00 am. I unwittingly did this to myself years ago by starting after midnight. Whatever I am doing at that time dissipates and the creative and recollection forces take over.

Prep yourself. Dig out old photos, letters, yearbooks, memorabilia and remember as much as you can about each item. Listen to old records. Smell is a powerful trigger. Sniffing a bar of Dial soap sends me into a writing frenzy!  Have a quiet talk, or raucous phone conversation, with someone. The best way to start is, “Do you remember the time…”  The other person will help fill in the gaps. There will be plenty of gaps and more than a couple senior moments.

Now for those incidents, accidents and allegations. I was in my forties when my stepfather, whose voice was deep enough to rattle the windows, kept me planted on the couch like a six year old as I  listened to his stories. He hid from Japanese soldiers in a South Pacific jungle for a week, crawling through the muck among the bugs and snakes. The rest of his life he freaked out whenever he encountered a big insect and once unloaded four bullets from his belt buckle derringer at a roach in his sock drawer. In the late 1950s he was a Hollywood studio pilot and Lucille Ball got him fired, because he refused to deviate from the flight plan and take her to Las Vegas.

My father-in-law has some wonderful accounts from growing up. His father raised pigeons to sell as squab to New York restaurants.  He remembered the weekly slaughter, where his father would squeeze a bird’s beak, to open its mouth, and shove a small knife blade up into the brain. The boys would pluck, clean and pack the bodies for shipment, by train, from Philadelphia to The Big Apple.

The point here is not to make anyone cringe or turn pale, but to illustrate how incidents in life are different and unique. Unfortunately, as you lose siblings, relatives and friends, the burden to share the gems of the past may be solely on you.

Maybe you will write about another person. My middle son, now 26, thinks he doesn’t have much to tell, so I will give him a nudge. He has a trifecta, an accident that resulted in an incident that resulted in accusations.

A day after an auto accident he thought he would use the elevator at school. A teacher asked why and he explained his sore back and legs. She informed him the elevator was for staff and handicapped only. As she was demanding that he get out of the elevator, a student in the hallway tossed a sucker. This is where the actions turn to slow motion, like in the movies. The sucker flew end over end, and before my son could yell out a languished L O O O O O O O O K   OOOOUUUUUUTTTTT and shove her to safety, the candy tinked her right on the forehead.

I am not a father who condones heinous misconduct, and certainly I would not trivialize it, but thank goodness the sucker was a small caliber Dum-Dum, the kind that comes in a 500 piece bag for Halloween. Had it been the larger, more deadly, Tootsie Roll Pop, with its heavy chocolate-substitute center, the incident may have been very grave.

By the end of third period the tale of the walk-by suckering had grown into a legend. There was talk of a new revolution to bring rights and freedom to students everywhere. It was the Sucker Chuck Heard Around The World. Students would stand up to tyranny!

He was called to the office, and rode the elevator back down, where he was accused of knowing the identity of the suckerer. After refusing to name names he was released back to student population and rode the elevator back up. 

By the end of the day the incident was largely forgotten, as students rushed to Starbucks before the lines grew too long.

There was also the uproar involving a nibble of carrot (the size of his fingertip) that he dropped out of a second floor window, during the third grade, and the recent visit he and his wife made to a local bar to get a glimpse of Lobster Boy and the Lobster Family. Turns out that Lobster Boy had passed away and most of the family was in prison, but that is a whole different article. 

You have plenty in your past, just write it, your readers are waiting.

I was never a fan of rhymed, metered poetry. It seems like during our young lives it is rained upon us, nursery rhymes, Dr. Seuss, the poets from long ago, Shakespeare, etc. So, by the time I was ready to embark on the writing journey, I puttered with that style a little, a very little, but found it held no grip on me. And, to be honest, they were bad:

Touches of Red

Most poets write of roses
and I guess so must I.
But I'll not compare my roses
to love, or the evening
color of the sky.
On my roses
I'll use hoes and hoses.
I'll hoe my rows
and hose my roses,
to make them pretty
for someone to buy.

My subject matter was mostly things of nature, the world around me and current events. But it was the outdoors, animals, plants, the wind, the water and such that kept my mind full. I chucked out the old rhyming thoughts and jotted down free verse, although at the time I did not know what it was called. Also, I was never into the teen angst thing. I did not have a great childhood, but it seemed better to forge ahead, rather than dwell. The first piece I ever had published was in the early 1970s in a small Kentucky literary journal, Wind.

I remember the ecstasy when I opened the letter from Quentin Howard, the editor.

Felix

The white cat runs down the mountain
to meet the bell at dinnertime.
I watch with eyes
from a darkened forest while
the cat drinks from a silver dish.
A reaching plant in a rusted pot
doesn't attract much attention,
but to the cat, a palm tree
in West Virginia isn't ordinary.

Anyway, not sure what it all meant. But it was published! I dug it out about a year ago and rewrote it. The rewrite was published in Quicksilver, a journal at the Univ. of Texas El Paso:


Beyond this Field

minnows shimmy in a quicksilver creek

and fossils sleep in layers of cracked shale.

mottled shards of sycamore bark

fall silent on magenta flowers.

a berry thicket hides the amber eyes

of a feral cat, a calico we named Pyewacket.

the focus is on a small potted palm

which will be ordinary once the frost comes.

My first serious efforts at writing came in high school. My cousin and I trapped during the winters and during our freshman year we co-authored an article for Fur, Fish and Game magazine. It was titled Cousin Trappers!  and had all the killing, blood and gore of a great war novel. We submitted a handwritten copy and about a month later received a letter saying the story had been accepted. Our excitement was not about the acceptance, but over the payment--2 years subscription to the magazine, the Bible of our winter activities. We penned no other stories, but did try to write a couple of songs. It was the tail end of the surfer band era and, being car crazy, our contribution was about our dream hot rod we called Rip Van Winkle.

Rip Van Winkle she's a real good deal
Rip Van Winkle she can really peel
Rip Van Winkle, Rip Van Winkle

Well, Rip Van Winkle she can really go
Rip Van Winkle she's the star of the show
Rip Van Winkle, Rip Van Winkle
 
We'll go to the drag and money we'll earn
other drivers will be breathing the rubber we burn
Rip Van Winkle, Rip Van Winkle

That's what I remember of it, and I don't think the addition of music would help. I think back often about my years up to and through high school, it is a limitless source of material. The good, the bad and ugly. As a writer, thoughts have to be sifted through and events selected. The difficult thing, for me, is to decide which way to spin the event. Do I take the serious and add humor, or vice versa. When any of us really analyze things that happened, there will almost always be several angles that are apparent. Do I leave the tone alone and decide the mixture of fact and fiction? For example, I mentioned above the trapping. We did good, we made some money. At the time that is what was important. However, looking back, it was senseless slaughter. This is one of the poems that came from the analysis of our trapping:


Blood Money

I did my share of killing.

Drowning,

shooting,

clubbing,

whichever method

produced a pelt,

at a time when anything I wanted,

or needed, was measured

in the grade, type and number of hides.

Ten medium muskrats,

two large coons

and a grey fox

bought four games of bowling, including shoes,

two rounds of pool, a pizza and a couple drinks.

A nice mink, skinned properly

with no cuts, meant I could wear new

jeans and shirt on the date.

It seemed a good way to make money,

until each time the carcasses

and guts had to be buried

on top of last year’s bones.

I have been in love with words, reading and writing, since my first day in school. I could not get enough of the Alice and Jerry stories in Mrs. Hamilton's first grade class at Carrie E. Gould Elementary in Savannah. I remember thinking about those simple adventures as I walked to and from school. Like many boys of the 1950s and '60s The Hardy Boys, The Black Stallion, How and Why science books all captured my imagination and sent me to countless hours of daydreaming. Frankly, even in high school and college, while others were finding shortcuts, I found textbooks, particularly those historical in nature, to be immensely interesting, whether art, music or just plain history.



The book that pushed me on the road to writing was Jesse Stuart's The Thread that Runs So True. Maybe because he was from Kentucky and I was a West Virginian there was something in his descriptions of the hills and people that hooked me. Maybe it was his language. Maybe the hard life while growing up. Maybe the dream and actions to be better, to go somewhere, while all the while remaining truly humble and loyal to where he came from. It was a little of all those things and more, but one thing is sure, I was reeled in.

So, I will try to post every few days a little about my past writing and work my way to current pieces. I will post some of the pieces, along with background. If you are a writer, it will give you a peek at how someone else does it. Right or wrong, strange or common, it will be worth following.