Busted Poetry Vending Machine: First Drop, No Refunds

Outdoor writing season has officially begun!
To celebrate, I wore a fun hat.
When did I stop wearing hats regularly? I don’t know—but I’m bringing them back with a vengeance.

I’m doing other things I’ve been meaning to do as well. Like write poetry. In fact, I’m finally starting an occasional series called Busted Poetry Vending Machine, right here, right now.

I’ve been both fascinated and terrified of poetry for a long time, and I’ve decided: why not? I’m always telling people that writing isn’t brain surgery, that no one gets hurt if it’s not perfect—so it’s time to take my own advice.

So there. 😛

Actually, that’s why I wore my hat today, too.

Down with others’ expectations.
Away with perfectionism and fear.

Consider this an invitation to join me in doing what scares you most—or maybe what scares you just a little. Or maybe something you’ve just been putting off.

Say the thing. Do the thing. Make the thing.
If not now, when?

Novel News

Novel number three is well under way. With three timelines and all the characters that come with them, you’d think it would get complicated—but not really.

Today, though, I spent a lot of time threading a character into a section backwards. See, I thought she wouldn’t be in what was kind of a prologue (but is now not, because—well—she’s in it).

She has been one of the more difficult characters to get inside of. Her name is Rebecca (which gives absolutely nothing away—I’m not ready for that yet), and though one of the things I do pretty strongly is give my female characters agency, I really wasn’t giving her that. I had her tamed, quieted—but today I gave her back her voice.

She thought she had to just “go along to get along.” Gross.

Today, I let her feel. I let her snark. I let her love. I let her discover.
She both protected and confronted.
She saw the greatness and the clay feet (is that a cliche?) of those around her—as well as her own.

She is now thoroughly human, at least in this chapter. I have some work ahead of me.

I’m not sure why I thought I had to smooth down her hair and soften her voice. Someone once told me she shouldn’t have ringlets because they made her seem too young. Go to hell—ringlets are fire.
(And I’m not just saying that because I have unruly, curly hair. And, occasionally, ringlets.)

It’s difficult not to villainize your characters, and yet it’s so important that you not. Our dear Rebecca was “done wrong” by another character in the novel, and yet I feel strongly that he must be a rounded character.

Was he a total douche canoe part of the time? Sure. But reasons.

Busted Poetry Vending Machine: First Sip

Dang it, I promised you a poem, and I only have a couple of lines prepared that came to me last night. Let me fiddle with them a bit before I set them down here.

Don’t judge. Judge me. Love it. Hate it.
What you think of my words isn’t any of my business.

My business is to pour you a sip of my soul and invite you to drink.
If it’s not for you, no hard feelings—go about your business.
If it is, let’s talk. I’m a pretty good listener, especially when it comes to soul music.

And your soul misses you.

Ok, here goes.

Some Said It Thundered

Some said it thundered
and I agree.
Isn’t that what happens after
the spark blows
blue
inside you
and you
wonder what happened?

1.21 gigawatts
reverberate for years,
maybe centuries.

Fictional units of power—
but tell me they don’t burn.