I’ve been meaning to write more travel poetry, considering
how many places I’ve seen, so this month’s poem focuses on cathedrals, but it
also concerns death and writers. This summer, I had the privilege of going back
to London, this time with one of my best friends and fellow writers, Faith
Boggus. On this particular trip, we saw many places I hadn’t been to before,
including Westminster Abbey.
Not only is it the famous designated cathedral for crowning
monarchs, but it’s also the resting place of over two-thousand famous persons
from kings and queens to scientists and people whose stones have been tread on
so much nobody can decipher the names anymore. Perhaps the section that stands
out most in my mind is Poets’ Corner, the section where many famous writers
have been buried who were influential throughout English Literature.
As I’ve traveled throughout Europe, I’ve found that no two
churches are the same, no matter what anybody else says. Even buildings
similar in architecture cannot have the same frescos or people
buried in the floor. Yes, they have buried people in the floor. And if you
think that’s more disturbing than a cemetery, the Sedlec Ossuary (Prague, Czech
Republic) has decorations made of hundreds of human bones. It’s definitely
something I will never forget.
Bury Me
I’m surrounded by a forest of words,
these weathered leaves and bleeding
ink sticky as pine sap, with branches
from Geoffrey Chaucer to Arthur Conan Doyle stretching to
the sky.
Don’t ask me why I find comfort
among the dead words, written on
forest green and jet-black spines, the tombstones of authors lined up
on a shelf. Their eulogies are in their lasting
words, coming to life and dancing across
the attic of my mind, sweeping away cobwebs of boredom and
dust from life’s stress, unpacking emotions, thoughts, and
dreams I never knew I had. Read me a story, mommy. That child
buries her nose in a book when she should be making friends.
If worms eat up the decay of earth, what are full-grown bookworms,
devouring leaf after leaf?
I set foot in a gray abbey, each
step echoing across the halls of time. Nobody told me the place
was a tomb. The hall of kings and queens,
ancestors and forgotten names— their tombstones worn on the floor
from countless feet— poets survived by words. I’ve gasped
at rows of books, but never before have I been
surrounded by rows of dead authors.
My search for Lewis’ plaque
discovered Chaucer,
Eliot, Dryden. I stopped before
Spenser and Milton, marveling how life is oft’ separated
by generations, but in death two poets are separated
by stone a book’s width. Poor Dickens denied his last
request; my friend was standing on his grave. I passed over countless corpses
under the floor— would that I could recall their
names, but I’m awful with remembering the
names of the living.
Weeks ago, I jokingly told my mother
that should I die before I turn
twenty-five burn me like the Vikings of old. Forget a sorry cremation when I’m
ground to dust, but give me a pyre fit for a book
burning. But in all seriousness, I’d rather
rest under the green leaves of a willow. Let the trees weep and do not cry— I’ll let my tombstone etch a weathered
lullaby, drowned in rain and washed away— Do not cry. We all must die.
***
Let’s chat. What’s the most sobering
place you’ve ever visited? Which author(s), living or dead would you like to
meet/have met?
It was another sunny morning in Italy. The sky was blue, and
the day was full of potential. Or rather really annoying questions from people
attempting small talk. Here is a legitimate conversation I had right after
church:
“So, how’s the dissertation going?”
I looked the guy dead in the eyes. “I want to set it on
fire.”
“So, it’s going well.”
Try small talk, and I’ll give crazy answers like this. I’ve
even come up with sassy answers to what I plan on doing after graduation: join
the circus as a unicyclist/trapeze artist, get married on the moon, and conquer
the world. On second thought, I may just throw my graduation cap instead. (Do
graduate students get the same caps?)
Last September, my dad and I loaded up his car with my stuff
and drove all the way from Italy to England. Yes, that’s right. My life is
pretty crazy. Last March I got accepted to the University of Nottingham to
study for an MA in English Literature. I like books so much, I decided to go
beyond the four-year degree and tackle an accelerated one-year program in a
foreign country.
After all the stress of filling out all the paperwork to get
my visa (which every international student hates, by the way), my dad helped me
move into my flat in England. My room was perfectly located right across the
street from Lidl and not even a block from Jubilee Campus where I’d go for
plenty of walks. I lived all the way on the top floor (yay, exercise!) with a
great view of the street where I could people and bird watch.
Wearing my borrowed fencing kit.
The pen may be mightier than the
sword, but beware the sword!
I bought a bike, which I used to go to classes (usually
beating the campus bus by five minutes) and explore the city and the parks. I
especially enjoyed going for walks along the lakes and bike rides along the
canal and the River Trent. I even joined the fencing society at school because
I always wanted to learn how to sword fight.
I was super excited to attend a university in England, even
though I knew it would be difficult. But I was also scared. I had so many
questions. What would the classes be like? How hard is the grading system? What
if I failed?
In all, the classes weren’t that different from my
undergraduate back in the States, except they were two hours long and only once
a week. In the end, my schedule was pretty empty. I spent most of my time cramming
in as much reading as I could, planning my reading schedule, and panicking
because I thought I wasn’t reading enough. It took me a while to realize that
all the external reading not assigned every week was recommended not required,
but I still tried to read as much as possible.
So far, I haven’t failed. I haven’t gotten spectacular
grades, but English professors grade a LOT harder than the Americans. They
still use a one-hundred-point system, but a 50 is a pass, 60 a merit, and 70 a
distinction. Woah, what? So far, I’ve done alright. I’m still waiting on
results for my dissertation, my final project which is the equivalent of a
master’s thesis in the States.
I also attended a Vineyard church where I joined a small
group. Aside from my classes where I spoke to practically nobody, I saw people twice a week: once at church on Sundays and once
during small group on Thursdays. Even for an introvert, it was rough not
talking to people on a daily basis. I was lonely, and I missed the community I
had back at Evangel University where I could just wander down the hall and chat
with the girls on my floor.
I didn’t know any of my classmates. How do you start a
conversation with somebody during class? After class? Before? And what on earth
do you talk about?
I had a couple of friends in my small group, but most of
them were busy with their own schedules—work and school and such. I felt like I
could be myself around them, but I didn’t get to know anybody very well.
In England, I felt like I had nobody.
And it wasn’t all from a complete lack of trying. It may
have been cultural. It may have been that particular year in my life because I
was so focused on coursework. It may have been any number of things.
Halfway through my second semester, I overstrained my Achilles
tendon while fencing, and suddenly found I couldn’t walk without pain.
Thankfully, I could still bike, but I stopped taking walks, which I did for
study breaks. Instead I spent most of my time in my room reading. And reading.
And reading. Around the same, a couple of my friends stopped coming to small
group.
I never felt so alone.
On a weekly basis, I broke down in my room crying. The
smallest things would set me off—a conversation with a professor, crossing the
street at the wrong time, a small, insignificant thought, a books I read. I
started calling my parents nearly on a daily basis, feeling broken. Weak.
I hated myself for it.
I prayed a lot, but I didn’t feel like God was speaking to
me. Last year, he told me I’d go to grad school, and I did. This year, I had no
work. No direction. People kept asking me what I planned to do after graduation
when I didn’t know.
The only passage of Scripture that really spoke to me was II
Corinthians 8-12, “Three times I [Paul] pleaded with the Lord
to take it away from me. But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in
weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly
about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ’s sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults,
in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am
strong.”
Like Paul, I was weak, am still weak. I begged God to take
away the pain, the loneliness, the insecurity. He gave me this verse instead.
I’m still learning its implications.
After my ankle healed and I came home for Easter Break, I
was finally able to relax around my family a bit. I also had my first
appointment with a psychologist, where we talked about my struggles, anxiety
and depression. I wanted to do everything and nothing for fear that it would
all go wrong. What a combination.
After speaking with a psychologist and my family, I went
back to England to finish up my essays and start my dissertation. Gradually, my
mood began to improve. I cried less. I started singing in my flat again,
probably driving my flat mates crazy. I found listening to K-Love helpful,
particularly Matthew West’s “Grace Wins”:
I wanted to travel places and do things with my life. I even
got to hang out with some of my friends from small group more often, which only
made it harder to say goodbye when I came home for the summer.
Now that I’ve turned in my dissertation (no, I didn’t
actually set it on fire), I still don’t have much direction in my life. In
July, my friend Faith visited for a month, but now that she’s gone, I’m lonely
once again. But at least I have my family.
I’m not the same person who went to Nottingham a year ago.
I’m a little older, a little more experienced, a little more broken. But that’s
okay.
When I say I just want to be normal, I don’t mean I want to
be like everybody else. I just want to be myself. Whoever that is now, I’m not
sure. But I’m still finding out.
Life is a discovery process.
One of the many view of the weather from my flat,
featuring one of the local crows, who I named Fidget and Speck.
I could have had it worse, and I still have bad days when I
just lay on the floor and stare at the ceiling wanting to do nothing. But those
days are few and far between. Every day, I’m discovering how to appreciate the
sunshine and the rain, the melancholy songs and the joyful ones, the tragic
stories and the happy endings, the good days and the bad days.
Welcome back to my five-part series, Controversy in Fiction.
Today, I’ll be writing on a similar issue to last week’s post: Censorship.
Unlike Banned Books, however, Censorship allows for certain books but
contains many restrictions all the same.
Disclaimer: This post may contain controversial
opinions that are not necessarily the same as those of readers. However,
despite the subject of this post, it contains no profanity. I like to keep my
posts appropriate for any age audience.
If you haven’t gathered already, I was raised in a
conservative, Christian family. So swear words simply weren’t allowed in our
house. To this day, my exclamations consist of mild words from drat to goodness and insults from knucklehead
to idiot. But that doesn’t mean I
didn’t come across profanity in other ways, especially in movies.
My first shocking encounter with a book peppered with swear
words was Eleanor and Park. I was so
taken aback by the amount of cussing within the first five pages that I had a
difficult time enjoying the rest of the book. Paper Towns had a similar feel with its amount of profanity, but
was less startling by that point.
But young adult books, like the ones mentioned above, are not
the only books to contain profanity. I don’t read too many adult books, my
preferred genres ranging from YA to children’s books. But every now and then,
I’ll pick one up, or I’ll decide on a classic. And I’ve found that fiction
within the last one-hundred years includes more and more profanity. It’s not
just in some classics or popular books, either. Even some Christian fiction
I’ve read contains the occasional swear word.
So, what’s the big deal? And how much swearing is too much?
Should it be allowed at all in fiction?
Censorship is often a means of controlling language for an
audience. Like book banning, it may have good intentions, but other times, it
could harm fiction. For instance, if somebody were to take out every offensive
word in Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn, it might just be
easier to ban the book. It might be easier to remove the word “the” from the
dictionary than to childproof some books.
Don’t get me wrong, I don’t like profanity. I won’t even use
it. But I’m not entirely for censorship either. Instead of crossing out major
sections of books or limiting accessibility to certain books, discretion should
be used when selecting them. Here are just a few of my basic principles for
both readers choosing a book and writers writing a book.
Know Your Audience
Just like ratings on movies, such as PG-13, if you’re in the
kid’s section of the library, you probably won’t find any swear words. Most
parents would frown upon hearing such language coming out of their child’s
mouth. (Anything resembling a swear word meant I had to have my mouth washed
out with soap as a kid.)
As a rule for my own writing, I don’t write anything I don’t
want my little sister reading. Or if I’m going to read a piece aloud in front
of an audience of one or twelve, there will be no profanity.
That’s not to say that all new adult or adult books should
contain profanity. Goodness, no! But adults typically have more maturity and
understand the weight, meaning, and power of words. Maturity I write as I sit at my desk that is guarded by a plush
green dragon.
Know Your Characters
Every character is different, and some tend to be more
dramatic than others. Some might even be verbally explicit. Often times, a
character’s personality is reflected in the way he or she speaks, and the way
people speak isn’t always nice.
In my novel Breaking a Thief, my protagonist Lorne was raised as a thief, so picking up swear
words was natural for her. But because the story was a young adult novel, I
substituted actual profanity for mentions of its use. It’s probably the only
instance where I strove to tell, not show. In fact, when I sent the novel off
to my editor, she suggested that I cut back on some of present mentions of
cursing in consideration of my audience.
Another character to consider is the narrator. In my latest
short story series, I have two narrators with different storytelling
styles. Rhona speaks in a sophisticated manner, so whenever other characters
swear, she just mentions a curse. Ellard, on the other hand, comes from a more
rural background and tends to explain things exactly as he hears and sees them.
When reading about characters, it’s often important to
consider their background before criticizing their personalities or speech.
Know Your Story
A light-hearted book about baking or romance will not
necessarily contain instances of profanity, but a book about the struggles of
cancer or war might.
Sometimes darker stories call for darker themes and darker
language. That isn’t necessarily to say that we have to like all of the
language or the scenes, but such things often reflect the depravity of our
cruel, real world. Words aren’t always meant to be liked, but they are meant to
tell stories and truths.
***
Literary References: Rainbow Rowell’s Eleanor and Park, John Green’s Paper Towns, and Mark Twain’s The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn.
Let’s chat. What’s your stance on book censorship? Is there
a limit to how much profanity you will tolerate in a book?
One-word description: Shiny
(Bullets, sand, glints off metal, the desert sun, the book cover. I know, I
know, that’s more than one word…)
I actually anticipated the
publication of Rebel of the Sands,
which is something I don’t usually do with books unless they’re in a series,
but I read about it on a book blog and thought I’d give it a chance. After it
came out, I was too broke to buy it. Then I moved to Italy where I can hardly
find any English books. But I finally got my hands on a copy when I visited
London with a friend and spent my souvenir money on it. Who needs touristy
souvenirs when you can buy books?
I knew I had to own this book
because the cover was so pretty. Okay, I know that’s a little vain and I’ve
written a post on not judging a book by its cover, but come on. This cover is a
work of art! I was hoping the book was just as wonderful, and it was. The writing
style wasn’t quite what I expected, but I thoroughly enjoyed it.
Most of the unexpected style came
with responses after dialogue that had a colloquial feel to it, but others came
during the descriptions of places and creatures, which were great overall. Here’s
just one description:
“The furthest away I could ever get
was when my mother used to tell me bedtime stories of Izman. Only when my
father couldn’t hear. The city of a thousand golden domes, with towers that’d
scratch the blue off the sky, and as many stories as there were people. Where a
girl could belong to herself and the whole city was so rich with possibilities
that you almost tripped over adventures in the street.”
Hamilton is a master of
show-don’t-tell and character development. I loved the character development in
this book. The villains are human, and the heroes are flawed. Amani is a
dynamic character with dreams, a smart mouth, and a bit of an identity crisis.
Can we say relatable? Then there was Jin, who’s travelled about as much as I
have, and while I may not relate with him nearly as much, his world view has
caused me to think about my own.
I also really enjoyed the fantastical
elements of the story from the Buraqui (SAND HORSES!) to the Skinwalkers to the
Demdji. I’m a sucker for fantasy and fantastical horses and magic. Did I
mention magical horses? Okay, so the plot doesn’t revolve around the magical
horses, but their presence makes me happy nonetheless.
Yet while the descriptions of most
of the fantasy creatures was excellent, with the shape-shifting Demdji, they
were vague. I still have no idea what a Roc looks like. My first thought was a
bird-like creature. Then I wondered, “Is it a dragon? Wait, nope. It has
feathers.” Please excuse my ignorance while I go and Google what on earth this
creature is supposed to be…
As for the plot twists, some of them
were fairly predictable and others weren’t. In fact, I was so busy watching for
one twist, I completely missed the other.
I gave this book 4/5 stars on
account of some vague descriptions yet great writing style, dynamic characters,
and interesting plot, which felt vaguely reminiscent of Eragon. I was so caught up in reading this book, I hardly gave a
second thought to rating it. I’d recommend this book to anybody who likes young
adult and fantasy.
The only problem? Now I have to wait
for the next book to come out. But I’ve brought this on myself. It’s
frustrating, but it’s wonderful all the same, like waiting for Christmas
morning. Sometimes the anticipation is half the fun!
We all have those moments when we get bored with our current
project, our eyes get tired, or we just have the intensifying urge to scream
and throw the computer out the window. (Please tell me I’m not the only one.)
Sometimes we reach a point—whether or not it’s burnout—when we just want to
quit writing. It’s hard work. One word after another. And it seems like all the
ideas are too hard, too unoriginal, too dry.
I’m not just talking about writer’s block. Maybe it can be
the cause or the result, but it has many terms. For students, it’s known as
senioritis. For postgrad students like my dad, it’s known as college-brain. I
like to say my brain is tired. Sometimes I reach the point where I say dumb
stuff like “I can’t English.”
Whatever the reason, we can all grow tired even of something
we enjoy doing. I love writing. But some days I feel like quitting. Recently,
I’ve been working on my dissertation for my MA in English Literature, and as
much as I enjoy reading, I’m sick of working on this project through the summer
when most of my family and friends are on vacation. Now everybody’s getting
ready to head back to school, and I’m still working on my dissertation.
But over the years, I’ve found several methods to help me
get through it all. Here are just a few that have helped.
1) Set
goals.
Whether it’s 1,000 words or 100, setting goals for each day,
each week can help you make them. Projects like NaNoWriMo give you a set quota
for the day based on your final word count goal. Make sure you set achievable
goals, like don’t strive for 5,000 words a day if you can barely write 2,000
usually. You can work up to that instead.
Every bit of progress counts. Even if you don’t make your
quota for the day, don’t beat yourself up. There’s always tomorrow. (Unless
that’s the deadline, in which case, CHUG COFFEE).
2) Share
your project.
If you tell people what you’re working on, you’re more
likely to receive encouragement than if you keep your writing project secret.
This isn’t to say that you have to share every last word as you go, but friends
are a great way to keep you going. Back in July, when I was spending the month
with my friend Faith, I’d spend the morning writing my dissertation, and when I
finished my goal for the day, Faith would cheer me on, even if I thought my
writing was complete crap. Thank you, Faith!
3) Set
aside time and space.
Know what writing environment works for you and stick to it.
Set aside certain spots for writing and relaxation. For example, in England, I
wrote in my room or at the library and spent all my relaxation time outdoors.
At home, I worked on my dissertation in the living room but read or wrote for
fun on the balcony or in my room. This allowed me to separate my work space
from my relaxation space, and believe me, it’s helped my mental health.
As for time, it’s good to know when you focus best. For
writing, I focus best in the morning and the evening after dinner. I cannot for
the life of me write in mid-afternoon. But I can edit anytime. Knowing what
time works best for you can help optimize your performance and help you meet
your goals.
4) Just write!
Often times, the best way to do something you don’t want to
do is to just do it. If you don’t want to write, just write. It may not sound
like much fun when you think about it, but if all you do is think, you’ll never
get anywhere. If you want to make progress, go out there and make it. Just
thinking about it won’t get you anywhere.
5) Pace
yourself.
Back when I was studying for exams and doing homework, I
used to study for 45 minutes and take a 5-10 minute Pinterest or Facebook
break. This works well for writing too. Now, I like to put on a movie
soundtrack and work until the last song. Then I’ll take a short break.
Your brain can get tired of work, especially when you’re
bored. But be careful not to take a break before your allotted time, and if
you’re on a role when you reach the end of your set time, keep going! 45
minutes is a great time period to work with short, 5-10 minute breaks so you
don’t lose concentration. Repeat the process and take 15-minute breaks every
other hour.
6) Bribe
Reward yourself.
Whether it’s with an enjoyable walk, a TV episode, or a bowl
of ice cream, treat yourself after you make your quota for the day. Back in my
undergrad days, I used to reward myself with a chapter for fun after 45 minutes
of studying. Lately, that hasn’t worked because I’d end up reading half the
book for fun instead. Now I have go for a nice long bike ride or have a bowl of
Reese’s peanut butter ice cream. Tell me you wouldn’t work on homework for ice
cream.
7) Remember
why you started.
Did you start writing for fun? For the joy of discovering
what you believe? For school? For work? Whatever your reason, reminding
yourself why you started writing can help you keep writing. For my
dissertation, I could keep telling myself I that if I don’t write the thing
I’ll fail my MA, but how encouraging is that? Instead, it’s helpful to remind
myself why I picked The Faerie Queene
and Paradise Lost to write on—because
I enjoyed reading them and I wanted to learn more!
Having a mission statement works great. But if you’re on a
tight deadline, don’t feel like you have to write one out.
Finally, I’m thinking about starting a newsletter for all my
lovely followers. If you’re even remotely interesting in receiving more direct
updates, please fill out the following 10-question survey. Thanks!
Have there been any circumstances when you felt like giving
up? Which of the above tips have helped you? Do you have any helpful tips for
meeting your goals?
Welcome to my newest series, Controversy in Fiction! This
month, I’ll be addressing banned books, part one in my five-part series.
Disclaimer: Because of the nature of this series, I
don’t expect all of my readers to agree with me. While I will attempt to
accurately present both sides of particular issues, I will take sides on some
issues and can’t expect to cover every last issue in existence. I apologize in
advance for anybody who is offended for religious/political/book-loving
reasons; it is not my intent. Please no hateful comments as this is a
children-friendly blog.
Caution: This post contains spoilers for The Outsiders for the purpose of
discussing why it’s sometimes banned.
Back in my undergraduate days at Evangel, I took a course on
Young Adult fiction. It was completely awesome. We got to read some of my
favorite genres for homework, and I discovered some of my treasured books too!
One of our first weeks of the class, we talked about banned books.
Banned books are those restricted by libraries, schools,
religious institutions, etc. for the purpose of preventing children or others
from reading content considered inappropriate. Books may be banned for various
specific reasons including, but not limited to profanity, violence, sexually
explicit content, or religious or political agendas.
For our assigned reading, our class read The Outsiders. When I first picked up
the book (I borrowed a copy from my professor), I thought, “Huh, this looks okay.” I wasn’t so sure about it. But
before I knew it, I’d finished the book and thoroughly enjoyed it! When my
sister (12 at the time) had to read the book for her class, she completely fell
in love with the story and the characters. My mom skeptically picked up the
book, but in the end, she liked the story.
Yet The Outsiders
is not a happy book. It contains smoking, gangs, and violence. It isn’t really
much of a surprise that it should be among the banned books. Why would teachers
want children reading books where the main characters smoke or (SPOILER ALERT)
hide from the law for killing somebody in self-defense? (END SPOILER ALERT)
Is this the kind of book parents would want their children
to read? Probably not. But it does have its redeeming values (self-sacrifice,
compassion, etc.), and it is for these qualities that many readers will
advocate for reading the book and encouraging others to do so.
Throughout my life, I’ve never had many problems with banned
books, with a few exceptions, of course. My parents were pretty generous with
what they let me read. My mom considered me mature enough to read This Present Darkness at age 14. (FYI, I
was not. I was terrified of that book, even though I thought it was really good.)
But at the same time, I wasn’t allowed to read the Harry Potter books until I was 16. I
have since finished the series, much to my mom’s chagrin. And while I don’t
believe the books are inherently bad,
(I quite enjoyed them actually) I respect my parents’ decisions. I was raised
in a conservative, Christian family, and my parents wanted to protect me from
sorcery, even in fiction.
Similarly, my sister once attended a private school that
banned Fifty Shades of Gray.
Personally, I will put a book down if it has sexually explicit content. In
fact, most of the time, I’ll tolerate a book if it has a couple kissing scenes.
(See 3
Reasons I Don’t Read Romance Novels)
Yet while many book banning’s I’ve experienced may have good
intentions, there are still associations who would rather ban books to exercise
control. In Fahrenheit 451, all books
were outlawed country-wide for encouraging people to think. In The Book Thief, Nazis burned books for
their radical agendas. And in Ink and
Bone, certain knowledge was forbidden for the sake of the Great Library’s
control.
But as far as I’ve seen, most of the book banning that
occurs today has good intentions, particularly the protection of children’s
innocence, rather than governmental control. But eventually all children will
grow up. While it may be important to maintain a degree of discretion when choosing
books, they can be eye-opening.
After all, books can teach you new things.
Books can help you become a better person.
Books can warn you about the dangers of certain people and
relationships.
Ultimately, I believe books should be picked up based on
personal preference. Yes, knowledge can be dangerous. But the real danger for
people, especially readers, comes when others exercise governmental control
over reading. But even in the US, where so many people know how to read, they
don’t. Reading is often viewed as a chore or work rather than a preferred pastime.
And it’s like Ray Bradbury once said, “You don’t have to
burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them.”
***
Literary references: S. E. Hinton’s The Outsiders, Frank E. Peretti’s This Present Darkness, J. K. Rowling’s Harry Potter series, Ray Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451, Markus Zusak’s The Books Thief, and Rachel Caine’s Ink and Bone.
What’s your opinion on book banning? What are some of the
banned books that you’ve read? Have you ever snuck a forbidden book to read it?
Everybody has favorite small talk questions that they can
pull out of their hat at a moment’s notice as though conversations are mere
magic tricks to be mastered by a selected few. I don’t know how most extroverts
do it. I’ve written on Small
Talk before, so I shall not belabor my dislike for it. I get it. Sometimes
people don’t know what else to ask but general questions. One of the most common
questions I get asked lately is “What’s your dissertation about?”
Over the last couple of months, I’ve been researching and
writing on The Faerie Queene and Paradise Lost, comparing Spenser’s and
Milton’s references to the Muses and inspiration. Inspiration itself is a huge part of any writer’s life. What
would we do without it? Inspiration comes in many forms—breathtaking
landscapes, quirky people, profound books, and mouthwatering chocolate.
However, many experts claim that writers should not fully
rely on inspiration. If I always waited for inspiration, I would never write. Instead,
sometimes I’m encouraged by friends or deadlines, and other times I’m pressured
by not wanting to down a cup of coffee with nothing to show for it. How could I
waste such precious caffeine?
Nevertheless, Inspiration is a great help. I’ve never been
able to write poetry without it. Those that I forced myself to write, I’ve
vowed never to show the world. Partially inspired by Carrie Hope Fletcher’s On the Other Side and partially inspired
by a late-night bike ride where I spent five minutes under a street light
watching a spider spin a web, this poem is all about that—inspiration. Well,
that and a writer’s muse.
The
Muse
She dances on air, her skirt
trailing behind,
above, the dust—she could write her
name in
it—but her feet never grace the
floor. Some
say that magic is merely things we
don’t
know—others call it faith. This girl
keeps pace
to tunes unheard, an imaginary
swift, violin. Sometimes she pauses,
suspended on
mid-air, to cock her head to one
side and
whip out an invisible bow, before
she will sweep
into a glide on glass.
Step-step-step-twirl—
Maybe this mystery is real magic
when I
just trip while walking. She can
make her moves
seem like art—she is Da Vinci,
telling
a myth on her tiptoes, of how this
cave-
man brought her a flower and fell in
love.
He sprawled upon the floor, sweeping
up all
the dust with his blue coat. She
helped him up
and handed him her bow. He stared;
she held
her violin too. Take it, said she. Play a
song
so
I may dance freely. He took them in
his hands and set his fingers on the
strings.
Magic,
he thought. There’s no alternative.
Here I play, shrieking out sorry
tunes like some
earthbound pterodactyl, and still
she smiles
and sweeps across the floor, dancing
on air.
***
Let’s chat! What’re some of the small talk questions that bugs you? Do you believe in magic? What are the
sources for your inspiration?
