Children's Writing: Where Do You Find Your Inspiration?

I've often been asked what got me started writing children's books. My short answer is grandchildren.

Generalizing from my own experience, it seems to me when grandchildren come along, they must make grandparents think, say and do things we never thought, said or did before. Or maybe, more accurately, no one ever paid much attention to us in our thinking, saying and doing. Then we come face to face with the world's best audience and our lot is cast.

Oh, sure, the seeds are often sewn when our children are born. Yes, many parents, too, are authors of child-inspired stories. After all, everything is brand new and babies may fall into a fit of giggling at the strangest faces and noises that parents sometimes stumble upon purely by accident. Who wouldn't feel compelled to take advantage of those brief moments of bliss during what seems like years of endless ... manic... sleepless... nights.

OK. So, that part only lasts for a few weeks or months. But at the time, let's say 3:00 a.m. midway through two weeks of collic or thrush or unexplained fever, it feels like years. If inspiration eludes you during those heady days and nights, worry not. Before you know it, your kids are bringing their kids home for baby sitting or sleep-overs or summer vacations. And now you have the time to collect all the bits and pieces of material just made for the writing of stories.

What do you use as grist for your writing mill? Are you a new parent, a grandparent, a teacher, a librarian, a coach, a pediatric nurse? Lots of possibilities for tale telling in the midst of all that life experience going on around you.

What's your inspiration? Inquiring authors want to know! Besides, the suspense is killing me....

The Smell Of Success In Dollars And Scents

It has been said any successful author must be deeply committed to the three "Ps": Promotion, Promotion, Promotion. Well, today I had an epiphany about the latest sure thing in the promotional game. Forget the press releases, book signings, school visits, social networking, virtual book tours and lawn signs. To clearly establish your identity and boost your bottom line, the path has suddenly become clear---get a fragrance.

Apparently, the word is out. After all, pretty much anyone who's anyone has one, from celebrity veterans to those barely more than kids. If you are a celebrity (or if there are those who think you are), a fragrance is almost de rigeur. And it matters not if you are a singer, actor, reality star, model, clothing manufacturer or even a sports figure.

It all started years ago when White Diamonds was announced by Liz as she stepped through a doorway, backlit in brilliant white. Since then Cher, Mariah, Hillary Duff, Britney Spears, Heidi Klume and even Tailor Swift have added at least one signature fragrance to their endorsements. The speed of the fragrance juggernaut boggles the mind.

As a case in point, a couple months ago, soon after the latest celebrity wedding, I was passed at high speed on the Interstate by two purple clad semi-tractor trailers apparently filled with fragrance bottles branded with the recent bride's name. I could hardly believe my eyes; well, except there was little room for my eyes to notice anything else on the road, what with the rapidly moving image of a 40-foot female form plastered on the side of the trucks.

Instinctively, my foot mashed down on the accelerator in a vain attempt to keep up---for safety's sake, of course. Quickly thinking ahead, in the event I got stopped for speeding, I had already worked out my defense. "Officer, it was defensive driving pure and simple, to keep from suffering image-induced whiplash as those eye-popping images sped past me." Sure, it's lame. But in a crisis, you gotta go with the hand that's dealt you.

Female celebrities aren't the only ones hawking perfume. Imagine my surprise when I recently learned that even Derek Jeter has a fragrance. But, come to think of it, most of his teammates have long been aware of the post-game locker room fragrance after pretty much any baseball game, especially games that go into extra innings. And believe it or not, this evening as I watched the latest celebrity news (although it pains me to do so), an ad for Justin Bieber's fragrance line broke into the programing with an urgency that rivaled a test of the National Emergency Warning System.

The take home message? To up your promotional game, add a fragrance to your branding tool kit. And no worries about accusations of vanity. A fragrance with your name on it is even better, especially if it's the French version of your name.

So, what does this all mean for us average folk? And by that I mean those of us without dollars and scents. You know, those who have been working in the trenches, including we authors who have made almost enough from our book sales to afford a starving writer's seven course meal: a "take and bake" pizza and a six pack.

Well, for one thing, we would help the economy by putting more fragrance makers to work. No doubt the manufacturers of blown glass collector bottles would be hiring thousands, not to mention the assemblers of all those little plastic screw tops with push-down misters. And just think of all the new fragrance domain names that the hundreds of newly hired domain name protectors would have to protect.

The smell of economic recovery is clearly in the air. Why, I can see the makings of my new promotional campaign coming sharply into focus: glitzy designer fragrance scratch-and-sniff cards tucked inside each one of my children's picture books, followed by late night guest appearances on The Fragrance Chanel. Then, to top it all off, a splashy ad on one of those multi-story digital-image screens in Time Square will announce GUILLAUME Pour Homme.

Yeah. That sounds a lot better than Eau de Bill....

Got Stories? Tell 'Em.

It's been said by some that a writer should write about what he or she is familiar with. For I suppose there's nothing quite like life experience as a rich resource for the tales we tell. The life experiences each of us has, add depth to a story. And it is the unique interpretation of those experiences that make those stories our own, told like no one else would or even could.

Each of us captures the world around us through our own particular set of sensory stimuli. And even when faced with the same view of the world before us, we may process the information differently and act on it differently still. Will the fact that I am color blind mean I will miss some things or see them in a different way than others? Do I have a high pain threshold, making me indifferent to those more sensitive? Was I an only child? The oldest, youngest or somewhere in the middle?

Have I broken an arm or leg, had surgery, been lost? And what if I haven't yet or maybe never will? Have I ever been truly hungry or felt fatigue or cold down to the bone? Have I ever wanted to kill---or had to? Have I had a story to share and should have but didn't?

"Who knows?" you ask. "Perhaps there won't be anyone interested." But if the stories aren't told, we'll never know who might have learned from them or simply loved the listening. So, tell your stories. Write them down or simply pass them on as folk tales or oral history to be recounted again and again. For one day, without our knowing when, the time will pass and the untold stories will fade from memory.

It is the charge of writers and tellers of tales to not let that happen.

Poem A Day Challenge for April 10

April 10—For today's prompt, write a never again poem. Maybe you'll never again fall in love or never again tell a lie. Or maybe, just maybe, you'll never again not write a sestina.(Like that? It's a double negative.)

N’er again will yester be—
That time is now behind us.
Yet, perhaps in memory,
Its ghost may come and find us.

Will it ask us once again
Those questions long avoided—
Scraping wounds until our pain
Has fully been exploited?

Or will it probe a different trace,
And would our path be altered?
Had we run a different race,
Would we have won or faltered?

Truth be told, as life unfolds,
Despite how well we’ve striven,
Faith will shape what each life holds,
For we just get what’s given.

Poem A Day Challenge for April 9

For today's prompt, write a time of day poem. In fact, make the title of your poem the time of day. For instance, "5:54 a.m.," 2:23 p.m.," "Midnight," etc. Then, write your poem. Of course, different things happen at different times of day. So have fun with it.

4:15 P.M.
By Bill Kirk

What a miserable
Time of day 4:15 p.m. is.
It’s in that limbo time
Between lunch and dinner
When it’s too late for
A mid-afternoon snack,
Yet the hungries are on the move.

You can feel them slithering around
Somewhere down in the bowel.
And then the sounds start—
Just a slight nagging at first,
Becoming more urgent
As they change from a quiet rrreeee-errrr
To a full blown grrr-ow-w-w-l.

For kids in school, let’s face it.
They are on the food clock
As soon as the last bell has sounded.
If they are quick about it,
And maintain their focus,
They will manage to get themselves
Home in time to do some grubbing
Before the 4:15 p.m. snack curfew strikes
And the time for grubbing is gone.

With all that late afternoon suffering,
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist
To figure out America is clearly
Out of touch with global gustatory reality.
Could there be any other explanation why
4:15 p.m. just happens to be time for tea?
There’s little doubt it is a
Pure survival strategy designed
To get them past humankind’s
Most vulnerable point in the day.
Why, tossing all that tea into the harbor
Those many years ago may have
Inadvertently put us on a
Terminal trajectory to our own doom.

Personally, I’m not a great fan of
Tea and crumpets but I must concede,
Crumpets trump cramps no matter the time
But especially at 4:15 p.m.

And don’t get me started on
Daylight Savings Time

Poem A Day Challenge For April 8

April 8—For today's prompt, write a ready to celebrate poem. You could chronicle the actual celebration or even write about the anticipation of one.

Are You Ready To Ce-le-brate?
By Bill Kirk

Some might say a cause for celebration
Hardly comes along every day.
Yet maybe that’s cause enough to be ready,
Wouldn’t you say—to giggle, smile, shout, congratulate?
After all, there’s always plenty
To bemoan our pitiful circumstances
And ample reason to groan and complain,
Wondering why this or that hard knock happened.

But then, along comes some happy time
Or its memory or the anniversary of one,
That curls up the mouth corners, even if only slightly.
So, shouldn’t we be ready for those happy-nings,
Whether anticipated or unexpected?
You know, just in case?

Oh, sure. We could also be ready
To sink into the depths of depression.
After all, deference to the sensibilities
Of those who suffer loss is at times
The only right thing to do.

Yet even in the midst of inconsolable sadness,
The spark of joy and gladness awaits its turn
To give another day of life its due,
In anticipation of yet a better one.

“This is the day the Lord has made;
Let us rejoice and be glad in it.” (Psalm 118:24)

A Writer's Postal Excitement Scale (Slightly Revised)

(Or the meaning of the top ten responses from editors and publishers)

By Bill Kirk

Dedicated to all writers everywhere--especially the new kids on the block--who are awaiting responses from the many submissions you have mailed out. Sometimes the anticipation is as good as it gets. But every once in a while, you might get lucky.... It could happen.

(NOTE: The order may vary depending on the size of the envelope, weight of the manuscript and the diameter of the coffee stain on the outside.)

#1: No response from the publisher….

The editor must be still thinking about it. So it's been a year---some people are thorough.

# 2: Your original outgoing envelope, returned unopened-manuscript still inside, with no notes, no form letter or any other indication that anyone or anything besides a Pitney-Bowes mail sorter has touched it....

I wonder what that little pointy finger next to the "Return To Sender" stamp means?

#3: A returned SASE with nothing inside….
Must have liked it so much they made copies and are still passing them around the office!

#4: An SASE with a pre-printed, unsigned and unmarked form letter....

Ya gotta love the extra effort and attention! Besides, someone had to write the form letter, didn't they? So, I coulda been the first one they sent it to, right?

#5: A returned SASE with a SIGNED letter with one box checked.... Wait. All SIX rejection boxes are checked! Woo! Hoo!

Now we're talking! I can feel the love---every box is individually hand checked! Someone actually read me!

#6: A returned SASE with a SIGNED letter and an encouraging rejection note-like, "I read this twice before throwing it away." or "Next time, don't waste your postage on a SASE"….

OMG, a perk! They're going to pay the return postage on my SASE next time. Quick! Send them something else---preferably before the postman drives away!

#7: A returned SASE with a marked up manuscript---in color crayon---and three Cheerios inside....

OK. So, the editor could have her 3-year old child on the payroll. Besides, some kids are prodigies.

#8: A returned SASE with the manuscript inside, marked up with legible comments like, "This is truly beyond belief! In my 25 years as an editor, I've never seen anything quite like it...."

Be still, my heart! Finally, someone who really understands how unique and creative I am.

#9: A returned SASE with a form letter and a signed hand-written note asking to see more….

YES!!! Hey, honey, where did you put the car ads? We gotta Jaguar in our future....

And the #10 response: A returned SASE with a SIGNED letter and an anticipated date of publication... sometime within the next ten years....

Finally! I'm adding this puppy under my name at the bottom of my email messages!

HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL….

Sometimes You Have To Cut Your Losses

As writers, we often work on a story, essay, poem or other piece of genius that we are certain meets, if not far exceeds, the criteria for publication somewhere, anywhere. In fact, we may be so convinced of our work's merit that we withhold it from public view on the Internet (ergo remain "unpublished") on the off chance that it might get picked up for publication by someone, anyone. Well, sometimes I suppose it's best to just get over it.

So, in the spirit of sharing, here is a bit of an action poem written in rhyme, celebrating picture day at school. I still think it would make a great little picture book. I mean, who can't relate to picture day?

But I'm willing to concede the likelihood of publcation as a picture book is slim. Granted, it was published in a children's magazine back in 2007. But still I'd like to imagine it in between two scuffed up hard covers with dog-eared pages because kids have read it and chuckled, chortled, guffawed and roared over and over.

One can dream, can't one?

PICTURE DAY
By Bill Kirk
(Published in Fun For Kidz Magazine, September 2007)


This morning when my Grandma knocked,
I didn’t make a peep.
She’d never find me underneath
These covers in a heap.

Then, in she came to chase me out
And get me on my way.
“Let’s rise and shine, grandson of mine!
Today is picture day.”

She gently stressed as I got dressed,
“No horseplay is allowed.
There’ll be no kicking rocks and cans,
Or dust into a cloud.”

“But, Grandma…,” “Don’t ‘But Grandma’ me,”
She said with my four names.
That meant that she was serious.
There’d be no silly games.

So, I got dressed and brushed my hair
And even washed my face.
The boys would hardly know it’s me—
With every hair in place.

Then, off I went with good intent,
To stay both neat and pressed.
So, when I finally got to school,
I’d look my very best.

At recess all the kids went out
To run and chase and hide.
But Grandma’s words came back to me.
And so I stayed inside.

When it was time to go to lunch,
I ate each bite with care.
I even tucked a napkin in,
To catch each crumb, mid-air.

Then suddenly, as if on cue,
I heard someone yell, “Duck!”
I should have known, my time would come,
And I’d be out of luck.

At first I saw some gelatin,
Go sailing past my head.
And then two hotdogs—flying by—
Just missed my best friend, Fred.

Soon apples turned to applesauce
And plums to purple goo.
When mashed potatoes hit the floor,
They stuck like paste and glue.

I crashed into the Principal
And almost caused two falls.
By then my hopes of staying clean
Were dashed on doors and walls!

When all the food had finally flown,
The lunchroom was a mess!
Our teachers called our Moms and Dads
So we could all confess.

And did I mention evidence?
Oh yes! There’d be a bunch!
The photographs would say it all—
Our turn was after lunch!

But, wait! Was that my Grandma’s voice,
So faint, and far away?
“Get up, my boy, or you’ll be late!
Today is picture day.”

So, did I hear my Grandma right?
Were things not as they seemed?
Hurray! That whole big mess at school,
Was something I had dreamed!

And Suddenly... There Were Two Days Left

April 29: “For today's prompt, I want you to take the phrase "And Suddenly (blank)," replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write the poem. Some examples: "And suddenly we were lost," "And suddenly over," "And suddenly banana," "And suddenly sudden," "And suddenly the poem I was writing turned into a killer robot," etc.“

The first thing that pops into my head for this one is the song “Along Came John” with all the “and then…” lines in the story-song. For those of you who can still remember roller skate keys, that song is probably parked out there in your long term memory under a lonely, flickering mental street light. With that introduction, you're probably thinking this poem will surely be on the lighter side. Alas, no.

And Suddenly It Happened
By Bill Kirk

As with any human endeavor,
For better or worse,
At least one person starts it.

Perhaps a single thought or feeling
In someone’s mind or heart is the genesis.
But until it takes flight,
It is just a secret.

Once expressed, perhaps a common reaction erupts—
A catalyst, inspiring or offending.
You know, like “Windows 7 was my idea” or
“Let’s make anyone who looks like
They ought not be here,
Prove they should be.”
Then, suddenly, the world changes.

Yet what is it about any “and suddenly” moment
That bestows its import?
Could we not say all “and suddenly” moments
Occur only when acknowledged and accepted,
By the some or the many?
And by its logical extension,
Is it not likely any such moments not thusly recognized,
Would simply die on the vine?

Then, just as suddenly,
The waiting “and suddenly”
Would simply fail to materialize,
For better or worse.

May we have the wisdom to discern
Which “and suddenly” moments
Are worthy measures of human progress,
And which would be far better
Never to have seen the sudden light of day.

To Wish Is Its Own Reward

April 18: “For today's prompt, take the phrase "To (blank)," replace the blank with a word or phrase, make the new phrase the title of your poem, and then, write the poem. Some examples: "To the left, to the left," "To write or not to write," "To Kill a Hummingbird," "To the Doghouse," etc. There are so many possibilities.”

Indeed, there are possibilities galore for this prompt—just choosing a title that is either a noun or a verb, an object or an action, leaves you with seemingly endless options. And there’s the serious or the silly, the reflective or the quirky.

A single letter can totally change the essence of a title or its poem. Consider the difference between “To Arms” (a call to immediate action) and “To Arm” (a potential question for reflective discourse). No doubt Robert Lee Brewer must toss and turn in his sleep to come up with daily prompts to challenge even the titling of a poem, much less the writing of it.

To Wish
Bill Kirk

To wish,
Whether quietly or aloud,
Is to hope, to desire, to anticipate.

As infinitives go, “to wish” is rare.
It holds a singular optimism that
Who we are,
What we are doing and
Where we are going
Will be as good as, or even far better than,
Our immediate here and now.

And to actually take the step
Of making a wish is a
Self declaration of our belief
In boundless possibilities,
Defined and confined
Only by the wisher.

Indeed, the very existence of
“To wish” in our language
Allows us to think in terms as large
As our imaginations are capable.
And then, we can wish even larger still
For something—anything—that is beyond
Everything which doesn’t yet exist.

Simple wishes are sometimes the best.
A child might wish for a silver dollar
In exchange for a first-pulled tooth.
Or a violinist for the purest of notes
To be called forth as bow meets string.
And is it too grand for a writer to wish
For sufficient inspiration to coax
Just the right words onto the page?

To be sure, certain wishes
Might not be in our own best interest
Or that of others.
Wishing a flat tire for the driver
Who just cut you off
Might slather momentary satisfaction
On a bruised psyche.
But what if your instantaneous mental snapshot
Of such an obvious transgression
Fails to take into account
The sick child in the back seat
En route the emergency room?

Even in the naming of our enemies,
Whether briefly or long term,
Do we not wish calamity for them—
And, in contrast, the better for us?
Yet in so doing, are we not the lesser for it?

Instead, aren’t the best wishes unselfish,
Like a prayerful request to improve our lot
But not at the expense of others?

And in our wishing, is it not best to wish boldly—
To let our imaginings run free?
Or do we fail to wish simply for fear of failure?

Wishing is at the heart of living and
Our capacity to wish is its own reward.
Everything else is gravy.

Don't Believe All You Hear On The Radio

April 10: “…write a horror poem. Make it scary. Make it cheesy. Make it funny. Whatever you do, link it somehow to horror. Who knows? Maybe someone will write the next great raven poem.”

This prompt may be tough, as I’m not a great fan of horror.

Don’t Touch That Dial—It’s Halloween!
By Bill Kirk

‘Tis a dark and stormy night."
Indeed, the moon is shrouded by low-hanging clouds,
Rolling past, pushed by a howling wind.
Branches dance erratically, all but disconnected
From massive, creaking trunks. Snap! Something breaks.

Momentary flashes of moon and stars
Yield brief hints of what awaits those
Who choose to travel on such a turbulent night.
Will we make it to our destination?
Or only wish we had?

This is not a night for the engine to fail.
Is that why we stopped?
A lone car approaches in the distance.
In a flash, virtually on top of us,
High beams shock shut our wide-open eyes.

Then nothing as tail lights disappear in the distance.
The first drops of an impending storm
Dot the dusty windshield, leaving spider-like reflections
Of the dimming interior lights.
Better turn the engine off to save the battery.

How long can a battery last anyway?
Without it and the lights, the night is impenetrable.
Yet squandering it by leaving the lights on,
Gives the visual advantage to anyone outside looking in.
That's right. They can see us—each one of us.

Turn the car off then. But can we at least listen to the radio?
Anything for a little distraction—even for a few minutes.
Hey, does anyone have a cell phone? No matter. No reception.
Better save their batteries, too. Wait.
Go back to that last radio station. What did that guy just say?

“Mass escape from Ravenscroft…. Two guards killed…
Throats slit; hoisted feet first on the flagpole.
Three others left surgically blind, deaf or dumb.
No sign of where the monsters went
And no way to track them.

“To all who hear this broadcast, stay in your homes
And let no one in, not even if you think you know their voice.
If you are out, keep driving, as far and as fast as you can.
And hope you can find shelter quickly in the company
Of those you can trust for help and safekeeping.

“For there is evil prowling the night,
Looking for a hiding place away from the storm,
No matter what they must do to find it.
And just for entertainment, they will spare no suffering.
Relishing the screams and pleadings of their victims.

“If you are in your car, do not get out. Lock every door.
Turn out every light. Stay out of sight.
If you hear any scratching on your car, stay quiet and do not move.
Dial 911 if you can and give your location to the authorities.
Only turn the radio on for hourly updates from this station.”

Click.

”THIS MORNING AUTHORITIES FOUND
SIX COLLEGE STUDENTS
ASPHYXIATED AND HUDDLED
IN THE FLOOR OF THEIR CAR.
A PLASTIC BAG, TRAPPED
BY A BROKEN BRANCH BLOWN DOWN
IN THE WIND, HAD COVERED THE EXHAUST PIPE.

ALL DOORS WERE LOCKED.
THE GAS TANK WAS FULL.
ALL CELL PHONES WERE TURNED OFF BUT WORKING.
A BRANCH HAD LEFT HEAVY SCRATCH MARKS ON THE TRUNK.
CAR RADIO WAS SET TO A LOCAL STATION
PLAYING A HALLOWEEN PRISON ESCAPE PRANK.

The Vagaries Of The Blogosphere---Celebrating The "Grateful Read"

To all writers out there in the midst of promotional struggle, I feel your sense of frustration and wondering---wondering sometimes if we are individually and perhaps even collectively in the bottom of a deep well, seeing the small circle of light high above us come and go, making noise hoping someone will notice and pull us out or maybe toss in a coin.

What a rich topic for commentary. So, here's my two cents in a somewhat stream of consciousness fashion. I'd love to get your individual or collective take on the matter. By the way, I've also updated, simplified and tightened up my website at http://www.billkirkwrites.com recently and am always interested in drop-ins. No appointment necessary.

We all have blogs and websites, e-mail address books, social/professional/academic networks, school/library contact lists and are members in writing groups, critique groups, oh, and extended families. We write our blogs on all things 'writing' and update our websites to keep them current regarding our publications and 'fresh' so the web crawlers will excitedly buz about something new they have found.

But, let's be honest. Who really stops by to visit our roadside lemonade stands, to linger for a moment or, even better, to mention how tasty our nickel-sized offering is? Who out there in the universe has the time or interest or even awareness that we are "here"? Are we the cyberspace equivalent of a small-town five-and-dime on a formerly busy road through town, now struggling 20 miles south of the politically placed Interstate Highway?

To be sure, our announcements are made to those in the aforementioned communities so they know something new is afoot in our little corner of the literary world. We bait our promotional hooks, hoping for a nibble or a catch. But, mixing my metaphors, are we preaching to the choir or at most to those in each of our relatively small congregations?

Interestingly, one of my favorit visitors---OK, she's my little sister---saw my blog post on Facebook and wrote, "What?". Yes, my entry was a bit obtuse even for a family member who knows me well. Then one of my few "followers"---a former critique group moderator---stopped by and noted, also on Facebook, that she very much understood my feelings to the extent that she has pretty much given up on her blog because no one was reading it. Sad commentary indeed but so true.

Of course neither of those replies from my loyal fans are posted on my blog site. So, listen up Facebook. Perhaps there might be a way to link any comments people make on the blog posts that are re-posted on Facebook, Jacketflap, etc., back to our blogs just so the comments actually appear there. At least it might create the illusion that our blogs actually have an audience. Did I say that?

This is an interesting business, isn't it? But to the question, "Why do we do it?" the answer has got to be that we feel called to do it, we love the work and we can't see ourselves not doing it. So, I will continue to leave my little written deposits, like geo-caches in the wilderness, hoping that someone will find my cache and leave a note behind---and, as rarely as it occurs, I'll be very encouraged when they do. Let's just call it "cache-ing in"....

Bend-ward Bound

Hi, folks STOP

Just a short note on my way out the door, bound for Bend, Oregon STOP

A group of artists and authors who are published by Guardian Angel Publishing is gathering in Bend (and Redmond, OR) for a GAP-West "Meet and Greet" plus a group book signing at a Barnes and Noble store in Bend on Saturday, September 19 STOP

Looking forward to seeing everyone and reading to the kids STOP

More news to follow STOP

Kirk out

STOP

Whatever Happened To "Writer's Cramp"? Will It Soon Be Replaced By TD

You don't hear about "writer's cramp' much these days. Sure there is plenty of "carpal tunnel" to go around. But writer's cramp almost seems to be a thing of the past.

I remember as a kid hearing the phrase "writer's cramp" all the time. And I recall experiencing such an affliction often enough myself, especially when a lengthy writing assignment was due. With the advent of typewriters and keyboards, one rarely hears of writer's cramp anymore. We've moved from what was typically a short-lived pain in the inter-digital muscles that could be relieved by simply putting the pen down, to structural syndromes that linger long after the writing has stopped.

Fortunately, I don't yet suffer from carpal tunnel issues. However, rather oddly I have noticed a consistent inability to write using pen and paper for more than just a few minutes at a stretch these days---mostly, I think, from being out of practice. After all, how much actual writing do we do anymore?

My planner entries (yes, I still use a planner with real paper inside) are usually one-liners and they are short one-liners at that. Occasionally, I jot down a reminder to myself or maybe even leave a note on the counter so my wife knows where I've gone and what time I'll be home. But for the most part, I don't do much longhand writing anymore and my penmanship has suffered as a result.

I think it's a matter of exercise---or lack thereof. The hand and finger muscles are literally out of writing shape. I used to write journal entries daily and all my letters were written longhand. Even first drafts of lengthy papers and reports started with a hand-written rough draft. Now, short notes are about a much as I actually write.

But maybe "writer's cramp" lives after all and is just waiting to be rediscovered. All it takes is writing a couple pages longhand and there it is as if it had never left....

In a related language artifact, we call ourselves writers when, in fact, we generally don't do much actual writing anymore. And I don't know that there is a good replacement word or phrase---perhaps creative typers or creative keyers (as type-writers are vitually a thing of the past). Then again, maybe "author" is the best word after all because it covers a multitude of tools an author might use....

Just remember, the tool does not an author make. It's the product, however crafted.

P.S. Don't you wonder how soon it will be before we will see the first novel "written" in .txt.... Personally, I plan to avoid too much texting---I hear textual dysfunction is a bugger to get rid of....

Hey! I'm Over Here...!

Some days, don't you wonder where everyone is out there? I'm mean, shouldn't there be some evidence left behind when someone has actually dropped by Ye Old Blogspot Blogging Post? They say Pinging one's blog is critical---can't do without it, you know. But what does all the pinging really do, anyway? What if I didn't ping?

I mean, can I really believe that all those pinged sites tagged as "Done" (as opposed to "Try Again Later") somehow alert the world that a new blog entry has just been filed? If so, why isn't anyone showing up---I mean besides the one or two folks who are willing to take the extra time and make the extra effort? Some days, don't you just want to yell, "Hey! I'm Over Here!"

Then, again, I suppose I ought to hold up the mirror about my own visitation routine. To visit a blog (and maybe even more a website), requires time that I don't often have. Even more telling, I need to remember to "make the rounds". After all, isn't it the memory thing that is most troublesome? Hats off to all those kind souls who both remember and act.

I'm imagining that all the blogs and websites and social network sites in the world are on some sort of giant community bulletin board in the sky, awaiting someone to notice our personal little sticky note or electronic version of a 3" X 5" card inviting any and all visitors. But when you get right down to it, how can we know where our ad has actually been posted on that large board or even how many layers deep we are after having been covered up with the sticky notes of millions of other visitor seekers?

Indeed, aren't we all to varying degrees inhabitants of small communities where everyone knows our name? Through some sort of magic---I think they call it branding---our identity may become known outside our own village and the foot traffic may increase as more and more visitors beat a path to our doors. Some say that process takes at least a year. I suppose some may be more precocious in a social networking sort of way and get a larger return much sooner---and others, not to name names, may hardly be noticeable at all. I guess it all boils down to effort. You got to get out there and make some noise.

OK. That settles it. Time to wrap this entry up and ping my blog. It may not be much but it's a start....

Makes you wonder, doesn't it?

I Had A Moment In Church Today

I had a moment in church today. It was during the prelude as our organist played Ave Maria. The music was hauntingly beautiful. But what it made me think of was the masterful creativity that went into its composition, much less just the playing of it hundreds of years after it was written. It was awesome, as some might say these days.

That's when I got to thinking about my own level of creativity and what others might consider me good at doing---you know one of those moments when one might reflect on whether one's efforts might be deemed worthy. I mean, I play around on the guitar a little and I like to play with words, particularly words written in rhyme. But how does that stack up, really? Am I good at it or just mildly entertaining---a brief, perhaps clever or humorous diversion but not for so long that it becomes tiresome.

Sometimes, a series of carefully selected notes or chords or a painting or sculpture can do that; can challenge the very supposition that the things we do are a meaningful measure of a particular talent or skill or even knack.

Most days, I think I might settle for a knack---either one I, in fact, may have or one others simply think I have.

Busy, Busy, Busy....

I suppose there's got to be just the right balance between pathos and vanity---needing to be not just seen but recognized without having to make a scene just to be recognized.

Are writers any different? Especially in the early stages, how many times are we told to get a website up and running, start a blog (or two or three), hook up with as many social networs as possible, all to get name (nay, brand) recognition started. And then wait.... For supposedly nothing much happens for at least the first year---I mean besides the one or two or five daily visits to your website or blog. Getting more visits that? You may be on the verge of superstardom!

One year is supposedly the minimum necessary elapsed time for cyber maturation. Somehow, after about a year, the web crawlers have apparently crept over, under, around and through your cyber identity enough times to for your site to reach some measure of critical mass for the number of visits and visit frequency to start to pick up. At least that's the theory.

But while you are waiting, don't forget to update your website with interesting tidbits and keep your blog(s) current. And, whatever you do, the remember the three "Ss": socialize, socialize, socialize. Just think of all the blogs there are to read and comment on, networking pages to visit, connections to establish, mailing lists to build, quizzes to take, photos to send and causes to join.

Depending on what "generation" we may find outselves in (I'm talking cyber generations here), you may be doing all these things with technology that runs the gammut from a plain old ordinary computer with regular old ordinary Internet access, all the way to the fastest, most compact, app-intensive and interconnected hand held device on the market. Of course, the more technologically current one is, the more there is to do. Why, it's enough to leave one breathless from the doing or even just the thinking about it....

Now where is that story I was planning to work on today, anyway? Guess it may have to wait until tomorrow after all. Time for my weekly podcast....