Category Archives: writing

Words I Love

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pick upHe paused, then said, “Gahhh, I love the word crux.  How could anyone not love that word?”

I giggled.

He continued, “The word even looks like what it is, like this important little block, this core.”

“Mmm,” I said in agreement.  “How about cavalier?  Rolls right off your tongue.”

“Applause,” he said.

“Callous.”

“Archaic.”

“Valor,” I said.  “Doesn’t it just make you want to storm a castle?”  I pushed up my sleeve.  “Look, I have goosebumps!”

 

Other favorites:

intrepid

sentinal

civic

rogue

What are yours?

 

Timing, a poem

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TIMING

In Prague,
Tuesday takes his hand,
dragging him into the
streets of orange-tiled roofs.

In Minneapolis,
Monday bars my way.

What new secrets
have stubbed his toe?

When I wake,
the sunlight on my face
is already ancient.

Let's Get Lost by bluecoloursofnature

Let’s Get Lost by bluecoloursofnature

She’s always writing.

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… and maybe you don’t care.  That’s fine too. 🙂

But if you want to know and understand me, you’d have to read my creative work.  I invite you to click a link below!

Drops of Jupiter, Revisited | Do you know the Train song?  These jottings take place in the years before the song.

Valuing the Arts | Flash fiction satire.

Nine Names | Flash fiction I wrote to help myself sort through “The Problem of Susan.”

Date a Girl Who Writes | An essay I wrote as a companion essay to Rosemarie Urquico’s brilliant “Date a Girl Who Reads.”

Seeing Saturn | An excerpt from my work-in-progress.

Rooster | A short story about holding on and letting go during those crazy college years.

The Call | A poem inspired by jealousy and a friend’s phone call.

Madam, Meet Adam | A short story about Adam meeting Eve for the very first time.

Susan of Narnia | This poem also helped me to explore “The Problem of Susan.”

Which Education? | A poem … kinda fan fiction … about my own story.

Why Christians Should Write | Some thoughts on the matter.

Gala at Death | A poem about the death of my poems.

What I Want to Say | A poem from college, recently revised.

On the Shore | A poem about the disciples seeing Christ after His resurrection.

Grace Beneath the Line | Creative non-fiction I wrote for my senior capstone in undergrad.

Edmund | A poem about Edmund Pevensie, my favorite character from the Narnia series.

The Colors | Jottings about my favorite colors.

writer girl3

Half-Mast | Speculative fiction set in the distant future.  Satire.

Why Write? | Thoughts on why I love writing.

Brought to You by the Letter V | Jottings on letters.

Invitation | A poem I wrote in college about a summer love/fall heartbreak.

Scenery Matters | A brief poem inspired by the accompanying photo.

Tall, Dark, and Handsome | A poem about a boy.

Castle | A short poem about Cair Paravel in ruins.

Knit | A poem about my bestie.

Her Life in Red | Flash fiction.

Valuing the Arts, flash fiction

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The woman spoke softly to the man whose fingertips were stained blue.  “Will you tell me about your painting?” she asked.

He blushed a little, unused to the questions of “outsiders,” but shyly revealed, “You know that long stretch on the horizon where the water and sky meet?  Fascinates me.  Haven’t been to the shore since I first came here, but I can still remember.”

At a desk facing a window, a girl was writing in a notebook.  The woman hesitated, unsure if it would be unwise to disturb her.  She crept closer and read over her shoulder.  A poem.  About love and pine trees and summer skies.  The woman looked up, distracted by a performance of some kind happening in the room across the hall.  Through the windows she could see them singing and dancing.  She’d forgotten.

french hornBut here in this room, in the far corner, a girl played a mournful tune on a French horn.  It stirred the air in this place.  For a moment, it almost made the woman want to cry.  But then she laughed a little to herself and said, “Definitely time to go.”  She retreated back across the room and dropped her visitor badge in the small basket at the check-in counter.

“So whaddidya think?” snarled the guard before pressing a button to open the locked metal doors at the entrance.  “You’d have thought those affected would’ve all died out by now, but they haul in more of ‘em every month or so.”

“It’s sad,” said the woman, then pushed open the doors of the asylum.

Just One More

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Even though one of my strengths is ideation, as a writer, I still worry that my current work-in-progress (whatever it happens to be) will also be my last.  I worry that inspiration works more like the lottery than like an assembly line.  It seems to me that so many other writers have one hundred million ideas for stories, poems, and projects while I have one— whatever I happen to be working on.

And what if that next idea never comes?

It makes me nervous.

I wonder if musicians ever worry if this song will be their last one, or if an artist thinks, What if I don’t have another painting in me?  Is this a common worry among creative types?

E.L. Doctorow has this famous quote, which goes, “Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.”

headlights

As Anne Lamott once pointed out, “This is right up there with the best advice on writing, or life, I have ever heard.”

 

 

A Traitors’ Tea

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tea

“Milk, lemon, sugar?” I ask.

“Oh, I’m fine, thanks,” says Simon Peter.  “I like my tea black.”

“I’ll have a little milk,” says Edmund, holding out his cup.  “That’s good,” he adds after I splash some in.

I sigh as I seat myself at the table.  “I assume you know why I’ve asked you here today,” I say, a little resigned, a little awkwardly.  “I wanted to have a traitors’ tea.”

They both look at me, surprised but not offended.  The look on their faces is asking a curious, Why us?

Stuttering, I say, “Well, you know, I mean … Peter, you … denied that you even knew him, right?  And Edmund, umm, you … sort of betrayed your family and him, didn’t you?  I just … I thought maybe the three of us could …  I’m sorry.  This is uncomfortable.”  I stare down at my tea.

But the two of them smile.  “No, no, you’re right,” says Peter.  “You’re absolutely right.”

“It’s true,” says Edmund.  “It’s just been such a long time as I’ve thought of myself that way.”

“Me too,” agrees Simon Peter.  “A long time.”

I’m ashamed.  I am the only one who truly belongs at this traitors’ tea.  I had thought I’d be in good company, but now I realize that I’m on my own.

They know what I’m thinking.  Edmund shakes his head, just a little, just enough for me to see that he understands.  Peter reaches out and takes my hand.  “You do belong here,” he says, giving it a tiny squeeze.  “This is a gathering of the redeemed.”