Poetry

There are some things about Newport Beach that I’ve had to go native on and its Library is one of them.  Holey moley, it is very impressive.  A marble stoned great hall on two football pitch sized floors filled to the rafters not only with books but magazines, DVD’s and CD’s.  The children’s section is to die for.  Row upon row of mini computer screens linked into the library’s very own children’s educational channel.  There was not one spare station when I went in yesterday.  The toddler’s den has its very own events schedule ranging from daytime singing sessions, to 7pm Pajama Bedtime stories to the more elaborate Little Mermaid productions.  As always, JJ’s social calendar filled up nicely.  Mine?  Not so much.  Most of the scheduled talks of award winning authors were sold out.  Maybe I’ll catch the Spring/Summer events. 

Having a bit of time on my hands (still no work visa) I have been spending a few hours each day at the library reading rhyming picture books (my new favorite thing to write) and learning about the art of good poetry (there is a fine line it would appear between what works and what sounds decidedly naff).

 I learnt a great deal about the history of the poet laureate.  Much more interesting than you might think.  I had no idea it used to be a lifetime post.  Once appointed, the Poet Laureate was charged with writing Ode’s to the King or Queen of their day with varying levels of success.  The greatest of the great was Lord Tennyson and after his death the post stayed vacant for four years as there was no-one good enough to fill his shoes.  Quite right too.  My maternal grandmother, Nanny Lily, loved poetry and her one claim to fame was when she was picked from her class to read The Charge of the Light Brigade to a packed auditorium of servicemen.  Nanny Lily described the scene many times, so clearly, it felt like I was there:  the whole audience hushed, doubting eyes suddenly pin sharp on my Nan as she took them on the journey of the brave 600.  The drama of her performance held the whole room spellbound, tears springing into war weary eyes as soldiers made comparisons to their own rushes into battle.  A natural performer, Nanny held the audience in the palm of her hand right to the very last word, a gentle hush preceding thunderous applause.  Her fondest memory is, as she walked away, one of the red eyed soldiers pressing a half crown coin into her hand: a small fortune to a young girl from a family of thirteen kids who lived mostly on bread and jam.  I read that poem again yesterday and I could still hear her voice carrying it with such passion.  Maybe her love for Poetry is coming out in me.

I’m no Tennyson but I can happily lose many hours penning jaunty poems on modern themes aimed at making children smile.  When I write from a place of true memory the words flow; when I use my brain to try to conjure up contrived events the lines stumble over each other. 

So, its over and out from Wendy in Newport Beach.  Keeping it real (in rhyme).

Running

The sapphire ocean throbs; grainy mounds swallowing my feet as I scramble toward the crushed shoreline.  Grooved shells play peek-a-boo as the waves wash to and fro a fresh covering of sand. The never-ending roar highlights the severity of Mother Nature and I imagine a tidal wave smashing against the jagged rocks and tossing me out to sea.  A terror I would hate to know. 

The burn of the sun flames my skin and I can feel the first trickle roll along my spine as my exertion begins to ramp.  Just as I’ve been tutored, I raise my knees high, pumping my arms like rods on a steam engine, surging to a pace that finds its natural rhythm.  The untouched landscape, raw and vital, hems me in, the jaded cliffs looming like a Giant shadowing its prey.  I edge closer to the foamy waters, the firmness underfoot addressing the screaming of my thighs. 

A stream born out of the past evening’s storm cuts off my passage, so I retreat through ragged palms and seaweed bulbs, my ankles buckling in the unstable terrain.  Flies swarm, military in their flight, as their temporary home is disturbed under the thunder of my worn out shoes. 

Not far now until the final test separates girl from woman, winner from also ran.

I cannot hear my breath but I feel its struggle as it fights to fill up my lungs never quite being enough.  The steep cliff path beckons and I begin my ascent steeling my nerve, quieting the voice that shouts ‘give up!’ 

All is hell now.  Limbs, heart and air go wild as I weaken, a sob at the back of my throat, tears threatening as I pound: left, right, left right.  I can see the horizon, hear the distant motors purr, the finish line edging close but at a snails pace.

Finally, I’m there!  I want to scream ‘Victory!’ but cannot; instead I plunge forward dizzy but elated.  As the adrenaline ebbs I take one final mental snapshot and it dawns: the coastline’s beauty is never lost whether free to roam within its womb or spied from lofty ledge.  I marvel life’s fortune and go home. 

Sunny Side Up: Losing the Plot

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Losing the Plot

If I had thought that the cult of the wannabe was an overblown myth then I’ve learnt to think again.  In Southern California you can guarantee that any party of five or more that you find yourself socializing in, at least two or three are in the ‘biz’ or trying to break into it.  I’ve met a screenwriter, a theatre production director, a gospel singer, a handful of actors and actresses and a million writers.  OK, not a million, but at least a dozen and I’ve only been here three months.  The whole vibe is an artistic one and no-one is in awe of you or thinks you are self indulgent.  It’s the opposite.  You are expected to explore and develop your talent; after all, this is the land of opportunity. 

With this kind of nurturing and positive environment you’d think having the amount of time on my hands that I have, my writing would have flourished and I’d have half of my next novel flowing out as I sat at Crystal Cove listening to the waves crash.  Wrong.  Life just doesn’t work like that.  My narrative flow has ground to a shuddering halt.  I don’t know whether it’s the newness of everything that I find overwhelming, or the realization that I am a tiny grain of sand on a beach-full of aspiring authors.  It has taken time, longer than I thought to find my bearings and allow Newport Beach to get under my skin.  I wanted the setting of my latest novel to have an American feel but this couldn’t happen over night.  Californian culture takes time to soak up and I still haven’t really gotten into their take on how life is.  I’ve only just scratched the surface, which doesn’t make for a scintillating read.  Characters need depth, contradictions and secrets that ring true to their environment and this can only be nailed through time and a whole lot of people watching and listening.  Thankfully, being an introvert, I’m just the woman for the job.

So, I’m ten thousand words in after three months hard labour but have now pulled in for a pit-stop.  But all is not lost.  I’ve been studying hard and thrown all my efforts into characterization and plot development.  I’m wrestling with my story worthy problem and battering into submission every section’s chapter worthy issue that moves the story forward.  This is not easy especially when you have three voices to perfect.  To keep my sanity, I’ve read some amazing books on the theory of novel writing and get regular issues of Writer’s Digest which is a fantastic information source for all budding writers.  In another positive twist, my overwriting has calmed into the odd burst of over exuberance and my use of similes and description mainly match the tone of the book.  Hurray for that.

My hunt for a critique group that matches the quality of the one I left behind, alas, has fallen on stony ground.  Californians are protective of their work and sensitive to any kind of criticism, which doesn’t make for the most productive of meetings.  So, on I must plod, alone, through this sticky patch until the plot shows itself to me and the strands of my character’s wants somehow mesh and mean something.  Thank goodness for Starbucks and Sunshine; my two newest best friends.