Before and After

I think I can honestly say without hesitation, pause, or doubt that I didn't always want to be a writer.  I can't imagine my young self thinking, "I want to write for the rest of my life," because then, writing was schoolwork.  I used to cry over little assignments and whine about the work.  But somehow, I made it through that rough spot and conquered the feeling of disgust towards that foul writing!

I looked back through my folders of old school assignments that I kept to look back on, and I found one that I really liked.  I was nine years old at the time, still in that stage of, 'I don't like writing.' This is a poem about what Blue is.  I wish that I could share my little childish drawings, because, though I am a bit biased, I think they are rather cute.  However, I will do my best to share it with you as accurately as it is written, right down to my spelling, punctuation, and grammar rules.

Blue

Looks like a flower in a meadow,

Smells like a fresh blue berrie pie, 

It tastes like cotton candy

it sounds like a baby boys coo

and it feels like my Jamies so new

I'm older now, and I love to write, for it is the music to my soul and it fuels me.  One of my first blog posts was a poem about what I thought Blue was, and I think that I may have improved slightly:

What is Blue?

Written by Janelle Spiers 

Inspired by Mary O'Neill

Blue is a sapphire

Concealed well in a stone

A treasure forgotten

All alone.

Blue is a breaking heart’s moan.

Blue is cold,

A biting wind, sharp and cold.

Blue is a song

Blue is a car,

A lake, a clear sky,

A dying star.

The sound of blue is 

“Dong! Dong! Dong!”

A death knell rings

A mourning song.

Blue is bliss –

A gentle day,

Without a care

Happy and gay.

Blue are berries

And a pair of jeans,

The banner of rich kings and queens

Blue is a feeling 

Bitter and sweet

So melancholy

You feel defeat.

Blue is eye color

And watching the news

Blue is a risk

Win or lose.

Blue is lost

Beauty to be found

A peacock plume

Lying on the ground.

Think of what picnics

And rainbows can’t do

Bright parties, rolling waves

If they couldn’t glow bright with

Blue…

I wanted to reflect on the change I have seen in myself and I found it amusing and pleasing.  It's like a before and after picture: Before I wanted to write and did it because I had no choice on the matter, and After when I desire to write without stopping, and feel sad when I have to stop, because I have no choice on the matter.  What kinds of things did you dislike when you were little and now love them so much, and have you any proof to look back on?

Always Something Stronger

Though there is trial in the world, pain, loss, and heartache, there is something sweeter, something stronger, and something more sincere than the hardest fall or the longest night.  There is love...

One of my absolute favorites by Andrew Peterson, the singer of many songs and the author of many stories that I have lived and love: After the Last Tear Falls.  No matter what goes on in life and how many hardships have to be fought, there is still the overwhelming power of love that surpasses all understanding.  And that's really neatly written here by Mr. Peterson. 

After the Last Tear Falls ~ Love and Thunder

Andrew Peterson

After the last tear falls
After the last secret's told
After the last bullet tears through flesh and bone
After the last child starves
And the last girl walks the boulevard
After the last year that's just too hard

There is love
Love, love, love
There is love
Love, love, love
There is love

After the last disgrace
After the last lie to save some face
After the last brutal jab from a poison tongue
After the last dirty politician
After the last meal down at the mission
After the last lonely night in prison

There is love
Love, love, love
There is love
Love, love, love
There is love

And in the end, the end is
Oceans and oceans
Of love and love again
We'll see how the tears that have fallen
Were caught in the palms
Of the Giver of love and the Lover of all
And we'll look back on these tears as old tales

'Cause after the last plan fails
After the last siren wails
After the last young husband sails off to join the war
After the last "this marriage is over"
After the last young girl's innocence is stolen
After the last years of silence that won't let a heart open

There is love
Love, love, love
There is love

And in the end, the end is
Oceans and oceans
Of love and love again
We'll see how the tears that have fallen
Were caught in the palms
Of the Giver of love and the Lover of all
And we'll look back on these tears as old tales

'Cause after the last tear falls
There is love

Happy Birthday, Robert Louis Stevenson

Today, November 13th, was the day Robert Louis Stevenson was born back in 1850.  He is mostly remembered for his novels like Treasure Island, Kidnapped, and The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, but I chose a few of his poems to share with you.  They are a nice, less familiar side of Stevenson that I thought should be remembered.  He would have been 164 years old today!

Bed In Summer

In winter I get up at night
  And dress by yellow candle-light.
  In summer quite the other way,
  I have to go to bed by day.

  I have to go to bed and see
  The birds still hopping on the tree,
  Or hear the grown-up people's feet
  Still going past me in the street.

  And does it not seem hard to you,
  When all the sky is clear and blue,
  And I should like so much to play,
  To have to go to bed by day?

In The Highlands

In  the highlands, in the country places,
Where the old plain men have rosy faces,
    And the young fair maidens
        Quiet eyes;
Where essential silence chills and blesses,       
And for ever in the hill-recesses
    Her more lovely music
        Broods and dies—

O to mount again where erst I haunted;
Where the old red hills are bird-enchanted,       
    And the low green meadows
        Bright with sward;
And when even dies, the million-tinted,
And the night has come, and planets glinted,
    Lo, the valley hollow       
        Lamp-bestarr’d!

O to dream, O to awake and wander
There, and with delight to take and render,
    Through the trance of silence,
        Quiet breath!       
Lo! for there, among the flowers and grasses,
Only the mightier movement sounds and passes;
    Only winds and rivers,
        Life and death.

Autumn Fires

In the other gardens
And all up the vale,
From the autumn bonfires
See the smoke trail!

Pleasant summer over
And all the summer flowers,
The red fire blazes,
The grey smoke towers.

Sing a song of seasons!
Something bright in all!
Flowers in the summer,
Fires in the fall!

Requiem

Under the wide and starry sky
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.

This be the verse you grave for me;
"Here he lies where he longed to be,
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill."

An Epitath to the Change of Scenery

I am to try my hand at a sonnet today in honor of the changing season from Autumn to Winter.

An Epitath to the Change of Scenery

Fallen leaves of autumn have taken flight

And sail away into the burning glow.

Weary, barren trees tremble in their throe

And winter wind has come to kill and bite.

The gentle frost turns in to say, “goodnight.”

A verdant world is turning into snow.

Gales of mist, foggy cold, bluster and blow

Into corners inhabited with light.

The day is shorter, chilly cold, and raw

And all of it slips quietly away.

But ne’er shall a wintery twilight

Steal away coldly through red mittened paw;

When icy tendrils cling to frozen spray

The whole wide world will take again to flight.

A Flight of Fancy

A Flight of Fancy

Janelle Spiers

The Flight Of Fancy: A Collection of Short Story Samples All Based On This Beginning Sentence...

"The rain continued to pour steadily, and I was getting sick of it."

The rain continued to pour steadily, and I was getting sick of it.  Grandmother's home was comfortable enough and was by no means unpleasant, but I was longing for a chance to stretch my legs and run around without danger of breaking an antique tea-set.  "Billy," Grandmother said with a dull tap of her cane on the wooden floor, "come sit beside the fire and read to me." 

I swung my legs wildly from where they dangled over the side of the sofa.  I was too short to reach the floor, and the distance between hard ground and my feet was a bit alarming when trying to get down.   

"Must I, Grandmother?"  I asked.  I liked the whispering sound my teeth made when I said, s. I had just lost a tooth and the hole was pleasurable for a seven-year-old to explore with his tongue.   

My Grandmother rapped on the floor again, "Yes, child.  You might as well come do something instructive and worth your young hours until the rain subsides." 

I looked at the distance between the floor and my stockinged feet.  I was going to have to jump and I prayed a little honest prayer to God, asking for his protection from splinters.  I screwed up my mouth, squeezed my eyes shut, and launched myself off the sofa.

The rain continued to pour steadily, and I was getting sick of it.  No, sick was not the right word.  Oh, poor me! I couldn't think of the word I wanted, I was too wet and shivery. I whimpered mournfully as the rain splashed onto my nose. If only Tony would have patched the roof last Saturday like he was told to.  I had overheard Mom tell Tony to, 'Fix the doghouse roof. It's got holes in it and it's supposed to rain this week.'

But Tony didn't do it, and now I suffer. Oh, poor me! The rain kept splashing onto my quivering black nose and I couldn't shake it off inside the doghouse. I made up my quaking courage to go to the Big House and see if Mom would let me in.

The rain fell harder and faster when I scooted through the mud, oh me!  All of the little drops were making me feel so sad. I climbed up to the porch and scratched at the door with timid wetness.  Mud streaked on the door, oh, poor me!  I made a mess and was likely to 'get it!' like I always do. But suddenly the door opened and Sophie stood waggling her little golden braids and chewing on fruit. My poor stomach growled like the thunder.  

 "Mom!" Screamed Sophie, "Julius is trying to get inside!"

Mom came to the door with a towel in her hand, drying a human dog-bowl, all white and shiny.  "Julius, go lay down."  She pointed with her hand towards the leaky doghouse.  Oh, poor me! I couldn't go back!

"The rain continued to pour steadily, and I was getting sick of it."  Ruth-Ann put the page down. "What do you think of that?"

Dexter pushed his glasses back up on his nose and said with knowing air, "No, no, no. It needs more drama.  More thrust!"

A nub of pencil flew over the page with extreme rapidity.  Ruth-Ann adjusted her scarf, cleared her throat, and said, "The torrent continued to pour violently, and I was feeling ill."

"No, no, no!" Dexter sighed.  He snatched the paper with a superior flourish and took up his pen.  After a few moments of tense silence, he spoke clearly and loudly, "The cloudburst on the northern horizon persisted to gush from the heavens with staunch fervor, and as for myself, I was becoming weary of such torrential rain."

Ruth-Ann wrinkled her nose. "I don't think that it sounds quite right for a children's picture book."

"Of course it does," Dexter said with a pompous wave of his hand. "I know exactly what children want, and this is what they want!" 

The Thing about Characters ~ Part 1

The Thing about Characters ~ Part 1

Written by Janelle Spiers

Characters are possibly the trickiest, but most interesting piece of any literature, movie, or play and they happen to be my personal favorite.  This is the beginning of a six part series about Characters, their must-have's, their don't-do's, and all the gritty details in between. And so without further ado, I give you The Thing about Characters.

What's In A Name?

"What's in a name?" Said Shakespeare in his famous tragedy, Romeo and Juliet.  'Tis a good question, one that we will explore in this musing about characterization.  Names are an important detail that every writer/parent should be fully cognizant of when naming anybody. 

Read this sample from Little Women, by Louisa May Alcott.

"Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.  

"It's so dreadful to be poor!" sighed Meg, looking down at her old dress.  

"I don't think it's fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things, and other girls nothing at all," added little Amy, with an injured sniff.  

"We've got father and mother and each other," said Beth contentedly, from her corner.  

The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly,— "We haven't got father, and shall not have him for a long time."
 

Now, dear reader, please read that same selection again with different names substituted for their original ones.

"Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Josephine, lying on the rug.  

"It's so dreadful to be poor!" sighed Margaret, looking down at her old dress. 

 "I don't think it's fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things, and other girls nothing at all," added little Amelia, with an injured sniff.  

"We've got father and mother and each other," said Elizabeth contentedly, from her corner.  

The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the cheerful words, but darkened again as Josephine said sadly,— "We haven't got father, and shall not have him for a long time."
 

Can you see how different they sound now?  Each of these girls has a bigger, longer name that changes her to sound more grown-up and sophisticated. If you've read the book, or know the story, you would know that all except Amelia are the true birth-names of each girl.  Now, read this one more time and see how names really do change a character...

"Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Joe, lying on the rug.  

"It's so dreadful to be poor!" sighed Madeline, looking down at her old dress.  

"I don't think it's fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things, and other girls nothing at all," added little Amy, with an injured sniff.  

"We've got father and mother and each other," said Betsy contentedly, from her corner.  

The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the cheerful words, but darkened again as Joe said sadly,— "We haven't got father, and shall not have him for a long time."

What's different here?  Well, Jo's name didn't change, but the spelling did.  It looks like a boy's name, and since it never says she's a girl, for all we know it's a little boy lying on the rug. How about Meg?  She's changed to Madeline, a french name, and when she's looking at her clothing, we can almost imagine her as the fashionista-wannabe of the family. I didn't change Amy's name, because it's already short and little, just as how she is described; it fits well.  And Beth's name is changed to Betsy, which alter's her character, too.  Beth sounds sweet and calm, whereas Betsy has a little bit more fire and warmth.

So, to re-ask Shakespeare's question, "What is in a name?"  How does a name change the person/character? Well, that happens a couple different ways.  One, how about the meaning of the name?  If Emily means victorious, then maybe her character should be brave and bold, or maybe she needs to learn to become determined and strong.  Either way, her name can affect the outcome of her personality, even if your audience never knows why you chose the it.  An author should be purposeful in the naming of any character.  From the barmaid in the tavern to the pompous king, their names should fit with the genre, the personality, and the plot of the story.

The second way a name can change is the sound/shape of the name.  If you have a harsh, cruel taskmaster who enjoys beating his slaves into submission, you should look for something with a lot of blunt sounds, like r, k, or t.  Kearn is a great bad-guy name, thanks to Mr. Wayne Thomas Batson, because it is sharp and must be pronounced with great enunciation. What about shape?  I like this one; you can be super creative.  Look at the name Jane Eyre. For anyone who doesn't know the story, Jane is a gentle, quiet, but very straight character when it comes to moral and ethical reasoning.  The tall, upright letters, mixed with some round, curved letters play into her personality, but also the length.  She is often referred to as small, and her unique last name plays into her "unearthly" description.

The last thing I'd like to mention is stereotyping names.  Anne is a name commonly associated with red hair, Henry is often the name of an English boy, and something outrageous like Sedgwick or Humperdinck is used for annoying royalty.  For whatever reason, names are often categorized by personality or appearance.  A word of caution when using stereotype names; you should either have a very good reason for using the name, such as it fits with a family name or fits the character, or you should avoid the name altogether, or even change the stereotype.  Use Anne for a blonde, prissy, cowardly little girl, instead of a spunky, redhead.

And there you have it; a chapter about names.  I started with these because you have to name a character first before all other things. :)

Comment below if you have anything to ask or to say.