You know it’s pretty bad when you can name each car repair man and feel so comfortable you swap recipes. But it’s really bad when you see a car at the dealership next door–a newer version than what you have–sigh over the bells and whistles, exclaim to everyone around how these new models have side air bags, only to have someone point out that it’s in fact several years old.
It’s also telling how bad your car is when you know (a) the best seat in the waiting area to see and hear the tv, (b) that the rest room is super-clean, and (c) you bring a pillow and blanket.
Today I went armed with one of David Baldacci’s books. I made myself comfy, briefly looked around the assorted persons who were in several catatonic poses, and dug right in. You know how when you’re in a waiting area and try to avoid all the people staring at nothing or at your mis-matched socks, so you engross yourself in a book or sleep? You’re dimly aware of the goings on around you while you read or snore. Suddenly it seems all goings-on stop. You sense all eyes on you, except they’re not interested in your weird tastes in shoes. A few are smirking, one woman points. Then an elderly man says to you, “That must be some book!” Puzzled you look around. The loaner car guy is standing at the front of the room, dangling car keys, and highly exasperated. He calls your name. You realize that’s probably the fifth time he did that.
As you can surmise, that was me today. Happily walking down Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington D.C. with the main character of the book, becoming her best bud.
I was jarred back to reality and to my last-legs car, a car that was gobbling money in repairs and running like someone with a cast on, sounding asthmatic. This time, though, it was me who was the entertainment in the car service center. (You can read about my past fun experiences here .) At least I don’t have to wonder what I’ll blog about on the days my car decides it’s getting old.
For me, whether my poetry should rhyme or not has never caused me angst. Not even for a nano-second. When I sit down to compose a poem, my brain speaks to me in rhyme. My fingers won’t allow anything but rhyme. And as for reading poetry–give me a good rhyme anytime.
Which brings me to my own poetry and how it stacks up to others. Well, let’s just say mine produces laughs. There was a time when I wasn’t sure if it was because the poetry was so bad or the rhyming convoluted, but editors call my poems ”witty,” “tongue-in-cheek,” or simply “humorous.” Here’s a recent example: Ode To An Abode.
I honestly never start out trying to be funny. I think if I did that, the poem would fall flat on its face. I reread it out loud so many times my voice gets sore. But then I’ll put it aside and a few days later look at it and wonder “what was I thinking?” Sometimes the rhyme comes out sounding forced and that’s definitely not good. I don’t call myself a poet, not by a long shot. I’m still learning, still trying to differentiate between meters. (This is a good place for the basics.) Meanwhile, the good thing is I’m getting people to reflect, or laugh, or both. And the poems get published.
And that makes me happy. 
Of course, not necessarily in that order. Usually, though, I have the plot first, then the setting, then the characters slowly flesh themselves out for me as I write. Then I jot down little things about them, to remind myself that Dave in the story doesn’t eat meat (don’t want him order filet mignon in a restaurant).
This time though I have three of the main characters pictured. I can see them. I know what they’re like. What they like. I have the plot and even a few sub-plots. Of course, this could all change in a snap. My problem is I don’t have the setting. Without that, where do the characters move around to? Someone on a writer’s board (half-jokingly) suggested Iceland. Hey, maybe that’d work. I have a friend who lived there for several years. Or, if not Iceland, an island above latitude 45 degree. Cold with a rocky shoreline.
What it all comes down to in writing is that not one way always works. And you have to do what works for you with that particular manuscript.
