Blogetary (Weblog + Commentary = Blogetary)

Whilst living in San Francisco I volunteered for the National Poetry Association, doing things like going through poems and deciding which to put in the yearly (or whenever it came out) edition, helping with the verbal poetry section, helping with events, etc.  Didn’t do much, but I liked to think I helped forward poetry in our little corner of the world.  That’s also where I first discovered Poetry Flash, a poetry newspaper for both Southern and Northern California that discusses poets, poems, readings, reviews, etc.  

Poetry is good for the soul.  It’s too bad we don’t spend more than a month celebrating it. With such great poets as as Carl Sandburg and Robert Frost and Emily Dickinson and Adrienne Rich as part of our history, as well as many, many, many others, it’s too bad there is not more emphasis put on poetry in this country.

Back when I did volunteer for the NPA, I had my first poem published in a their 1999 publication.  In honor of the last day of Poetry Month, here it is – previously published.

 Love is.  God is. You are. I am.

(subject-verb-predicate)

So, today I went out on what I hoped to be an adventure day – a day away from my nest seeking inspiration in the outer world. Unfortunately, it was a late start because I still feel like a consumptive Victorian, but eventually I made it out the door and down the street to the bus stop and proceeded to wait, and wait, and wait. Oh yeah. That’s right. It’s Sunday. The MTA schedule may SAY the buses come every 15 minutes, but in reality, no one shows up for work and I’m lucky to get a bus every half hour. Good thing I always bring something to read. This trip, I was accompanied by my new issue of Glimmer Train, which I highly recommend as an excellent literary magazine (NOTE: Not scifi/fantasy/action/adventure).
It didn’t help that I checked the mail on the way out and discovered another no thank you. The story didn’t “grab” this editor. Okay, TRY AGAIN. I was NOT going to let that get me down on my adventurous tour that was supposed to help inspire, energize and motivate me to write.

The plan had been to go up to Hollywood and explore an occult bookstore called Panpipes Magickal Marketplace that I had found online, then to the LA Times Festival of Books and after that to Shoe Pavilion for some much needed pairs of shoes. I’m working on a short story set in an occult bookstore and though I’ve been in several in other cities, I haven’t really seen any here in LA. Usually I just see the regular New Age bookstore. I was rather excited about this one because it seems to have ties to the community and has been around since 1961. Kind of hoped to maybe walk in and speak with whoever was working about the store and explore it a bit. Well, it turned out to be a little disappointing. It was a hole in the wall type shop, which was kind of cool, but the shelves were a bit sparse and the one place I wanted to explore was the main counter but there were a couple of people and their accoutrements camped out just where I wanted to look having a conversation with the person behind the counter. From the way things were going, they weren’t going to go anywhere any time soon and I was nonexistent on their radar. So, I decided to just explore the website instead. The shop in my imagination is much more exciting anyways.

I then proceeded down to Sunset to wait, and wait, and wait for the bus that would take me to UCLA for the LA Times Festival of Books. By the time the bus showed up, it was almost 3. But wait, this bus didn’t go all the way to PCH, oh no, the last stop was Fairfax. So, I get off at Fairfax and wait for the NEXT Sunset bus to take me to UCLA. Well, hopefully I’ll at least get 2 hours of the festival in.

I haven’t been on a university campus in a while. They are nice places to hang out in usually, but I think people have become much more rude than when I was in school. Students were shoving in front of me in the stalls when I was obviously there first or just not getting out of the way when walking down the sidewalks, oblivious that there was a person walking towards them. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just becoming a cranky middle-aged lady, but it was awful. I mean, I thought that the students that came through where I work were just a small fraction of the population and that their sense of entitlement was uncommon. I was wrong. The entire UCLA campus is full of a generation of people who all feel entitled to having the right of way — their right of way.

Course, it could just be that I was cranky cuz I was hungry. I didn’t have any cash, silly me, and thought I’d find an ATM on campus. Asked directions, looked at maps, and never did find one. Did scrounge a dollar out of my purse for a coffee out of a machine. Thought I would just find a nice quiet corner in this area that had sculptures and just read for a while, enjoy myself that way. Nice big area where people are studying, and I find an out of the way corner AWAY from people. Of course, that is the one place people seemed to come to sit and eat and talk while I was trying to read in peace. And it wasn’t like there weren’t OTHER nice UNOCCUPIED benches dotting the common area.

I did stop by the California Writer’s Club booth and say hi. Didn’t introduce myself because they’re just going to forget me anyway. Not like I’m in a chartered club myself. The bright spot was visiting the USPS tent believe it or not. I love cool stamps. I suppose I could be a collector, but I don’t want to collect them; I want to use them. I want cool stamps to use on my correspondence. So, I went hogwild at the postoffice tent and bought superhero stamps and wonders of the world stamps and Ella Fitzgerald stamps. At least now my rejection slips will come back with cool stamps on them.

After that I took a much crowded bus back to Fairfax where I found an ATM and bad food to eat so I wouldn’t feel like my blood sugar was going to sink to an all time low. Then continued on to Shoe Pavilion. This was the highlight of the trip. Yes, it was the end of the day and I was tired, but I found 2 pairs of Sketchers for $9.99 each and a pair of good walking sandals for $19.99. AT LAST I got what I wanted from one of the legs of my journey, and it had nothing to do with inspiring me or motivating me to write more. No, this leg of the journey was simply to enable me to toss out the five-year-old pair of Sketchers and Clark’s sandals that are falling apart on me right now.

When I got home I had a really good conversation with a fellow writer who lives down the hall. She’s a poet and it was restful to speak with her. As far as inspiration goes, that was the most inspiring part of the day.

Oh, and I got pictures back from my day at Disney. Here are some with me and my posse!

There was a hook contest going on at Fangs, Fur and Fey, which I believe is done now.  In the meantime, however, there was much discussion about how to write a synopsis.  And, in fact, one of the topics in our writer’s group a couple of months ago was how to write a synopsis.  Whether it’s coincidence or serendipity or whatever, another blog I was reading, Coscomment did a little write up on how he writes up his four-point synopsis.  As Fuchs points out, a synopsis is like writing ad copy or being a copywriter for your own story.  Most writers write stories, not ad copy and it takes a different type of talent and creative twist to be a copywriter.  You need to look at your story as a product to be sold, and not just a story to be told.  Fuchs self-publishes his material and has a four-point system he uses to write his ad copy, or synopsis.  The below is taken from his blog:

The four-point structure is this:

1.) Setup: where does the story and/or protagonist start (i.e. what are they doing or what is their life like?)
2.) The problem: what has suddenly changed which has catapulted the protagonist and supporting characters into a whole heap of trouble
3.) The stakes: What’s at stake? What are the risks? What can be lost?
4.) The hook: give a hint of what might happen if your protagonist fails; but never, EVER end off in a question (i.e. Will Joe save the day? Will he stop the calamity in the nick of time?). Far too cliché. If a prospective customer has read thus far, then the hook is your only chance to convince them that they need to buy your book and asking a dumb question like “Will it all work out in the end?” is just another way of saying that it will.

I haven’t begun the long road to novel-writing and then seeking out an agent and trying to sell them the idea of my story, but I know a lot of people out there have.  I hope this might help you in your journey.

I’m exhausted!  Had an absolutely lovely day yesterday at Disneyland.  When I get pics or links I’ll post them.  For now, just making it through work is an exercise in stamina and endurance.   Being a princess yesterday for the day was worth it though.  =)

This was my crown:

Hmmm-hmm-hmm-hmm-hmmm-hmmmm

Some days I wonder if I should keep with the writing gig.  I was reading the Gene Wolfe issue of Fantasy and Science Fiction. I just sent a story in to them for submission, but what was I thinking?!?!?!  It’s not nearly the caliber of what’s in there.  And I have these two stories I keep messing with that just keep winding around and around and I can’t seem to find the story.  Plus, I think I talked to people about them too early so now I’m doubting them.  Argh.  Premature shooting off of the mouth doesn’t do anyone any good when it comes to writing.  I guess I could pick something else up and work on it a while.  Or maybe I should just get over this darn hacking, consumptive cough so I don’t feel like some Victorian who needs to go to the seaside or the mountains to take in a “cure” in the “baths” or something.

Okay, now I really am going to go do those dishes.

Science Fiction Book Club Blog has a list of actual real published people to read for free in honor of Technopeasant Day. Check it out when you have time.

In keeping with April as Poetry Month and in honor of Jo Walton’s International Pixel Stained Technopeasant Day, I am going to blog a little bit about Sonnets and then show you some sonnets I have written.  The sonnet is not nearly as appreciated as it used to be, though it has recently come back into favor.  They’re rather enjoyable to attempt and if you can do it, it’s as elegant a form of poetry, I believe, as either the Chinese or the Japanese form of poetry, in its own way.

In general, sonnets tend to have 14 lines, 10 syllables per line, typically iambic pentameter (daDUM) with specific rhyming schemes depending on the type of sonnet. Sonnets may be a little different in the 21st century, but in general there are three accepted forms. The Italian, the Spenserian, and the English, or Shakespearean Sonnet.

The Italian sonnet was an interesting form since it was sometimes a puzzle poser.  The first 8 lines of the sonnet may pose a question or problem for example, while the last 6 lines would present a possible solution or resolution. The rhyming scheme could be abab/abab/cde/cde or perhaps abba/abba/cdc/cdc or some variation on that theme.  Wikipedia uses a John Milton poem as an example, though Dorothy Sayers has her heroine Harriet Vane write an Italian Sonnet in concert with Lord Peter Whimsey in the book Gaudy Night.

The Spenserian Sonnet is named after Edmund Spenser, an English poet, who changed the form to suit himself.  Basically three quatrains, one cascading into the next, ending in a couplet.  The rhyming scheme might look like abab/bcbc/cdcd/ee.

English poets continued to rewrite the sonnet to suit themselves and came up with another form that Shakespeare was fond of using.  This type of sonnet also used three quatrains and a couplet (the English like their couplets), but instead of having a cascade, where one rhyme set reflected the one above, these would be three separate quatrains. So it looked like abab/cdcd/efef/gg.

If you follow the above links in the second paragraph you can see examples of what that poetry would look like when done well. Down below is what I have done in the past when attempting to write my own sonnets.  Some of them (most of them) use near rhyme rather than exact rhyme, and I think I fudge a little on the syllables and iambic pentameter.  It’s an effort, anyway.  If you have time and the desire, see what you can do on your own.  For now, here are my offerings:

Sonnets by Rachel V. Olivier

To Pan

A gossamer thread of a spider’s web
sparkling with dew in the early morning sun.
I feel tiny threads on my arms, face, legs,
clinging to me in wisps where ever I turn.
Enchanting, seducing, bewitching me,
I hear the siren call of your summons.
Web twinkling under forest canopy
you stand, hands out, and to my heart beckon.
Do I answer? Be in your web enmeshed?
Be entangled in your strands like the rest?
If I come to you I will be devoured -
on your web my corpse a permanent guest.
And if I persist in letting you in
who’s to say that it won’t someday happen?

Look Out Point

Some drops of rain on a painted canvas.
The smell of crushed pine needles under foot.
Rain from a mountain storm tears down a rut.
The breath of a butterfly in my pulse.
I hear the pine trees talk and fir trees sing
as the birds chirp and the squirrels scold at me.
I gaze from the mountain top to the sea
mindful of the buck near to me browsing.
The uptake of air as a bird takes flight
sends a thrill up my spine as I peer down
the cliff and see the fishing boats at bay.
My heart never wants to forget the sight
or feel of this moment.  I watch and yearn
to share this with somebody.  So I cry.

A Dream – Or Is It?

Velvet soft breezes caress my body,
and like a lover’s hands play gently with
my hair.  The incense from this place holy -
the perfumes of salt air and a dianthe.
Over the percussive beat of waves are
the melodies of gull and crow mixing
as they over the water dip and arc.
In a court not of man’s making, Changeling,
taking on the shape of bird mid-flight.
I hear the mermaids singing a chorus,
praising the Creatures of the Day and Night.
Haunting phrases that sing “come follow us.”
And if I am a King’s Daughter at Heart
Then follow I must or give up my Art.

In Captivity

Layer by layer by layer we start.
Our conversation punctuated by
Laughter, Ideals, Philosophy, and Art.
Images of sex flash behind my eyes
as we talk by candlelight, wine in hand.
We pause – uncomfortable as how to
go on.  You are more adept at it than
I.  This exposing of self to me new.
You clasp my hand, but I, I need my bounds.
Knowledge is power and you frighten me
with what you know already.  Giving ground
to you I am lost uncontrollably.
I am used to knowing without being known.
I suppose I will never write this poem.

2:18 AM

I stand at the screen door waiting for some
one (who will never show up.)  Outside I
hear the clamor and crash of the street bum
who visits our neighborhood on Wednesday nights.
He shops at our garbage cans looking for
Meaning, Life and bits of Treasure in the
scraps of refuse we leave outside our door.
I lean on the door jamb thinking on this.
Where do all the thoughts go?  Is meaning in
a new “Thing”?  Is my treasure to be found
at a shop?  A gilded style garbage bin?
“T’Hell with it!” lid crashes to the ground.
I echo his thoughts as my door slams shut,
for now, Thoughts and Treasures  replaced by Gut.

Beauty

She was holding the wall up-it would seem.
Long blonde hair, searching blue eyes, graceful form.
Her pink cheeks were pinker, she being weaned
on the bottled beer in hand.  She was torn.
She longed for someone to smile, stop, and talk.
She hoped nobody would see her- alone.
Spying the restroom she summoned her walk.
She took a deep breath as she reached the phone.
At last-a prop.  She leaned against the shelf,
pretended  to call a friend to meet her.
She should never have come she told herself.
A prisoner, Beauty was her jailer.
Alone-she would arrive and lonely-leave.
This is what Beauty charges as her fee.

That other Maybe flipped over to a No Thank You. But, again, it was a personalized No Thank You and a kind one. So, maybe I am moving a little closer to some of my stories finding a home somewhere.

In Vicki Pettersson’s Scent of Shadows, we are introduced to Joanna Archer, estranged daughter of a Vegas tycoon, who learns that not only do superheroes exist, but that she, indeed, is one of them. From the first paragraph to the last the reader learns about this new world along with Joanna, gulping down the pages like a 21 year old on their requisite birthday bar crawl. It was a heady brew and by the time we came up for air it was time to sleep it off.

In Pettersson’s second novel in this series, The Taste of Night, Joanna has had six months to mature into her new role, just enough time to learn enough and gain enough confidence to get herself into trouble. Like any superhero who has first become accustomed to their powers, her emotions and mindset have not necessarily caught up with the acquisition of her powers.

We’ve all cringed as we watched our favorite heroes make mistake after mistake in their heroic quests, always on their side, wanting to defend them against those who misjudge them and yell stop when we see them walking into something stupid. Pettersson has stayed away from the trap of making her heroine too perfect too fast and Joanna is full of faults as we watch her go through this same journey. There were times when I could barely read on because I dreaded the consequences of her actions, yet found myself picking up the book again to see just what had happened.

But, that was okay. The Taste of Night is not a book to be gulped down as Scent was. It’s darker, smokier, delving deeper into some of Joanna’s psychological issues, developing story threads and interweaving past into future in a much more complex brew that needs to be sampled at a slower pace. Sure, you could try shooting it down like a shot of Jack, but you’d miss the nuances and clues that are being laid down as a foundation for what is going to happen later. Joanna has not told the reader everything about herself and there is still more to go.

This review doesn’t really tell much about the story or plot, but I don’t want to give anything away. A simple outline of the story wouldn’t touch on the deeper structure of the story and might make it sound trite, when it’s not. Taste of Night reminds me of a very good, very dark, very expensive bourbon. In that case, the best way to understand the flavor is to pour yourself a glass, sit back, and enjoy exploring the textures and essences in your own good time.