Paisley pointed out a new web site that is trying to encourage collections of poems and stories. It is called Your Poems. Yours Stories (Tell the World). I love the idea of going to a website that features other authors but allows everyone to post on the same page. I guess that is why I also like The Scrawl and it’s other page called simply Scrawl. This is a page that allows only flash fiction. It has not really taken off but I see so many possibilities in the concept.
(posted on Your Poem. Your Story)
Worry will take over sometimes. We read blogs in the dark, not knowing the whole story, only seeing what the writer wants us to see. We get concerned. A reader might say this to her favorite author:
Are you doing fine? Could you tell me why you write stories about dark places?
It is a challenge, he said. I really don’t know why I write what I write. I may write something that is sad, or sexy, or even disgusting. I guess the truth of the matter is I do it because it makes me happy.
She had called him to task. Was he sad she asked. Does he need help or company or even therapy? Should she come to his house and make chicken soup. Was he getting enough sleep or enough of anything really?
No, he answered. I like where I am, what I eat, how I feel. I smile when I write. And, he added, you must admit, the fact that you read my writing is the very reason I write what and how I write. I smile because I know you will click on my blog.
Oh, well then! Never mind…I was just wondering!
I suspect that a great deal of the time my father and mother’s spirits are sitting on my shoulder. My father is reading me poetry and my mother is telling me to not trip on the cracks and be careful, period.
My father loved to be lost on a dusty country road. I never understood how that could be until just recently. I have given up the worry and have grown to trust other’s instincts as much as my own. So when my husband spent a very long time the other day going to a very near place, I had to admit…we were lost. It is spring, the sun was shining and we know that a huge river is in the north, lots of mountains in the east and then there is the Pacific Ocean on the West. South is not quite as comfortable but we were going away from that so we felt reassured. We found the absolute end to one road after choosing to not take the other fork in the road. While we all know that turning around is not acceptable most of the time, in this case we had no choice. We both were awe struck by the beauty of the countryside. Tree farms and nurseries along with woods that had or would be cut pleased our eye. The sun dappled forest floor never ceases to make me want to sing. And my father kept reciting Robert Frost in my ear..”whose woods these are i think i know, his house is in the village though!”
I propose a toast to being lost and covered with dust once in a while!
Day 2 of my challenge. Write with a joyful heart.
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.