Heartbeats

I was thinking this morning about life.  I have a cousin who recently passed away and I miss her.   She was three years younger than I am.  Did you ever think about life?  You know, how really tenuous it is.  None of us know how long we're here for, or how many beats our heart has.

I wrote a poem about heartbeats years ago.  It was written tongue-in-cheek, a little on the silly side I guess, but it rings true in some respects. You just never know, instead of heartbeats, life might be metered in hours.  I think it's important that we live it to the fullest.

Heartbeats

Life is so uncertain.

No one knows

how long they have.

What if we're all born with
a predetermined number
of heartbeats
and when they're gone,
we're gone?
Just in case it's true ,
I'm sure not
going to waste mine
running down some road
in silly spandex
pants and a jog bra.
I want to make my
precious beats stretch
to as many years as I can,
especially since at my age,
I've used up so many of them
just getting here.
I'll spread them out,
save them for what's important,
like running away from
something, or someone, bad.
I also intend to use a lot of them
for making love.
If life really is a journey
and not a destination,
I might as well enjoy myself
along the way ...

Books and Book Stores

I love book stores.  I get all warm and fuzzy when I'm in a book store.  It comes from a love for books that began nearly sixty years ago, when mama took us to the children's room of the library for the Saturday morning book readings by Miss Amy.

Even now, I can feel the magic I felt as a child the moment mama opened the heavy library door and herded us into the entrance lobby.  With each step up the stairs to the main room, my imagination came more alive.  Stories and adventures were everywhere, and I wanted to hear them all.  The towering shelves of books rose on either side of me and were visible in any direction I turned.  It filled me with such awe and wonder.

Miss Amy always sat in a rocking chair.  "The Chosen Book" rested in her lap, as she waited for the oval rug in front of her to fill with children.  I sat quietly, struggling to contain my growing excitement.  What wonderful book had she picked to read today?  Where would the new adventure take me?  Would it be sad, or funny, or maybe, even filled with danger?

Then, suddenly, it was time.  Miss Amy welcomed us to Story Time, as she slowly opened "The Chosen Book".  With the very first sentence, I was captured and the magic began.  I was no longer me, sitting on a rug in the children's room of the public library.  I was living within her words and magically transported in time and space.  That is when I knew I wanted to someday, somehow, create that very same wonder and magic in a book.

I finally realized that childhood dream. I am the author of three children's books and a collection of twenty short stories. Magically, I still relive the awesome wonder I knew as a child, when I'm surrounded by books.  In a book store, of course, I have the added advantage of being able to own the books I love so much.

Years later, I am an author.  I've done a lot of school visits, poetry workshops, book fairs, book store signings, and library readings.  I can truly say I know the joy Miss Amy felt, while doing her children's room readings.  I've grown addicted to seeing the magic, the awe and wonder, in the faces of today's children as they now live within my words ... oh, and it's always a special treat, when some of the books I'm surrounded by in a book store are mine.  

[CJ Heck is the author of four books, which are available through Amazon.com (CreateSpace), Kindle, Nook, and look for it in your favorite book store.   For book excerpts, school visits, and more information, please visit Barking Spiders Poetry: http://www.barkingspiderspoetry.com]

One Summer Morning

Every child uses their imagination. In it, they can be whatever they want to be. The problem is how to remain that way, once we grow up.

I woke up this morning to a snowstorm that must have begun last night, because there are several inches already on the ground.  It's pretty, but at my age, I've grown weary of the cold and snow.  Southern climates are starting to appeal to me more each year.  Anyway, as I was having my coffee, I thought about a hot summer day years ago...

It had been a long, hot, sticky summer. I was driving home from Walmart one morning and already it was promising to be another sweltering day.  A few blocks from home, I saw a small homemade lemonade stand that was set up in the grass along the sidewalk. It reminded me of how we used to make bookcases, back in the late 60's, to hold a stereo system. It consisted of two cinder blocks piled one on top of the other at each end, with a wide board laying across the top. 

A large hand printed sign was taped to the front of the board and hanging down. It was perfect for the little stand, printed in crooked capital letters with crayon -- even the 'N's" and "E's" in the word LEMONADE were printed backwards, which added to the mystique. It was so adorable, I just couldn't resist.  I parked my car and bought a glass for fifteen cents and told them they could keep the change from my quarter.
  
Jacob, (8), and Sissy, (6), took their business very seriously. With loving teamwork, Sissy held the plastic cup, while Jacob poured in the lemonade from the pitcher. Playing my part as a satisfied customer, I drank ALL of my lemonade -- even though there wasn't NEARLY enough sugar in it. 

I couldn't stop thinking about the little lemonade stand and its entrepreneurs. There was a poem in there, somewhere, and I eventually gave my imagination free reign.  Here it is, and there's a special little twist at the end.

The Lemonade Stand
(from the book, "Barking Spiders 2")
by CJ Heck

Get your ice cold glass of lemonade! 
Hurry, 'fore it's gone. 
We made it just this morning. 
See the table that it's on? 

We promise that you'll like it 
and there's sugar in it, too -- 
not like it was the other day 
when mom and dad said "Ewwwww." 

Get your ice cold glass of lemonade! 
Boy, grownups sure are funny -- 
they smile a lot at little kids 
who are trying to make money. 

Thank you, ma'am, and thank you, sir, 
you've helped us out a bunch. 
Sissy, let's go make some more. 
It's almost time for lunch. 

Get your ice cold glass of lemonade! 
Only fifteen cents a glass! 
We've got to make more money 
and we've got to make it fast. 

Daddy said it wouldn't work, 
that people wouldn't stop. 
They'd hurry right on past us 
and then they'd laugh a lot. 

One last glass of lemonade! 
This was so much fun! 
Let's get this table put away 
and then we've got to run. 

Sissy look ... it's snowing! 
But that will be all right. 
Now we have money for presents 
'cause Santa Claus comes tonight.


Oh, and even thinking about that summer day, my cheeks still ache from the lemon-sour pucker.

Chuck Wendig on Writing

I came across this article today and I want to share it with every writer out there.  It's a bit graphic, at times, but I guarantee that it'll bring a smile, an outright laugh, make you think, and it will make you look at the craft of writing in new ways.  It did for me.

I've only cited five here, but I guarantee, the rest are worth your time, as well!  To read the entire article, please visit Chuck Wendig's Blog. 

Enjoy!

About the Author:

Chuck Wendig is equal parts novelist, screenwriter, and game designer. He is the author of the novels DOUBLE DEAD, BLACKBIRDS, and MOCKINGBIRD. In addition, he's got a metric boatload of writing-related e-books available, including the popular 500 WAYS TO BE A BETTER WRITER. He currently lives in the wilds of Pennsyltucky with wife, dog, and newborn progeny.

25 Things Writers Should Start Doing (ASAFP):

1. Start Taking Yourself Seriously
This is a real thing, this writing thing, if you let it be. It’s not just about money or publication — it’s about telling the kind of stories only you can tell. Few others are going to take you seriously, so give them a 21-middle-finger-salute and do for yourself what they won’t: demonstrate some self-respect.

2. Start Taking the Time
Said it before, will say it again: we all get 24 hours in our day. Nobody has extra time. You must claim time for yourself and your writing. Time is a beast stampeding ever forward and we’re all on its back. Don’t get taken for a ride. Grab the reins. Whip that nag to go where you want her to go. Take control. Hell, pull out a big ol’ electric knife and carve off a quivering lardon of fatty Time Bacon all for yourself. (As a sidenote, the Germans had a name for that phenomenon: Zeitspeck. True story I just made up!)

3. Start Trying New Stuff
Branch out. Get brave. Look at all the ways you write now — “I write in the morning, sipping from my 64-ounce 7-11 Thirst Aborter of Mountain Dew, and I pen my second-person POV erotic spy novels and it earns me a comfortable living.” Good for you. Now punch that shit right in the ear. Okay, I’m not saying you need to change directions entirely — what kind of advice is that? “Hey, that thing that works for you? Quit doing it.” I’m just saying, mix it up. Make some occasional adjustments. Just as I exhort people to try new foods or travel destinations or ancient Sumerian sexual positions, I suggest writers try new things to see if they can add them to their repertoire. Write 1000 words a day? Try to double that. Don’t use an outline? Write with one, just once. Single POV character? Play with an ensemble. Mix it the fuck up. Don’t have just One True Way of doing things. Get crazy. Don’t merely think outside of the box. Set the box adrift on a river and shoot it with fire arrows. Give the box a motherfucking Viking funeral.

4. Start Telling Stories in New Ways
Another entry from the “Set The Box On Fire” Department — with the almost obscene advances in personal technology (the smartphone alone has become more versatile than most home computers), it’s time to start thinking about how we can tell stories in new ways. A story needn’t be contained to a book or a screen. A story can be broken apart. A story can travel. Your tale can live across Twitter and Foursquare and Tumblr and an Android app and Flickr and HTML5 and then it can take the leap away from technology and move to handwritten journals and art installations and bathroom walls and — well, you get the idea. Let this be the year that the individual author need no longer be constrained by a single medium. Transmedia is now in the hands of individuals. So give it a little squeeze, and find new ways to tell old stories.

5. Start Reading Poetry
Poetry? Yes, poetry. I know. I see that look you’re giving me. “What’s next, Wendig?” you ask. “We all hold hands and dance around the maypole in our frilly blouses and Wonder Woman underoos?” YES EXACTLY. I mean — uhh, what? No. Ahem. All I’m saying is, all writing deserves a touch — just a tickle — of poetry. And do not conflate “poetry” with “purple prose” — such bloated artifice has no room in your work.

Now, do yourself a favor and go to Chuck's blog and read the rest!
CJ

Child-Speak

I miss the days when my three girls were small.  Now don't get me wrong, we have a great relationship now that they're grown, and I wouldn't change one thing.  It's just that, sometimes, I miss all of the little things they did and said in their innocent exuberance for life.  

One thing I remember is how they created their own words for things.  Once I overheard a conversation between Carrie, the oldest, and Heather, the youngest.  They were watching TV together on the couch.  Carrie asked Heather if she would tickle her back for awhile.  Heather said she would, IF she could borrow a "clo" from Carrie.  Carrie was all right with that.  She seemed to know just what Heather was asking, because she said, "okay".  

Whatever a "clo" was, they had made an equally beneficial barter and both girls were satisfied.  The more I thought about it, the more curious I grew, until finally, "Girls?  What is a clo?"

Carrie matter of factly stated, "A clo is a clo, mom.  You can have a LOT of clothes, but a clo is just ONE of them."

Hmmm ... how stupid of me ...

I'll give you another example of a created word.  Sesame Street had this animated typewriter guy that had a face and it was on the word segment of the show.  It had this little song-sound it made every time it wheeled itself to the left or right, "Noo Nee Noo Noo", or something similar to that.  

Anyway, we were all in the car headed to the library one day and a tiny foreign car pulled up beside us at a red light.  One of the girls pointed and yelled out, "Hey, you guys, look!  A noo-noo car!"  The other two understood perfectly ... again, I had to ask.

What follows now is the direct result of one rainy Saturday afternoon, having to play indoors, and an imaginative and highly inventive orneriness: 

"Permagosh"
(from the book, "Barking Spiders 2)

Mommy's on the couch. 
Daddy's in his chair. 
I'm in a corner on a stool ... 
yeah, they put me here 

'cause I did somethin' naughty 
that I'm not supposed to do. 
I invented Permagosh 
mixing things with their shampoo. 

First a real long worm of toothpaste, 
then a cloud of shaving cream, 
then two glugs of mouthwash 
('cause I love the color green). 

I stirred it in a mixing bowl. 
Boy it smelled real good! 
It was even looking better 
than I ever thought it would!

Could it be a cure for cancer?
Take the itch from skeeter bites?
Or maybe, heal a sunburn
when it hurts to sleep at night? 

Two shakes of baby powder 
made it WAY too hard to stir, 
so I added Mommy's perfume. 
Permagosh smelled just like HER! 

Eww ... then the bowl tipped over. 
Permagosh was on the floor 
and when I turned around, 
my mom was by the door. 

Now mommy's on the couch. 
Daddy's in his chair. 
I'm in a corner on a stool ... 
yeah, they put me here.


Enjoy your Saturday, my friends. I know I will.
~Hugs, CJ 

New Year 2012

Wow!  We only have a couple of days left in 2011.  It's hard to believe another year has come and (almost) gone.  Personally, I hate to see it go -- I didn't have a problem with 2011, did you?

I've been thinking about all the years I've seen come and go.  Each of them was good.  Some were actually great.  I can't really remember any years that were only so-so.  Come to think of it, I don't think I ever lived in a year that I wished was over.  It's just like what Forrest Gump said in the movie.  "Life is like a box of chocolates.  You never know what you're gonna get."

I believe I've touched on what excites me about another new year -- the surprise of it all.  Of course, it would be nice to have a crystal ball.  In 2012, will I sell five million books?  Will I finally be rich and famous?  I'll just have to wait and see ...

So, come Saturday night, I'll pour myself and Robert a glass of bubbly to greet another new year ... too bad we'll probably be asleep on the couch by the time midnight arrives.

Happy New Year!

Senior Christmas Poem

I'm NOT making fun of seniors ... I AM a senior ...

A SENIOR CHRISTMAS POEM ~Author Unknown~ T'was the night before Christmas at Rock-A-Way Rest, and all of us seniors were looking our best. Our glasses, how sparkly, our smiles, oh how merry; our punch bowl held prune juice, plus three drops of sherry. Support hose were taped to our walkers in hope, that Santa would bring us soft candies and soap. We surely were lucky to be there with friends, secure in our residence and our Depends. Some of our grandkids sent Christmassy crafts, like angels in snowsuits or penguins on rafts. The dental assistant here borrowed our teeth. From them she crafted our holiday wreath. The bed pans, so shiny, all stood in a row, reflecting our candles in a magnificent glow. Our supper was festive, the joy wouldn't stop, with creamy warm oatmeal with sprinkles on top. Fruit salad with Jello, all jiggly and great, and puree of fruitcake was spooned on each plate. The social director then let us play games, like "Where do You Live?" and "What Are Your Names?" Old Mr. Looper was feeling his oats, proclaiming that reindeer were just fancy goats. Our resident wanderer was tied to her chair, with hopes that at bedtime she still would be there. Security lights on the new fallen snow made night look like day to us old folks below. Then out on the porch there arose quite a clatter (But we're all so deaf that it just didn't matter). A strange little fellow then flew through the door. He tripped on the sill and fell flat on the floor. T'was just the director, all togged out in red, who giggled and chuckled and patted each head. We knew from the way that he strutted and jived that our social security checks had arrived. We sang and we hummed in our monotone croak, till finally the clock chimed its 8 p.m. stroke. And soon we were snuggled again in our beds, while the nurses distributed our nocturnal meds. And so ends our Christmas at Rock-A-Way Rest. 'fore long you'll be with us ... we wish you the best!