continuing a writing habit

Today I'm guest-posting for my inspiring novelist friend Katharine while she and her husband Marc take their five kids on a cross-country adventure via minivan.

Katharine squeezes writing into her homeschooling schedule — note the five kids — in 10-minute increments. Keeping with the spirit of 10 Minute Writer, I’m sharing my story of how I’ve integrated my passion for writing with my own life. Head over to 10MinuteWriter.com to read the rest.

items found in old room

Below are samplings of items I found while cleaning out my old room, so my mom can turn it into a nice guest room that isn't banana yellow and purple with yellow stars. I can't imagine why she thinks it needs an update...

• notes written from Britni and other friends while in class (in high school)
• recruiting info and applications from ivy league universities (had to keep those to brag, right?)
• Mickey and Minnie Mouse coloring book pages
• my sticker collection
• pumpkin carol lyrics
• turkey carol lyrics
• Britni and I's duets from forensics
• N'Sync fan fiction Britni and I wrote in middle school
• ACT results
• my gumwrapper chain that was a last measure 109 feet and 10 inches long
• hello kitty items from family in the Philippines
• a sweet quilted red with tiny white hearts mik mik billfold
• my postcard collection
• scraps from all of my sewing projects
• an unfinished quilt from Grandma made by my great-grandma (leaving in Oakley so maybe my family can take it to the person who quilts here, to finish it)
• Lord of the Rings collectibles
• the rough draft of a poem I wrote in 6th grade that made the "Anthology of Poetry by Young Americans" — I was such a great poet. (see below. and I also discovered Caleb has a poem in the 2006 edition — runs in the family!)

Footprint
*note, this is typed up from my rough draft copy and not the anthology book...
I walk along, and as I go,
I see a pool, a hole.
I wonder, I ponder, I stop to think.

What was it?
Was it a giant T-Rex chasing it's prey?
Or a giant dinosaur just walking this way?
A flying dinosaur, starting to land?
Or a tiny one, that would fit in your hand?

What happened?
Was it a giant flood, that made them drown,
a climate change that turned the world around?
Did a meteor hit the earth so hard?
Did a great freeze kill them off?

Where did they go?
Did they simply disappear, into thin air?
Or are they still alive somewhere?
Were they funneled into another land some way?
Are they under the ground we walk on today?

I walk along, and as I go,
I wonder, I ponder — how much we do not know.

42nd Street

The magic is gone on
the other side of the curtain.

Surrounded by inexplicit nudity,
sweaty bodies with gaudy makeup
carrying cheap plastic wine glasses.
The ancient chugging motor
rests behind the backdrop
waiting
for the right moment to expel
the battered mechanical platforms
that create the fantastic finale staircase
in an explosion of lights, music, and tap shoes.

The characters disappear at the edge
of the stage, and are replaced with
gossiping groups.
Who jumped the sexuality line?
Who will next?
Is RJ single
again?
Which cute girl on McCain’s staff
is available, so I can hit on her?

I catch a glimpse of the audience
beyond the cliff that drops
to the depths of the orchestra pit,
completely immersed in the story
only found on
the other side of the curtain.

Baby It’s Cold Outside

Late November, and
the snow races across the hills,
creating a wall of white ice.

They cuddled on the sofa
Submerged in a luxurious bath of blankets,
faces illuminated by images on TV
that they didn’t see.

The radio announces interstate closing
but she only needs to make it a little further
to beat the storm, and she refuses
to be stuck sleeping on a crowded gym floor.

They shared mint kisses
and sparkling grape juice
and talked about life, love,
God, the time that he shot out
a store window from the roof
of his house at age 7,
and their future, together.

She squints, leans forward, slows down.
The wipers race a mile a minute,
but it is still so hard to see.

He leaned in and
she met him halfway.
“I can feel your heart beat, fast.”
Nose to nose, she smiled and nodded.

Suddenly the tires slide.
The wheel is rendered ineffective.
Her mind blank, disbelief.

He thought to himself about
how perfect she was, for him,
in every way his complement
“I love you more than yesterday.”

Flashing lights,
a snowflake of twisted metal,
a white sheet,
and an emptiness, full
of grief and broken dreams.

Day of Reckoning

Threshold

Smalltown, Kansas

“Through a magnifying glass, the smoothest and whitest skins look rough and coarse and ill colored.”
~Gulliver’s Travels, Part 2

i.
A tiny oasis breaks the vast horizon.
The remnant of a Leave-It-To-Beaver world
with perfectly manicured lawns,
smiling faces,
and the quintessential
American homes.

ii.
He broke the cardinal rule
of their open marriage.
His 53 women, her 47 men,
but then he brought one home.
She meets her lawyer tomorrow.

iii.
Student body president,
star basketball player,
and honor roll student,
heading back into town for more booze,
joking with the cops, who let them go,
then dying for the life they secretly hate.

iv.
There’s something a little bit,
funny, about him.
The son of two curious siblings
who went out to the field
for an afternoon of discovery.

v.
A secret list down at the P.D.
The ones they can’t arrest for anything
short of murder.
The ones who always get
whatever they want.
The ones who make up
the oligarchy
in the middle of
America.

They Call Her Kate

She stumbled in
to the darkened front room
tears silently streaming down her face.
Not so different from being

alone
in a hot, crowded room
full of smoke,
and sweaty bodies,
the overpowering smell of alcohol,
and the one person
she thought mattered in her life.

In high school, she used dancing, cheering,
a boyfriend, a best friend,
and a golf course community castle
to mask the pain of a life broken by
disappointed love
and a pseudo-mother only concerned with
maintaining perfection in her own life.

She left to find herself.
The self smothered
under layers
of striving
to meet
expectations.

She found him.

The apparent gift
of love and acceptance
opened up to find
the same world of not being enough.
Blonde enough, thin enough, happy enough.
Devoured by the conformity
she was running to escape
once again left broken and empty.

Objects in Mirror May Be Closer Than They Appear

White lines dart past, reflecting on my window
as David Crowder, voice raw with emotion, sings
“bask in His glory.”
The last notes of the poignant guitar fade out,
but the pavement stretches on for hours.
Glancing past the passenger seat, I catch
a glimpse in the tiny mirror.

The grasses of the prairie dance
as the earth’s breath blows past,
turning into a glorious sea of grey, brown, and gold.
An austere tree stands,
every twig reaching toward
wisps of clouds stretching across the expanse.
Pastel blues, pale aquas,
gentle pinks, the lightest indigo
and the most delicate gold run together
each revealed in its distinct splendor
and glowing with an angelic light,
barely veiling the glory of the dusk’s sun.
“Majesty… finally.”

The Way the Sky Would Like to Touch the Snow

I open the deep amber door, covered with ancient scratches
and veiled with a calico print.
I am enveloped with the warm love of Grandma’s baking.
The yellow and orange vinyl floor squishes under my feet, and
is as old as the honey colored cabinetry.
She stands at her ancient rolling board, battered from years of use,
and briefly looks up and smiles, which crinkles her eyes.
Her warm voice greets me, before she returns
to measuring, mixing, folding, kneading, stamping, cutting,
and as her magic works,
bread, cinnamon rolls, spritz, pepperkocker, and more
begin to float out of the oven,
all with love and memories baked in.

3, 9, 0, 5, and the light flashes green, signaling to us that
it is safe to open the heavy metal door.
The odor of age and the acrid smell of disinfectant
assault my nose.
Our steps echo on the discolored tile
as we walk past mechanical armchairs
to the table where Grandpa, motionless,
is now parked.
I say hello, but am unsure
if he hears me, and am certain
he no longer knows me.

Grandma sits beside him, takes his lunch tray,
and lovingly feeds him, smiling,
telling him about her day,
how we came to visit,
but his gaze towards the far wall never wavers.
Potatoes, jello, ham, and then, to top it off,
she presents a special treat from home.
He grips her hand tightly, and she squeezes back
fulfilling a promise made 50 years ago.

He is moved to a chair, and she follows to sit with him,
reaching out to him,
the way the sky would like to touch the snow.
My vision clouds as a tear escapes, and I watch,
two lovers, hand in hand, and worlds apart.

The Great Frosting War

You smile sweetly,
“Aww, cupcake, just one bite”
and with your outstretched arm, offer a token
of friendship and love – a white spatula,
heaped with mounds and mounds of vanilla frosting.
Tentatively, I lean forward for a lick, and
with one deft motion,
I am left
standing,
shocked
staring at your smirk,
with icing in my nose.

The skirmish quickly escalates.
Taking the frosting on my face for ammo,
I quickly retaliate,
grabbing your arm to s m e a r on the white goo.
You launch a full scale attack.
Utilizing a kitchen chair to deflect,
like a ringmaster with a tiger,
you maneuver around the kitchen table.
But my attack still succeeds,
as frosting suddenly appears
in a streak
across the side of your face.

After numerous casualties,
supplies are exhausted.
We meet at the sink for peace talks.
A no fault treaty is agreed on,
both sides assisting in clean up efforts.

As I wipe frosting from your hair,
I realize,
these are the moments in which life resides.

The Language of Love

They say that French is the language of love.
Rich and beautiful, words blend into one.
Conversation transforms into an art
and all indulge in the pleasure of listening.
But difficulties are found underneath:
unsounded vowels in strings unending
sweet nothings whispers away from insults
voice dancing between passion and ruin.
Yet all of the risks are necessary,
for without an attempt, the joy is lost.
The hidden complexity gives structure.
Attention to the smallest detail gives
depth and richness for the outward beauty.
The greatest effort gives the greatest gain.

A Petrarchan-esque Sonnet

There he stands, more splendid than Leander.
To him the gods granted strength unsurpassed.
Power is revealed in his broad shoulder.
Auburn curls are the laurels he’s amassed.
So sweet a face the world has never seen.
Refreshing wellsprings of joy are his eyes.
Glistening snow dims with his smile’s sheen.
His ever playful lips are my demise.
Angelic choirs sound not so sweet
when compared to the rich strains of his voice
And gentle Hero is a brutal cheat
set against loving kindness, his by choice.
I know not why God chose this to grant me
But of this I never wish to be free.

Innocence at 4

Yesterday, the little boy next door
wanted to play.
But the driveway of gravel rocks
and piles of matchbox cars
were only fun for a little while.
So he asked me to come inside and play
and promised he had an amazing prize
just for me, if I would.

So he took me into a dark and dirty bedroom,
crumpled clothes everywhere
and he told me to crawl under the bed.
He followed me, blocking
the rectangle of light,
made by the wooden planks
and shag carpet.

I went home.
I don’t like him anymore.
He’s a liar.
He never gave me any prize.

Radioactive Bob

Bob peered through thick glasses, watching
as bleary eyed students poured into the lecture hall
until it was filled to the brim.

The bell rang, and he began his monotonous chore
of scratching an illegible language onto a dusty black expanse,
dutifully turning the emptiness into wavy lines of
incomprehensible characters
as he droned on and on
about poor small bunnies caught up in mudslides, lithified
and now pumped into our glimmering SUVs,
loesses, composed mainly
of wind deposited, air breathing snails,
and the dry and barren deserts
in the nothingness of western Kansas.

The count of sleeping students rose,
1… 3… 4… 7… its time
“LAVA,” his foot crashed to the floor, disturbing their slumber
“becomes either aa or pahoihoi…”
Eyelids drooped again.

The lights dimmed as giant pictures of unearthly
scenes flashed by at the front of the room.
Bob whacked the screen, pointing out the massive
pencil length boulders from every corner of the world
and sighed inwardly to himself.
He had found those trips and specimens so fascinating.

As the bell rang and the lights glared back on,
he reflected on his illustrious career and
watched uncaring students shuffle past.
“Tomorrow,” he thought, “I’ll try again tomorrow.”
And resolutely began to gather his things.

Homecoming

i.
Once a year, the primal high school ritual is interrupted
by pomp, frill, and a tiny, sparkling circlet.
Coach protests, but who can stop
the force of a thousand voices
with precedence on their side.

ii.
The battle’s triumphant hero boasts, “95 yards!
Sainty can kiss my ass!” then throws
his golden arm around his next big catch
knowing full well the reward she will bestow on him
before he must sneak back through his window,
still inhaling her lingering perfume.

iii.
He tosses his worn jacket on the couch.
As he walks in the door, a sigh steals
past his lips, despite his best defense.
He should be content with another W
in his already illustrious career.
Bracing himself, he calls, “honey, I’m home.”

iv.
I sit in the stands, alone
in the midst of a mob of screaming fans
watching numbers I no longer know.
Four years I devoted my life to this,
and now it all has faithlessly left me behind.

v.
Time runs, and I remain standing in its dust
Is it all meaningless?
What do you do when home is no longer
home.
Suddenly an ethereal peace fills my empty soul
with the One who always welcomes
me with open arms.
The dust settles. I belong.

Absolution

He doesn’t look at me – can’t look at me.
I stare past my reflection in the glass to see
street lights flickering past on empty concrete,
a road devoid of any movement.
Silence presides over the apprehensive gray chamber.
He waits.

I turn to see
his statuesque silhouette etched in the dim light
his marble hands clenching the wheel
his apprehensive and anguished face
his beautiful eyes blinking back the tears.
Gently, I rest my hand on his arm
and whisper reassurance.
His tears pour down with a thankful smile.

Leaving Paradise

The alarm sounds its shrill blast,
interrupting an intoxicating dream.
Morning light floods in and quickly burns away
the fragile wisps of thought.
You roll over, vainly hoping that
a few more moments
will return the dream that floats
just beyond consciousness.

Lying there, you realize the futility
of your efforts, and instead
turn your thoughts to the present.
Eyes closed, you sink back down
into the soft sea of nothingness
and listen as the house outside your room
slowly yawns and stretches to life, not unlike
eternal mountains awaking to a cool, dewy morning.

As a warm, rich, almost tangible scent drifts under your door,
the hiss of this ancient morning ritual is heard
momentarily, before becoming drowned out by the sound
of thousands of glistening soldiers marching down, down
into the battered and scarred porcelain that rests
in the room just behind your bed.
With a sigh, you slowly rise,
alone,
momentarily adrift in a boat of sweet solitude,
before plunging your feet to the cold, wooden floor
to begin another day.