Prompts for poems

Prompts for poems

can come from anywhere.

An unexpected letter from a college friend

that triggers a memory.

A slant of light that rekindles

another time and place.

The taste of chocolate (I'm remembering the taste

of chocolate icing on my grandfather's cupcakes).

The smell of the sea, 

of saltwater.

The memory of summer vacations at the shore,

the sound of a seagull's laughter.

Poems are like the air--

invisible but everywhere.

You can inhale them

with each breath.

You can taste them before 

the words form on your tongue.

You can see them

if you open your eyes.

What do you do when you run out of words?

What do you do

when you run 

out of words 

and all your ideas 

have dried up?

I keep writing anyway, 

afraid to stop on the

chance I may find more

words hidden where

I can't see them.

I don't want to lose 

any time, don't want to 

miss a single word, 

keep hoping I'll find 

some meaning 

in it all.

In life, I mean, and 

maybe in writing, too, 

some idea that gives 

it all a shape that

I can understand.

Where do you go from here?

Where do you go 

from here? How do you 

know which path to take?

What if you can't see a path 

yet? How do you know how

to carve a new one?

Where does this knowledge

come from? When did you learn

to have faith in yourself

so you could dive into

the unknown

thinking--

believing--

you could discover

pearls hidden beneath 

the surface?

Pearls that you find on occasion, 

not every time you dive,

yet you keep diving

keep hoping  

you'll find more 

waiting for you 

by the time 

you reach the bottom 

of the page? 

Gifts from the sea

Some days words come unbidden

sailing onto the page like tiny boats

blown by the wind.

Some days the page remains blank,

empty, like a cloudless sky, like a vast

ocean with a distant horizon past

which you cannot see.

Some days you can only hear waves

washing against the shore, the fog

too thick to see anything.

Some days you look for shells,

hoping to find a word or story or poem

hidden inside, and you put it to your ear

to listen.

Some days you wait and wait

like a fisherman waiting for a tug

on his line wondering what's hidden

beneath the surface, wondering if

anything is there.

Some days rain falls so hard

you can't tell the difference between

sea and sky.

Some days the sun is so strong

the light blinds your eyes.

Some days you open your arms

to heaven and words appear--you don't

know why--and you gather them up, 

as many as you can hold, gifts from the sea 

to share with the world.

Reaching for words

Each morning you reach for words 

without knowing where to look 

like a blind man pawing the air 

hoping to find something to hold onto,

something to let you know where you are, 

something to guide you, 

and you keep moving your pen 

hoping the words will come and show 

you the way you need to go, 

even when you don't know where 

to go or if you need to go anywhere.

It's like drilling for oil or searching for water.

You keep searching not knowing if you'll find

what you're looking for, what you're hoping 

to find, so you keep moving your pen

across the page hoping if you write 

enough words you'll discover what you've 

been searching for, hoping the words 

will reveal a path you didn't see before, 

hoping you'll have the strength 

to follow the path.

Where do you go to find words?

Where do you go to find words? 

Is there a store you can drive to in the mall and 

purchase them by the dozen?

Or is it like going to a deli on Sunday morning 

and taking a number, waiting your turn, 

then ordering the words you want--sliced extra lean, 

a quarter-pound or a pound, 

with a pickle or two on the side?

Or is it more like bird-watching, 

waiting in stillness with binoculars around your neck, 

scanning the sky, hoping words will come into view, 

wings spread, flying into sight so you can record 

their presence before they depart for their next destination, 

as if they might leap off the page of your journal 

in search of a permanent home.

Or is it like fishing, 

waiting for a nibble, a bite, waiting

for the line to tug down and the rod to bend

toward the water, and you can feel the words pulling

as you grope for a way to haul them up, maybe

using a net, maybe just with your bare hands, 

so you can get the words on the page, 

wet and glistening like jewels, 

gills still rising and falling, 

vibrating with life.  

Truth is in the details

 The truth is in the details. - Stephen King

The Year of Billy Miller by Kevin Henkes (Greenwillow, 2013) is the kind of book that pulls you into the story with the truth of its details. 

Each detail is so precise and reveals the truth of each character in a way that helps illuminate our understanding of where the character is, emotionally, in each moment.

The plot is almost nonexistent: Billy is entering second grade, bumps his head in a fall before the story starts, and worries he won't be smart enough for second grade. 

And through a series of small incidents he gains the insight into himself to realize he is smart. 

But the thin plot hardly matters because the details are so utterly perfect and contribute to the magic of this story, which relies on Henkes' ability to capture the sensibility of a second grader's world--both emotionally and physically--and to depict that world so beautifully on the page.

Henkes gives us details like these when he describes Billy's first encounter with his second grade teacher Ms. Silver:

Ms. Silver had chopsticks in her hair. That was the first thing Billy noticed about her. Her wavy blond hair was coiled into a bun and held in place with two shiny red chopsticks. Billy's parents like to eat with chopsticks sometimes, but he had never seen chopsticks on someone's head before.

And details like these when Billy notices the changing seasons (and the changing emotions that his father displays):

Things were changing. The light was different. The trees throughout the neighborhood were turning. Every day it seemed the leaves were more colorful, as if someone had taken a paintbrush to them during the night. There was a cool edge in the air and, lately, an edge to Papa, too.

And like these details after Billy shares an idea with his father that might help Papa with his work:

Papa leaned toward Billy and pecked the top of his head. He rose from the bed. As he walked away, his big adult frame darkened the doorway. And then he was gone. But Billy could hear him humming. The sound was low and rumbly. Simple and tuneful. Not quite happy. But definitely not crabby.

How do such details work? 

They work, I suspect, for a number of reasons:

First, Henkes manages to convey a convincing picture of a second grader's way of thinking about the world. He reveals Billy's thought process, using words that are so exact and precise that the words themselves feel almost like visible threads of Billy's thoughts that appear on the page. 

Second, the details offer a glimpse into how Billy views the world. They tell us not only what he sees and thinks, but what he feels. The light was different, changing. Leaves were more colorful. The days were cooler. And then Henkes offers us an emotional link to Billy and his sense that Papa is changing too, being crabby when he's ordinarily good humored. 

Third, Henkes has a gift for finding the right word and knowing how to place it in the right place. He doesn't say Papa kissed the top of Billy's head. He says he pecked Billy's head. He doesn't say his frame filled the doorway, but rather, with much more precision and attention to details (aware of how the scene might appear to Billy), he writes his big adult frame darkened the doorway. 

Henkes uses details to convey elements of surprise, as well, and to alert us to Billy's discoveries of new ways of seeing the world. For example, Henkes shows us how Billy views the chopsticks in his teacher's hair not just as tools with which to eat, and not just as any chopsticks but as two shiny red chopsticks. And he shows us not just Ms. Silver's hair but her wavy blond hair, coiled into a bun and held in place with two shiny red chopsticks.

Thanks to Henkes' careful selection of details, he's able to give the reader an insider's view of Billy's perspective and thought-process. Such details accurately depict what Billy sees, thinks, and feels. 

And by conveying Billy's responses to events in the story on three different levels--showing us what he sees, thinks, and feels--Henkes offers each reader the opportunity to feel as if he or she is discovering the truth with Billy on every page.

If you write with the same kind of close and careful attention to detail as Henkes, and strive to understand, as Stephen King reminds us, that the truth is in the details, then you will be able to draw your reader into your story, too.

For information about Kevin Henkes and his work, visit his website: https://kevinhenkes.com

And for more information about using details in your writing, visit: 

https://alanrinzler.com/2012/05/its-the-details-writers/

https://www.writersdigest.com/there-are-no-rules/importance-small-details-fiction-writing

https://theeditorsblog.net/2010/11/23/detail-enhances-your-fiction/

https://penandthepad.com/write-details-story-7706522.html

https://wac.colostate.edu/resources/writing/guides/detail/

What will you write?

What will you write about
in the days ahead?

The future is unknown
blank pages waiting
to be filled.

You can't know ahead of
time what words will come
or if they'll come at all.

You can't know if you'll
be able to break through
the wall of silence

or if you'll be trapped
unable to speak,
your voice not even
a whisper.

You can't know what
you don't yet know.

You only know what's
in your hand now--
the pen you're holding
the paper beneath your hand
the shadow of the pen
moving across the page.

Whatever words appear
from whatever source
they flow out of,
however they emerge,
will reveal what you
know and what
you don't know.

The future will unfurl
from the present, just
as the present unfurls
from the past.

You will only know
what you'll write about,
looking back, after
you have written.

Early Morning Reflections

Excerpts from a recent journal entry:

Up early -- 5:45 am. Still groggy from sleep.

Yesterday I started typing the historical fiction novel that I've spent the past month writing by hand. Just typing, no edits. Re-reading the story. That's all.

As I write this morning, I ask what's the purpose of this journal keeping? Is it a record of what I do? A kind of superficial summary of my life--did this, did that? Or is it something else? A way of noticing the world around me--details, incidents, comments on beauty or tragedy? Not sure. Just not sure.

I want to keep writing, but does that mean keeping a journal? Every day entries or just when I feel prompted to add something?

It feels like I'm at the edge of something and I've pushed myself as far as I can push, and the only thing left to do is take a leap into the unknown. And I keep looking into the darkness wondering how to keep going, not sure it's time to leap or if I can survive another jump, not even sure I can let go of the edge of wherever I am.

In some ways we don't get a choice. Each day we have to step into the unknown of a new day. No one knows what the next hour, never mind the next 24 hours, will bring.

It's the same on the page. I never know what the next page will look like until I start writing. I guess some writers have a plan in mind, can see a story and leap into that story. Others only find the story after letting go and leaping.

Do my words and stories matter to anyone besides myself? Why should they? Maybe the question is: how can I make my words matter? How can I write a story that matters to a stranger? What qualities does such a story require in order to matter?

In this sense, words are not value-neutral. Each word matters. Either it takes the reader into the story or it takes the reader out of the story.

How do you know when you have chosen the "right" word?