Words

To my surprise and everlasting delight, I'm part of a writing group. We meet a couple times a month to share our current or past or dream projects. We talk about words. We applaud well-developed characters. We can't wait for the next installment of the novel or play that so-and-so is working on. An intriguing phrase can keep us occupied for an inordinate amount of time. We inspire each other. We call ourselves Les sardines, which seems oddly inappropriate for people who first met just seven months ago, but we gather in fairly small spaces. So.

At the suggestion of a fellow sardine, I'm beginning to write a story I told at our most recent meeting. Initially, I was holding the story up to the light, pressing my ear against its hive. Then I ran right into the story's emotional crux, and now I'm beating it with a hose, torturing a confession out of it.

This is the bit about writing that can really suck. I know that if I can get up on the skis, it'll be great, but right now I'm on my butt, my arms are burning, and I seem unable to overcome the resistance of the lake.

[I am indebted to Mr. Collins for the apropos images and to Mr. Troy for the introduction to Mr. Collins.]

"Introduction to Poetry"
from Sailing Alone Around the Room by Billy Collins

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem's room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to water-ski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author's name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.