Story (an acrostic poem)


Solid pieces of imagination

That are forced into reality through the writer’s skill and anxiety

Order forged out of the chaos of emotions

Released into the world to live or die upon the whims of readers

Yet likely the author will mourn either way

Smith (an acrostic poem)


Selecting the right words to give strength to the tale

Managing to weld together sentences without seams

Intricate work with the hammer to make the whole thing take shape

Then quenching it with an editing pass to give it durability

How a writer forges stories from raw emotional stock



Word Count (an acrostic poem)

When sitting down in front of her computer

Olivia began her daily penance

Racing fingers

Dancing on the keyboard


Crafting new realms from the ether

Outpouring her imagination onto the page

Until she felt she could write no more that day

Nanowrimo would push her to become the writer she wanted to be

That or break her will to write till New Years.



Reality (an acrostic poem)

Richard felt around for his pen

Even though his agent had warned him

Always have a pen ready, but Richard was a bit forgetful

Leaving it here and there along this book signing tour

Is it really his fault with all the fans screaming his name

Telling him that he was their dream writer

Yet when Richard woke up, all he had written was xcdfrt where his head hit the keyboard.

Writer (an acrostic poem)

Just a quick note that I am trying to write a long form story again, but I want to keep this blog active.  To achieve both goals I am going to try to publish acrostic poems here for a bit.  A lot of people seem to enjoy them, and I like writing them.  I will also try to put a widget on the home page letting you know the number of words I have on the new story.  Still for tonight here is your poem:

Working on a puzzle of words

Raveling an idea from the edge

Integrating characters with more issues than Reader’s Digest

Transforming their lives whether they want it or not

Encapsulating the whole thing with a puzzle box plot

Remembering I still need to sleep

Seeing Red

Gail was completely flustered.  She had been writing crap, without an idea where her next novel was going to come from, so she decided to give up and go to the grocery store.  That ended up being an unmitigated disaster.  On the way over three appointments popped up that she had forgotten and consequently missed.    Also her agent had called wanting to know where his next pay check was coming from.  Okay, that wasn’t fair, but she really didn’t need to have him riding her so hard.  She did that just fine on her own.  Besides, didn’t three best sellers give her a little bit of wiggle room?

Of course just walking into the store reminded her of a couple of other things she needed to do.  “Death By Checklist is going to be the title of my next novel,” Gail muttered as she checked her phone.

A petite skinny man dressed in all black, but sporting a red beret, looked up from the amazing selection of canned beans.  “Did you say something to me?” he asked in a much deeper voice than should have been physically possible.

Gail felt a quiver in her stomach.  Okay, maybe it was a bit lower than her stomach.  “Just hate it when my checklist is longer than one page on my phone,” she replied.

“Your grocery list?” the man asked.

Gail smiled despite the topic.  That voice was magical.  “Oh no, my to do list.  I had to add a couple of things I remembered on the drive over here.  It’s the only way I can get all of it done.”

The man looked at her in thought.  Suddenly a smile bloomed on his face.  “May I see your list?” he asked.

Without even thinking Gail handed over her phone.  “See, so much to do and no time to get it done,” she quipped.

The man scrolled down a bit, smiled, and made a few more gestures before handing back the phone.  “You are right, so much to do, but now it’s all done,” he said.

Gail was confused.  Her list was now empty.  Voice or no voice, this man had just destroyed her only repository of what she needed to do.  “You deleted them all?”

“I completed them,” he replied.  “A gift to you.”

“But but,” she stammered.

“You’re welcome,” he said and began to walk down the aisle.

Gail was practically in tears.  She began to stab frantically what she could remember into the phone, but after only four entries her mind was blank.  “Maybe my next novel should be Death By Base.” She muttered.  She typed that into her checklist.  This trip was productive after all.

She was going to enjoy taking that red beret off that man, along with his head, voice be damned.

Conflicted Thoughts

Thomas looked at the screen in front of him, not knowing where to go next.  Should his hero pursue the woman of his dreams, or the woman he needed?  What about the aunt who adopted the hero when he was three, and loves him like a son, but has been pushing him away because she knows she has cancer and doesn’t want to have him see her suffer?  What about his boss and the problems he is having with drinking rum and coke to wake up in the morning, but nobody calling attention to it since he is the President of the United States?  Or for that matter the cabinet member who happens to be a scout assassin from a race of space beings who are still trying to decide if earth needs to be recycled?  So much power as a writer, but should he save his universe or trash it and start with a clean slate and hopefully another big bang of inspiration?  Thomas wondered if God was similarly flummoxed at times.