National Poetry Month: Into My Own

Here's another good one by Robert Frost

Into My Own

One of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom,
But stretched away unto the edge of doom.

I should not be withheld but that some day
Into their vastness I should steal away,
Fearless of ever finding open land,
Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.

I do not see why I should e'er turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon my track
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I held them dear.

They would not find me changed from him they knew--
Only more sure of all I thought was true.


To me this poem is about plunging into the unknown, setting aside the fears and uncertainty of the future, of what lies on the other side of that journey through the dark forest.

What does it mean to you?

Thanks,

Kristin : )

Writer Wednesdays: Lane Stephens

Me? A Writer?

Lane Stephens

My entire professional life has been involved with design and art. From the age of 10, when I won my first art competition, I knew I was going to be an artist. College, then advertising agencies, magazine publishing, retail advertising, and restaurant design were the fields in which I flourished, holding positions as designer, illustrator, Art Director and then Creative Director. I was one of those people who excelled in anything artistic. I have since left the cutthroat corporate world to become a free-lance designer/illustrator and painter, working from a studio in my house.

And through all this, I was a reader… a voracious 2 to 3 book a week reader of fiction. When my husband and I vacationed, I’d drag a tote bag of books along with me and plowed through them. While sitting on a deck overlooking the glittering waters of Cape Cod, I’d just finished a wonderful book, Peace like a River, so lyrical in its prose, it made my heart sing. I closed it and sighed. My husband looks up from his own book (I had gotten him hooked on reading by then) a question on his face. I said, “You know, I think I might have a book in me.” I put my pens and paint brushes aside and plopped myself in front of the computer.

For three years I’ve been on a path I’m determined to see to the end. I have written a novel. It’s a novel of character-driven suspense with an element of the supernatural and an interwoven theme of covetousness throughout…the wanting of that which you cannot have. I sent this grand piece of work to literary agents in a flurry of queries with high expectations of landing an agent. The impersonal form-letter rejections, notes, emails and even a rejection on a post-it slip did not deter me.

It took one kind agent to open my eyes and rob me of my innocence, taking the time to write that though my writing was intelligent and compelling, a first novel -- a morbidly obese one of 197,000 words -- was not going to be picked up by any agent or publisher.

I knew my manuscript was long by industry standards, but surely the quality of the writing would be seen! I revisited my work due to that nice man taking the time to address a newbie with some actual feedback. I cut and rewrote and cut some more. I have tightened and sharpened the prose and rethought scenes… and cut some more. At present, it is still a hefty 178,000 words. My big fat great manuscript is resistant to change.

A lovely publisher at a small publishing house took an interest in me, for whatever her reasons, and reviewed the first chapter. Her input was invaluable, though she declined to option me. She took the time to make page by page suggestions, showing me what an editor looks for and what criticism I might expect. She too, said it was too long, but I was thrilled to get a glimpse of the future. I am again taking my corpulent copy and am dieting it down even further. Every time I can delete a that or a beloved, fluffy ly word is a small triumph.

It’s an all-consuming, on-going process. I reached the point where I could not look at the story one more time without my eyes glazing over. It crowds my dreams with possible plot changes and subconscious nonsense involving it. I cringe when friends ask, “What’s going on with your book?” having heard of it since its conception. My husband calls home and asks, “What are you doing?” and my reply is still “I’m working on the book.” Yes, I am still working on the book and will continue to work until it is a lean, toned and trim piece of intelligent, compelling and publishable literature, regardless of how long it takes. Bear with me, family and friends… I am still working on the book.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

I'd like to thank Lane for being the first guest on Writer Wednesdays and thank all of you for stopping by to celebrate and support her writing journey.

Kristin : )

For more info about this series please follow this link: Writer Wednesdays: The Intro

Happy Spring & Easter

I had planned on starting the Raising Kids in a High Tech World series today, but seeing how it's a holiday weekend for my family, I've decided to postpone it until next week.

If you're celebrating Easter this weekend have a beuatiful one. If not, have a great weekend anyway.

Thanks,

Kristin : )

National Poetry Month

April is National Poetry Month and to celebrate I'm posting a different Robert Frost (one of my favorite poet) poem each week. I am also taking part in a celebration blog tour set up by Savvy, Verse & Wit . Make sure to stop back on April 15th for my post about how Robert Frost and The Outsiders influenced and led me to the writing path I am on now.

Today's poem by Robert Frost is perfect for the Spring

A Prayer in Spring

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.

This Robert Frost poem was copied from a book I purchased for my kids, in hopes of igniting their inner creative whims. Poetry for Young People: Robert Frost

What's your favorite poet or poem?

Kristin : )