Silver Anniversary of Your Saturday Evening Poet

Tonight is a night for celebrations, a night to party in honor of the silver anniversary of this life’s beginning in my current self! Or, in less flowery terms, Sunday is my birthday and tonight, I’m going out on the town to soak up the words and sounds and vibes of the drag scene of Detroit, MI. I don’t know what it is about those special occasions that makes me think the drag queen scene is an appropriate way to celebrate, but my fair ginger lover and I are attending Rocky Horror Picture Show tonight for my birthday and I am quite excited!

So in honor of my birthday, or “hitting the QC” as I put it recently, since I will be 25, I am going to share with you a comparison of the writer I began as, and the writer I have evolved into. A “This is Your Life!” in writing. Please enjoy!

Around age 13, I got into songwriting. Big time. Was the lead singer of many fledgling bands, most (okay, all) of which did not survive past the basement door. Around age 13, I got into a LOT of things, actually. But the one that has had the most positive impact on my life (other than my fair ginger lover of course) is writing as a catharsis. I had kept journals since the age of 8, when I was presented with a tiny, lockable diary from my Grama Barb. I wish I still had that diary. I wrote in it faithfully every single day, even if just to update it on what we had for dinner. It was my friend in a time when I didn’t have many of those, and certainly none I could talk to outside of school. When I moved to live with my mother, I had real friends and the journals didn’t stop, but they weren’t much more than glorified bookends while I explored my newfound freedom.

But 13 was a big year for me – the only year I got to be a teenager. After I discovered pot, but before I figured out how to make babies. That glorious year of discovery, excitement, drama, and the invincibility. Oh, how I miss the invincibility.

I felt like a rebel then, and now, I can see why. I can see why because I still feel the same, pushing on the sides of the box I’m in, daring it to move so that I may experience something different. Looking for novelty. Feeling oppressed. Some people are just adolescent at heart, and I fear I may be one of them. Some call them hipsters, but those are different. Those people are just weird, with their skinny jeans. You wouldn’t catch me dead in a pair of skinny jeans.

If you did, it’s because of the jeans.

Looking back at this piece now, I wish I could show this to a therapist. I think I could have saved myself a lot of trouble if I had just said these things out loud rather than write them down in my passive-aggressive way and wish on stars at night that someone would save me from myself.

Please enjoy, and if you must laugh, well, okay. I did, too.

INSIGNIFICANT REBELLION

I’ve got the world in an uproar

I’m runnin’ through my house,

Slammin’ all the doors

I’m smashin’ all the windows

And pulling all the stuffing outta my pillows

I’m pulling all the carpeting offa my floor

‘Cause I’m sick of this routine

I don’t wanna do this no more.

If I wanna destroy my socks

It’s okay

You were always the first to tell me

They were ugly anyway

Let me play with my food

Throw it against the wall

It’s quite all right if I chew the phone line

Not like anybody’s gonna call

Chorus

Can’t I come home to a different place

I’m sick of this body, sick of my face

I’m tired of being forever a shame

God, just give me a new face and name

This is wearing me thin

I’m losing my grip, losing my grip

Don’t take it personal if I hate you today

It’s just that I keep working without good pay

This job sucks, being in this cage

I’d go run away, but dammit, I’m underage

All I have now is my future to look for

For now I’m content,

Slammin’ the door

Chorus X2

And I had something written on the page like, “…and fade…” because of course I was going to hit the stage someday, even if it were just at my local coffee shop, and I was going to be discovered singing this amazing song and I was gonna be the next Avril Lavigne, yessirree Bob!

I wish I could go back to being that girl, just for a little while. Just to remember what it felt like when I knew exactly what I wanted from my life. I wanted everything, and back then, there were no doubts in my mind that I could have them.

I made different choices and learned my lessons the hardest way I could figure out how. I don’t know why, maybe just to spite people. I had felt so suffocated for so long, I felt like I needed to take a breath, tell everyone how I felt, take another breath, and keep going, and I couldn’t let up from that because I couldn’t give anyone the opportunity to shush me again. I was tired of being shushed, both literally and figuratively. 

Fourteen, hormones raging, I had my first boyfriend who was willing to call me his girlfriend in public, who had a CAR (omg he was like so mature!) and was madly in love with my best friend who was madly in love with my OTHER best friend! Drama much, right?

So I decided to make myself the center of attention for pretty much EVER as far as my high school career went, and instead of doing it the right way, by being super smart and cool and having a talent like writing or singing or drama club (all of which I was good at) I got myself knocked up and did the proper penance and kept the baby. Who I love dearly to this day and she brings me joy with every awkward gangly thud she makes as she launches her beanpole nine-year-old self around our tiny house. I martyred myself for the cause that had been drilled into me for years by my father: take responsibility for your actions. Even if you screw up, stand by your work.

This is what I wrote the day I found out I was pregnant with my daughter, at 14.

TWO PINK LINES

My heart fell to the bottom of my chest as my guts flew into my throat. Everything stopped for a moment – my heartbeat, my brain activity. My pulse. I knew it, I just knew it. I was going to die.

Twin pink lines stared back at me, taunting me, screaming in my face, “I told you so!” I was so wrong. It could happen to me, it did happen to me, it was happening to me. I was…gulp…pregnant.

Somehow, my voice returned to me and a ragged scream escaped from a place inside me I never knew existed. It was a low, guttural cry of, “noo…noo…noo-oo-oo!”

After the world stopped spinning, I stood up and looked in the mirror. A stranger stared back at me. Who was this person, this pretty face with a bright future? Who was wearing those sparkling blue eyes? That girl only three minutes ago had been me. Blinking furiously, I began to see myself in a new light. My life began to crumble before my eyes.

Minutes later, I stood at the bus stop, looking like I’d just seen a ghost. I watched blankly as my hands shook like leaves in the early May breeze. Thoughts at a thousand miles per hour raced through my mind. 

One trumped them all, though, stomping on me like a steel-toed boot. “I’m scared.”

...

Then there was sweet sixteen, that wonderful year of first kisses and epic fallouts. It was a dark time in my writing, full of adult things that I shouldn’t have known about yet, didn’t understand but thought I had mastered in my short time as a writer. Because what I was writing, I felt so strongly. As I’m sure every emo girl with wispy hair and a bruised heart would say.

ALL THE LITTLE PIECES

I leaned down and picked them up. The sharp edges of each tiny piece slit the skin of my fingertips, but I never felt the pain. Blood poured from my chest where the hole where my heart used to be was open and exposed for the whole world to see my anguish. My freshly-curled hair fell in front of my face, and the tips were quickly saturated with the pooling mess on the floor. I gathered the pieces in my shredded hands and gently put them back where they belonged. I put my skin of fakeness, of bravery, back on and looked at you for the very last time before I turned and walked away. Little did I realize the shards of my heart would quickly tear away that shell. Before I took two steps, I turned to look at you again, but you were too busy ripping out your own heart to see.

...

Funny story – Eight years later, I married him.

Seventeen brought me a new romance, a new chapter in my life that, if any of my chapters could be ripped out and rewritten, it would be this one.

I wrote this just before I graduated high school, thinking I was really going to get out and do something with myself. This poem made my Creative Writing teacher cry, and for the first time in her teaching career, she awarded someone with an A+++++. She told me so, and I’m proud of it.

TAKE A BREATH

A strong-knitted sweater

With faded blue jeans

Blue eyes staring towards the sky

Grass so green grows beneath small feet

Feeling soft blades between toes

Long tousled hair blows golden

So small, a mind so deep

Where did Time go?

Friends slip so easily

Like water between fingers

Sliding into ice off the snowy roof of home

Concealing rooms to hide in,

To hide from.

Windows with autographs of Jack Frost

Translucent pictures that wonder,

Where did Time go?

Summer’s gone, coppery autumn, too

The season’s bold colors run like rain

Under dirty bespeckled city snow

Memories fade, construction paper in the sun

Those scribbles look so familiar –

Like they’re from back then,

But they’re not.

The wax is freshly sticking to the paper

A tiny pink hand with plump pillows of fat

Grasp crayons of many colors

A rainbow in a box of 96.

Art like Da Vinci,

In first grade form.

So young, so pure.

Where did Time go?

The telephone won’t ring

Hanging silent on the wall

The mailbox stands empty –

No one cares.

Doors, with deadbolts of many metals

Remain locked so tight

Papers so high in piles so great

“I’ll show you, prove you wrong.”

The fridge, almost empty

The heart, nearly broken.

Confidence, like opportunity,

Runs out the faucets.

Where did Time go?

No act of God

Nor element of Nature –

Nor man

Can change this rock-hard demeanor

Baby kisses have the power

To turn a scared teenager into a warrior.

Work – like payments in rear

Make that teenager an avenger.

A superhero, a real-live adult.

Empty mail and silent phones bring peace

Who needs to look out windows?

There’s too much time to make up for early

Too late just comes too soon.

Where did Time go?

Self-critical, overbearing, never ending

Little girl with too-big dreams

She’s not going to find

Under construction paper pictures

The intimidating piles of “to-do”

And everybody else’s “no you can’ts”

Where did Time go?

A sweater and blue jeans

Blue eyes staring towards the sky

All is right because I know

Time is in my hands.

Re-reading it now, as I write it for you, I think that this poem has a lot of different directions it is coming from, and a lot of places it’s trying to go, but I think that’s why I left it as it was. It represented a time when I had so many ambitions and so many opportunities, but I needed to figure out how to handle them all because if I didn’t, I was going to end up…

Well, let’s not talk about where I was going to end up. Because I’m doing just fine now. Life works in mysterious ways.

Eighteen brought me to Central Michigan University and the most fun I’ve had as a writer so far. Working with Robert Fanning was such a fantastic opportunity and I am privileged to call him my friend. (Well, we’re FB friends and I adore everything he produces in print.)

Some of the best stuff I’ve written so far was written for his class. It was such an interesting course to take because I had no idea how complex the world of poetry really was. My feeble attempts at rhyming some words in some kind of rhythm on a page were terribly overshadowed by the awesome things I read and heard in that room over the course of that semester. I learned about new techniques, different formats and styles. I learned about playing with the spacing and placement. It gives the poem so much more dimension when you add a few extra spaces and tabs! I love working with word placement on the page because the best poems are those that you can see in your mind. Adding movement to that picture adds a dimension that only improves the full effect. I particularly enjoy this poem because I feel like it dances on the page, a quick shimmy.

THE LIBERATION OF EDITING

Once upon a moment

                My mood was painted blue

                                You held the paintbrush to my soul

As I

                Wrapped in a box with

                                Four neat corners

Six sides so perpendicular

                And particular

                                Makes me feel peculiar

To write about and feel so great

                To liberate

                                My soul, so moldable

A sculpture, unfinished

                In your hands

As you hold in front of me

                The key, piece de resistance

                                Grand finale – complete!

The final streak across my

                Dirty canvas life

                                Make it light!

After that, I went through some dark stuff. Darker than the emo girl in me could ever dream of going. It was a bad place and there was very little written during that time that wasn’t a plea for help or a rough draft of a suicide note. But during this time, I read some pieces that really helped me to get through, helped me to see that I wasn’t the oddball, wasn’t the only person in the whole entire Universe who felt like this or was strange in these ways. I lost touch with writing because I was in a place where the writing wasn’t good anymore. It was just quick scrawls of “please” and “I’m sorry” and “help me.”

When I put my life back together, I started writing again. First with the journals. When I felt comfortable talking to paper again, I started getting a little deeper and pulling out the words that really hurt. The ones that were festering deep inside and screaming to be let out. When I did, with the help of my very best friend and the keeper of my heart, my fair ginger lover, this is what I came up with.

FORGIVEN

As were are two of the same,

I am divided, myself.

Two time zones:

Before you,

and After.

The chasing of
Destiny,

the sweetest of

victories.

Everything that ever was,

I don’t have to

succumb

to being part of it.

I don’t have to

continue

to live in vain.

I don’t have to

dream

As if I will die

Alone.

Seeing your face

For the first time,

That moment

Was upon the wing

of a prayer.

If there is a God,

If one can truly be

Vindicated,

I was.

I’m twenty five and I have three children, a second husband, a luggage rack full of emotional baggage and debt, no college degree, and no career other than the tables I turn at “Senior Suburbia Diner” for lack of the desire to get any flack for mentioning my company’s name. I have not written a book. I have not graduated college – yet. I have no publications to my name and growing stack of rejection letters.

But as my mother once told me, I have a 100% track record for getting through bad days, and it is against all possible odds that I will never, ever see my name in print. So I go out tonight, and I will celebrate my silver anniversary of life, and I will wake up tomorrow and write something new. Everyone is a story in the end – make sure yours is a good one.

 xoxo :) 

Sweetest Little Pick-Me-Up

Branching out from my seemingly-recurring theme of packing as much punch into the power of poetry, (love that line, I find alliteration so exhilarating!) let's shift lanes ever so slightly to this thought: saying so much with so little.

I watched an interesting program the other night. It featured comic forefather Stan Lee and the story of the comic book wave of popularity. One person they featured was a rough-around-the-edges wiseguy New Yorker-to-the-core type guy named Jim Steranko who told a story of a storyline he drew out, with the first 3 pages told in pictures alone. The man holding the purse strings didn't want to pay up, but with some gentle persuasion, the artist encouraged him otherwise. His defense? The audience knew exactly what was being said. So much so that the pictures (for example, of a phone off the hook, deemed "too suggestive" by the Comic Code Authority) had to be edited or replaced. Oh, the power of suggestion, and so much more so with the power of visual aids.

You can't have a poem without words - that's the best part! But, the point of it is to be succinct with your word. Consolidation, and be quick about it now!

Today falls on a very subtle holiday, hidden in the calendar, a day just for sweethearts. A Hallmark holiday created, in my opinion, as a freebie opportunity to earn brownie points for remembering. Just a moment taken between more mainstream holidays, all the hum and buzz of every other day. Sweetest Day, the quickie of holidays designed to celebrate love.

But like the fast and to-the-point business meeting between two bodies, it often doesn't happen, isn't remembered or thought of, and sometimes is ignored completely because it doesn't make sense, it isn't special enough, or is only for those who are still so in love with each other it's nauseating. You know, For Other People.

But sometimes, it's just about letting it out, satisfying a basic need. For me, this happens with poems sometimes. I'll have the words, I'll know what I want from them, and they don't comply. It is the second most frustrating thing in the Universe, I'm convinced; the first being that sensation I get when people break the "There, Their, They're" rule.

So what happens then? I become desperate for a moment to myself, a moment to get this poem out and feel better, feel a sense of relief and satisfaction. You can imagine what that might feel like. There might be a buildup, but there's no time for slowing down now. Put the words on the page as quick as you can, knowing that each word is a moment gone. In as few words as possible, build the tension, grasp the plot and let the best words go. 

Well, what did you say?

I wrote this, thinking about Sweetest Day, and my sweetheart, and close encounters of the quickest kind...

THE FALL

Quick glance

Cheeks blush

Hearts dance

Hands brush

Small smile

Bright eyes

Sweet guile

Sparks fly

Warm breath

Soft cheek

Hard kiss

Sneak peek

Pale skin

Black lace

Silk sheets

End chase.

Two words per line, four lines per stanza, four stanzas in all. Sweet and simple, a means to an end. My goal was to tell the story from first sight to seduction in the time it takes for a good first kiss.

I know I left you hanging last week. Hope this little ditty helped satisfy the tug of curiosity. Because honestly, I don't have an ending. Looking forward to when I do, though.

Enjoy your Sweetest Day and tell someone you love how you feel. Also, I'd like to leave you with one piece of advice for my married or cohabitating readers:

Set your alarm ten minutes early, and enjoy the ten minutes before you have to get up as thoroughly as you can. Enjoy a hug, a makeout session, something more, or simply bask in the comfort of turning over and snuggling for the next nine and a half minutes before the day invades your shared space. This tip has changed my mind about mornings, about marriage, and has greatly increased my appreciation for what can happen in ten minutes. :) xoxo

Ghostlight Films. (Producer). (2013, October 15). Superheroes: a never-ending battle [Television broadcast]. Detroit, MI; PBS

Memory Makers

"Every time I see a pair of Chucks, it makes me smile. It reminds me of you, of holding hands and windblown cheeks blushing scarlet. Even then, you made my heart race, albeit with more innocence. I adored you, with your long hair and your long words. Words that led my little heart along as if on a string. I'd follow you anywhere, content to be at your side. What was it? Your frayed edges, the ragged breaths in which you'd whisper how much you liked kissing me. The stubble of your cheek against the softness of my own. The way you smelled of leather jackets and that old truck. Oh, the good times we had in that small space between the driver's seat and mine. We'll just call it mine because there were no others who fit there like I did, and once I set my heart on you, you were mine, too."

I wrote that today. I love being married to my high school sweetheart. It provides me with an ocean of memories in which I can dip my pen into and bring up all sorts of amazing examples from which to draw inspiration from. Give me a topic, and I can write you something. Give me the choice of topic, and I will always write about him.

He made me feel stupid, stumbling over my syllables with the grace of a sea cow in stilettos. He challenged me to find better words, to bring something up from my soul that wasn't pure intellectual vomit. He never once told me, "this is crap," but the lengths I'd go to revise until I impressed him were extraordinary. I never had an audience so important to me before, and when he reached out and took each note I passed, a piece of my heart would always go with him.

I was thinking about this today, about the power of words to conjure up memories. A few years ago, (I say this figuratively, but it was actually closer to ten years ago, OMIGAWD) I was what you could go so far as to call "a fan" (haha, more like obsessed fanatic) of one Avril Lavigne, "punk pop princess" of the early 2000's. I emulated her in dress, style, vocabulary, and garnered quite a collection of various ties I would match with my only button-down shirt, which happened to be quite sheer and drove certain boys insane. I'm pretty sure those outfits were half the reason I had as many male friends and followers as I had. Still, I managed to recreate the persona of Avril, royalty of rebellion herself. During this time, I really began getting into writing poetry and songs. I didn't have the level of anger required to really rock out like I wanted to, but through various high school love triangles and mishaps and the epic romance gone awry that ended up being my happily ever after, I wrote some pretty ridiculous stuff.

I am ashamed as an "Avid Avrilian" (I totally just made that up and I'm going to stick with it because I've never heard it before.) to say that I have long ago lost my copy of her first CD, "Let Go." However, this morning, I jammed her sophomore album "Under My Skin" quite loudly (I should be embarrassed, but I'm not) and was pleased to find out that I still knew every single word. I was even more pleased to find out that my daughters, sitting in the back seat, could sing along, too!

It got me thinking about all those things I'd written back and the day, and I thought about going back to exhume some of the old stuff. See how stupid it was. See how true it still is.

A short story with the what-looks-to-be-tentative title jotted on the top of the page: Just Friends?



She sat there, shivering, in the stands. The lights were bright, the rain drizzled down, the excitement was high. The varsity football team played in the field in front of her, but her mind was elsewhere. Instead, she thought of her best friend, dry, at home, probably playing his guitar. The game wasn't going in favor of her home team, as usual, and she wished she were sitting on his floor right now, listening to his fingers as they plucked each string. Or he was here, with her, making her laugh. Maybe then, she wouldn't be so cold.

A black hooded sweatshirt landed on the bleacher, right next to her. She looked up. "You're so dumb, why didn't you just stay home like all the other losers?" Alin asked.

"Because I was bored. I dunno. Care to join me?"

"No." But he sat down anyway. He shoved his sweatshirt at her. She shivered and wrapped it around her, breathing in the scent of it. It smelled good. It smelled like him. She liked that.

"What are you here for?" she asked.

"To laugh at cold, stupid people like you," he answered. He moved a little closer. "Wanna be cool like me and ditch it?"

"That's probably the smartest thing I've ever heard you say." she kidded. "Let's ditch this joint!" She jumped up and put the sweatshirt on. He walked to the edge of the bleachers and hopped to the ground. "I'll catch you!" he called. "Jump!" She jumped, landing in his arms, nearly bowling hi over. He caught her perfectly, just as he promised. For a moment, they just looked at each other, then he let her go.

The drizzle had stopped, so she warmed up. She reached up and brushed a lock of hair off his forehead. He glanced down at her.

"Hey, you're gonna mess up my 'do."

"It's already destroyed. I'm fixing it."

"My hair rocks. Don't knock it."

"Yeah, it's you. Grungy."

"And...?"

"And I like it." she answered. She looked down. She was quiet for a moment. It felt strange, not having that ring on her finger. It was a relief, not to be held back by someone so restricting. That's what she'd always loved about Alin. He loved her for her.
"Hey, Alin?"
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
"Yeah, me too."
I'm glad we're just the way we are. You know. Just us."
"Best friends." he paused, "Most of the time. But we've got our moments."
"What do you mean?" she asked, looking up. He stopped walking. The streetlights were on, shining down on them like their own personal moon. He looked up for a moment, as if contemplating. He looked down at her. Why was everything about her so damn innocent? Yet he knew she was dangerous. She had the power to break him. He took the risk anyway. He slid his hand down her cheek as her eyes locked onto his. There was fear, but more than that, there was appreciation for a friendship that bound them.
"You're warm," she whispered.
"So are you," he answered.
"I am now."

He sighed and put his hands in his pockets. She looked away quickly and changed the subject.

"So you're still not going tomorrow night?" she asked.

"Why bother? I can't dance anyway."

"Anyone can dance. It's universal. Any time, anywhere." She had a look in her eyes and a mischievous grin crept onto her face.

"Why are you leering at me like that?"

"Any time, anywhere." She grabbed his hands and spun him around. "Dance with me, Alin!" she cried, throwing her head back and laughing. They spun around and around until they collapsed onto the grassy hill, laughing uncontrollably. She breathed in deep and stared at the stars. "What a romantic night for two people so against being in love," she thought.

"Yeah," Alin echoed.

"Yeah, what?"

"I know what you're thinking. I think so, too."

"Think what? What are you talking about?"

"Sometimes you wish we were in love. Just for the sake of living and being loved."

"Sometimes, maybe. Yeah. But I love you anyway." She looked at her shoes, now stained lime by the damp grass. Things were too hard to explain. All the feelings she felt for him, she almost wasn't allowed to feel. Rule #1 For Having The Perfect Best Friend: Do not fall in love with him. But rules were made to be broken. So.

"Do you ever hold it against me?" he asked quietly.

"You not returning the feelings? No." she replied. "But I can't say I don't wish."

"I know. But there are complications. You know."

"Yeah, I know. It's cool." she sighed again. She spread out on the hill and put her arms behind her head. She looked sideways at him.

"Do you ever think about it, though?" she asked.

"All the time. I'm not the only one with complications, though. You're fragile. How am I supposed to NOT break it? What if I do? I'm not really in the mood to break your heart more than I already have. Sorry."

"I'm not a child, Alin, I'm not a little girl. I know you can hurt me." She moved closer. She rolled on her side and propped her head in her hand.

"Why are you so afraid of me?" she questioned.

"Who said I was scared of you?"

"You would have kissed me by now."

"Well, who said I wasn't going to?" he pursued.

"You're too scared."

"No."

"Yes."

"No." He moved closer. She sat up, looking him in the eyes, intimidating him. Daring him to kiss her. They were face to face, inches apart. She could see he wanted to. He could feel her breath. It was warm and sweet. So sweet he could taste it. She reached up and tangled her fingers in his hair as he pulled her even closer and locked his lips on hers. She was soft, almost melted against him. She pulled him as close as she could get him. He wrapped his arms around her, and reveled in the feelings he was encountering. He was crazy, and he loved her. They parted ways and she snuggled her head in his shoulder.

"..."



I wrote this in 2004, during 10th grade. The year I can honestly refer to as the mushroom cloud of life-changing epic shit going down. I have no ending.


I have no ending. I need an ending, and I am personally reveling in the fountain of words I feel I've tapped into lately. I feel like an ending is going to show up soon, and I'm so excited for when it happens. Let's see what happens next week. :) xoxo

Six Words or Less

You came back! That’s awesome. Thanks so much.

I want to revisit something I mentioned in my last post, about saying so much with so little. In a way, a good poem is like a TARDIS - so much bigger on the inside! I think the point of poetry is to be succinct with your words in order to glean as much expression from them as possible. Those who speak the least sometimes say the most. This is why I admire poetry for what it is - the very best, the very favorite of those authors’ words, put together in a way that says more than what’s on the paper.

There are so many feelings attached to words, and they can mean a variety of things for different people. A piece about a rainy day may sound depressing or dull, but it may remind someone of a kiss in the rain, or the triumph of having weathered a storm. Finding the perfect word that can convey anything to anyone is the genius of the poet.

One day as I walked into Professor Fanning’s class in 2008, there were a few lines written on the board. “For sale: baby shoes. Never worn.” It is attributed to Hemingway, according to the legend of him having won a bet, writing a story in six words or less. I think this story represents the point I make. How much floods into your head when you read this? How many feels does your heart clench in its fist as you swallow back the instant lump in your throat? As a mother then, and the mother of a new one now, it struck me to my core. Two and a half sentences, and I already felt a connection to this piece. THAT is effective writing. Two and a half sentences and it already had a beginning, middle and end. THAT is good.

So the lesson was to write a short story in as few words as possible. This is a popular exercise for writers and can be a useful way to free write. It’s a great way to hone your editing skills, as well. Many of the themes were the same: the climax (not necessarily literal!) of true love, the happily ever after, the changing of one’s mind and irreversible decisions, broken hearts or death. These are some major emotional traumas, people. These are some huge plot lines that, if given the time, effort, ink and paper, these could be novels of infinite pages. But there we were, summing up the future classics in an average of six words or less.

What can you say in six words or less? Think of it this way: if you had six words left to say in the entire Universe, for the rest of your life, what would those six words be? Would they be the names of your loved ones? Would you say goodbye, give instruction, vent, tell a secret? I leave you with this challenge. Think on it, and please feel free to leave those words in a comment if you’d like to share!