Non-Writing Writer

I was inspired this morning as I walked to practice piano for an upcoming recital… this would have been great, had I been inspired to practice. Rather, I was inspired to set the opening of Wordsworth’s The Prelude to music. 

My roommate (bless her) stopped me just in time: “Ryanne, if you write a melody and add lyrics, you’ll also want to add harmony and piano. You don’t have time!” 

Valid. 

But I felt strongly the annoyance of being unable to create due to the pressures of my ordinary, required pursuits. 

So I wrote a little rhyme to vent: 

A non writing writer’s a monster they say:

A little too frazzled and nearly insane.

She lives in an enchanted, storybook world 

Yet can’t venture in, for life is a whirl.

One single word leads to many and two-

Well, they multiply to be more than a few. 

And should she dare to compose a small line 

She risks the danger of falling behind;

The everyday life has no cares for the muse,

Though the poet’s soul, she hardly did choose. 

So cursed with a mind that brews up ideas 

And a heart that ever ceaselessly feels,

She stumbles about with a businesslike stride 

And forces her little brainchildren to hide

And wait for a time when life will relax 

It’s grip made of boring and ord’nary tasks-

So she might finally write them all down,

These inkling ideas that, impatient, abound. 

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Tyndale 

I had the joy of visiting Tyndale House yesterday and meander through its enchanting library. I could feel the words of the ages trickling down from its shelves as rain pattered outside. It was like walking into a poem! So, naturally, this happened: 

No clock ticks 

   for time has ceased

   and yet means everything;

It’s flowers faded

   now pressed, relics-

   of logos labyrinth. 

Beyond, the rain

   lost moments counts,

   but here the very air

       -dusty-

   holds its breath,

   and slow, exhales,

   dead ages still alive. 

11 Writers’ Paradises

I use “I’m a writer!” to justify haunting many eclectic and sometimes downright strange locations. I visited four of the below Eleven Writers’ Paradises today, so I guess you could say it was a successful Sunday! (And yes, I know 11 is a weird number for a list, but it is my favorite number so sorry not sorry.)

  1. Cemeteries: The older, the better. Read the tombstones, guess at the stories behind them, find an otherworldly peace in the quiet stillness, maybe- just maybe- have a competition with a friend to see who can find the oldest grave. And no, it isn’t creepy.
  2. Libraries: Follow the advice of countless authors greater than I (probably because they’ve actually been published…someday, Ryanne, someday…) and spend tons of time exploring labyrinths of shelves.
  3. Antique Malls: I visited one today that was absolutely delightful; there was eerie music box music playing, old clothes on busts that could easily be mistaken for ghosts from the past, cases of heirlooms, yellow-paged books, mismatched teacups to delight the Mad Hatter’s heart….I could easily have stayed forever and quite possibly turned into an antique there myself.
  4. Hipster Coffee Shops: Love them. If you have the choice between Starbucks and some quirky shop you’ve never been, go with the latter and NEVER order the same thing twice. This is coming from a girl with a Gold Card, so you know I am serious.
  5. Used Bookstores: These are the wonderful child of antique malls and libraries. Just a warning; if you stay too long, you might grow lightheaded from the delightful but powerful aroma of old paper and ink mingled with the dust of the ages.
  6. The Woods: There is a reason the author of Walden decided to Thoreau away his life and live in the wild. (PUN PUN PUN!) If you can’t get to the woods, find a place similar. Trees alone are often enough to attract the Muses.
  7. Churches: I don’t mean the modern, movie-seated auditoriums of today’s generation. I mean churches with stained glass, pipe organs, rows of pews, probably a candle burning somewhere beside a large gold-trimmed Bible.
  8. Markets: Any sort of flea market, farmers’ market, craft fair, etc. These are all good because they bring together people and products of all sorts. Always buy something too, be it a bag of fresh cherries or a funky new scarf.
  9. Self-made Forts: Be it made from cardboard boxes, blankets, or you just hiding under a piano where nobody can see you (I speak from experience…I hide under my piano when the doorbell rings sometimes), forts are fun and spark imagination.
  10. Train Stations or Airports: Admittedly when I am in these places, I am often stressed trying to make a flight or figure out how to ask where my platform is in French. But if you stop and look around, there are so many people and packages and destinations to wonder about! And, as we all know, wonder creates stories.
  11. Anywhere so long as you have a notebook and imagination: Yes, this is mostly because I could not think of a tenth place. However, I have found inspiration in really unexpected places and honestly a good writer (I do not claim to be one yet) can make a story or poem from anything, be it a cracked sidewalk, pencil box, auction ticket, you name it!

Graveyard Library

Upon finishing up my finals and juries today, I found my mind in a muddle, so I did the natural thing: I went exploring. In doing such, I happened upon a cemetery and spent a great deal of time wandering and wondering. To any outside observer, I was just another a college girl in an ugly Christmas sweater creeping around for no apparent reason, but really, I was researching. After all, one can learn- or at least imagine- so many things in graveyards, most of which are, surprisingly, more poignant than frightening. And, as many writers would agree, inspiration is always to be found in such places. For example…

 

Graveyard Library

I went walking through a library.

Well, a graveyard actually.

But both are full of tales,

And wandering down the aisles- or trails-

I read the spines of leather-bound tomes,

Or, rather, faded tombstones.

Between the lines (or dates)

I am left to guess the fates

Of the characters once living.

 

Over here on my left,

Paule Walde lays at rest.

But why so apart from his wife?

Marie Walde is right there

Though it seems quite unfair.

Where their stories separate in life?

.

Susie Harlem “mother”

And beside her another,

With a stone more elaborate than she.

Was this other loved better

Or simply loved richer?

How small Susie’s script seems to be.

.

And Shirley Ann Southern

Whose time came too sudden,

Plucked like the daisies that bloom here.

She stayed only a day,

In 1940 May.

How sad yet sweet this short page dear.

.

Shirley’s would-be playmate

Naps a few yards away.

Beneath a lone fragile sapling.

Its leaves laugh in the wind

But cannot grief amend.

A short poem, barely a scribbling.

.

Then James of Scotland and

Janine of Switzerland-

Only a marriage date printed.

Why no mention of death?

Do they yet use their breath,

To write a love uncompleted?

.

Then there’s a poor sister

And as she’s the elder,

Waits for her sibling patiently.

But the girl above ground

Tired of hand-me-downs,

Will finish her sequel separately.

.

Miss Charlotte was likely

The town’s brightest beauty.

For without fail as the years pass,

Bonny blue wildflowers

Same as those eyes of hers,

Peak up from the parchment of grass.

.

Strange indeed it might seem

Of all places to dream,

Libraries and graveyards are best.

But both only will grow

As time in its course flows.

And beneath covers and earth

Lies the past.

 

The Window Washer

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Annotating my own story is…interesting.

Once more, I find myself in the uncomfortable situation of actually enjoying my homework. A lot. I know that many people in my class find this irritating, but I can’t help it; I like to write, so naturally I will like an assignment that requires me to write a short story using the literary elements that we studied this year. As my story turned out better than I expected, I thought that perhaps I would share it here on my blog, but I will add this disclaimer: I am rather shy about my stories (unlike blog posts and essays which are open to anyone and everyone and their cousins’ pets) and thus I am nervous about sharing this little scribbling with the world. Well, maybe not the world… I’m nervous about sharing my scribbling with my whopping double-digit number of followers. That said, read it if you will, but don’t judge me too harshly; I’m not a Montgomery or Bradbury by any means, although those authors may or may not make appearances in this tale…

Without further adieu, I give you “The Window Washer.”

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The Window Washer

            The first time he saw her, in the library on a school day like every other, he tried to ignore her, pretending not to feel the intensity of her gaze upon his face. If it were not for this penetrating stare, she would have been remarkably easy to look through; she was almost translucent, in a way. That is, if a living, breathing, flesh-and-blood human could be translucent. She was like mist, for just as one can squint through mist yet still feel its cool caress against the skin, it was easy to look beyond her, with her powder-white skin and hair the color of a noon sun’s rays, but it was impossible to ignore the burn of her clear, clear eyes. If eyes are truly the windows of the soul, hers had no curtains to dull her spirit’s face as it peered out, smiling at the world around it.

The boy edged past her, not daring to let his soul wave at hers from behind its shades. Instead, he drew them further shut, trying to block the light that seemed to be streaming from her as lamplight from an open door. Crouching down at the end of the aisle, he began to search the lowest shelf.

“B…b-r-a-d…” he muttered to himself, still uncomfortably conscious of the girl behind him, watching as he searched for an author whose name he had already forgotten. Hopping a few inches to the right, he knelt, holding the shelf for balance, and scanned the middle row of books. Still not finding or remembering the author he had been sent after by his teacher, he grunted in frustration and hoisted himself to his feet.

Without warning, a warmth pressed gently into his shoulder. He looked up with a start and just as quickly ducked his gaze back to the floor, blinking rapidly like a child who has mistakenly stared into the sun. The pressure of the girl’s hand, so tiny and fragile, increased as if to insist that he look at her.

“What do you want?” he asked defensively. Thankfully no librarian was nearby for he had not bothered to lower his voice.

The girl gave no audible reply, but with her other hand, equally tiny and fragile, reached in front of him and pointed to a book so slim and short and dark that he had failed to see it hidden amidst the others.

The boy squinted at the faded name printed on its spine and after a moment, recognized it as the author whose name he had forgotten: Bradbury. Bending forward, the girl eased it from its resting place and held it out to the boy. He stared blankly at its worn cover, where an illustrated fire burned as brightly as it had since first printed and the shadow of a book flapped its covers helplessly amid the printed smoke. She gave it a gentle shake as if to say “Take it,” and dumbly, he grasped it, rose, and hurried away, never once meeting her gaze.

The boy awoke with a jerk. He had been having a nightmare. As his heart resumed its regular tempo, he cautiously turned his head to his right as if afraid that the monsters that haunted his dreams were still nearby. Instead, all he saw was a book, illuminated around its edges by the glow of his alarm clock.

“3:00 am,” read the neon blue letters of the clock.

“Everything always seems worse at 3:00am,” a silent voice quoted. He had read that line just the evening before in the book that lay beside him, another book that the silent girl had given him, one filled with the beauty of a distant Canadian town and the dreams of a fiery-haired girl with a temper to match her braids.

He had balked when the girl had followed him to the fiction section, turned her flashlight eyes on him, and pointed to this book; its cover image, so unlike the exiting flames of the first novel, was so pastoral, so…girly. That was the only way that he could describe it and was so doubtful of this selection (not in the least because he was decidedly against reading outside of that required to pass his remedial English class) that he had opened his mouth to protest.

“No, thanks,” he was about to say, holding up his hands and backing away from the girl and the paperback she held as one might from a coiled snake. But she was only- in appearance at least- a slender girl in a flowery blouse with a slight smile that might have won his immediate affection had he only had the courage to look at her face.

She was not to be deterred and softly but gently took his raised hand and pressed the tiny volume into it, closing his fingers around it and peering at him intently. His eyes peeked for a fraction of a moment into hers, but again he could not withstand the gleaming of her open soul. When he looked up again, she was gone, leaving only the book nestled in his arms.

Now it was sleeping on his nightstand between its thin covers, but he was learning that if he just cracked them open and gave the words his attention, a beautiful world of people and sights and emotions he had never before experienced would awaken all at once to comfort him in the face of nightmares, easing his rapid heartbeat, providing a means of escape.

Squinting at the letters of the book by the dim glow of the clock, still blinking “3:00am,” he watched a sunrise on Prince Edward Island from the garden of a little home with a green roof and a laughing girl named Anne.

The passport to Prince Edward Island fell with a soft thud into the book drop beneath the library counter. As he was turning to exit, the boy paused, swiveled slowly, and walked past the cluster of tables where fellow students worked or procrastinated and into the fiction section. Perhaps without even knowing it, he smiled softly as he passed the pastel sisters of the book he had once condemned as too feminine.

As he stooped to examine this shelf, a sparkle caught his eye. The girl with the crystalline eyes blinked at him through an empty spot on the shelf. She was surprised at first, but the boy did not notice the brief flicker behind her lashes as he averted his gaze in embarrassment and, although it was their third meeting, an inexplicable fear of her piercing gaze. A moment passed and he could still feel the prickle of her stare on his forehead. Finally, he cleared his throat, a harsh sound against the whispering and rustling of the library, and mumbled a greeting.

“Hello,” was the reply, and, as she spoke, he realized that he had never heard her voice before, but, somehow, she had spoken volumes. Her voice, in that single word, was as intense and clear as her eyes, though not nearly so alarming. There was a softness to it that reminded him of the breezes he’d imagined while reading the second book and it stirred something within him. For a split second, a spark leapt into his eyes too. It faded quickly, but the girl saw its ember and spoke again.

“Come here.” It was not a command, but an invitation.

“Why?” No amount of gruffness could veil the curiosity in the boy’s voice.

“Come and see.” The flame in her eyes danced to the lilt in her voice, hinting of a secret joy that she ached to share.

He rose and hurried around the shelf to where she squatted, several books piled on the floor around her while she held one like a child in her arms. It was open and she was flipping through its pages, pausing every couple of turns to skim a line and breathe deeply, as though drinking in the words with the scent of the grey pages.

“What’ve you got there?” the boy asked.

She just smiled and held it up for him to see its cover, where the silhouette of a man with a long nose, magnifying glass, and tobacco pipe was embossed in a dull bronze. The rest of the book was black, aside from the bold title.

The boy nodded appreciatively. Somewhere he had heard of this story… television, maybe? He could not remember.

“Is it good?” The rapt expression on the girl’s face as she read another page answered this question.

“What’s it about?” he tried again. This time, she closed it with a snap and held it out to him.

“That’s a mystery for you to solve,” she said, her voice lowered and filled with intrigue. Her eyes twinkled playfully as he took the book from her outstretched hands.

Several weeks passed before the boy returned to the library; it was a hefty book that she had chosen for him, after all, and there had been many cases for him and Sherlock to solve. When he finally returned with the finished book, there was a marked change about his eyes that at first glance was not obviously for the better. Large bags circled them in purply puffs and to outsiders, these bags might indicate insomnia or depression or the incurable procrastination that ails most adolescents, but if they had bothered to look beyond the sagging eyelids and the reddened whites, as the girl did, they would discover that these were not just the bags of a sleepless teenager, living off of caffeine and late-night cram sessions, but book bags, albeit of a different sort. These “book bags” were caused by late-night reading and early-morning rereading and reading at every spare second in-between. And, packed within them, there was a glow, like that of embers, waiting only for one final breath of oxygen before bursting into glorious flames.

The girl saw all of this, for her eyes too had once undergone that metamorphosis of readership, and she approached the boy at once when he reentered her domain.

“Hello!” he said, his voice less gruff than usual. His bloodshot eyes peeked into her stainless-window eyes from behind their fading curtains. Hers shone back, but somehow, despite- or perhaps because of- many nights of squinting in a darkened room at the many letters of many words on many pages, the intensity did not burn as much as it had at first.

“Enjoyed adventuring with Mr. Holmes?” she nodded to the book he held.

He broke their gaze and looked down at the book, fumbling absently with its pages, every one of which had been read in full, despite frequent requisite visits to online dictionaries.

“Yes, thanks,” he replied and then, on impulse, added, “Is there anything else you’d suggest?”

She gasped in excitement, clasping her cream-colored hands together and opening her mouth to speak. But, as suddenly as she’d opened it, she closed it and bit her lip in thought, as if struggling to contain the flood of authors and titles that threatened to burst forth. A few seconds ticked by. The boy again sent the finished book down the book drop and turned back to face the girl, who continued to look at him, the light of her extraordinary eyes dimmed to a warm fervency.

“I do,” she said at last, “but I think you should try choosing something for yourself.”

Long after the girl had left, he had stood lost in the maze of shelves, trying in vain to choose a book- just one book- but finding himself as helpless as he had been on his first visit. This time, however, he was not wholly blind to the arrangement of the authors and he stumbled back to the “B”s, back to the first author, back to the beginning.

But then, something flashed across the corner of his vision; it struck against the window of his soul and refused to be ignored. He stopped, staring at the book with the red-lettered title that seemed to shout at him from its perch. It called down to him from the top shelf, where it seemed exalted above the others. Perhaps it was its smooth spine, its creamy covers, or its bold title that grabbed at his attention and would not let go, but whatever it was that had distinguished it from the other books was unimportant; it appealed to some yearning in the boy’s soul and, while two months ago he would have shrugged off this entreat, he did not hesitate to answer it now.

The boy strode directly to the shelf and, standing on his tiptoes, pulled the book from its spot, heedless of its neighbors as they slide sideways in its absence. He marched to the desk and checked it out without bothering to read the synopsis on its back cover. Throughout the rest of the day, the bus ride home, and the tedious work of the evening, the book sat patiently next to the boy, secure in the knowledge that it would be read soon.

That night, chores done, homework finished, the moment that boy and book had been awaiting arrived. Picking it up tenderly, he sat on the edge of his bed, slowly drew it open, and turned to the very first line of the first chapter.

And then, as he read that first line, the veil was torn and his mind set free. The dusty panes of loneliness and worry that had dimmed his eyes were shattered and his soul shone from its windows as brilliantly as that of the girl who had washed away the grime of the world with words.

A week later, another young man entered the library, downtrodden, suspicious, and alone. He sat concealed behind a corner shelf, staring blankly at the bruised palms of his hands, when a voice broke in on his murky thoughts.

“Hello there,” it said. “I have something you need.”

Turning his shaggy head, which spoke sorrowfully of neglect and despair, he saw, crouched down beside him, another boy, with two shining eyes, two hands, and a book.

The Bookworm’s Guide to the Galaxy: Understanding Readers

Most of my best friends are
bookworms. We all have our favorite genres, authors, eras, you name it. We are an eclectic group of athletes, honors students, writers, artists, musicians, and gamers, yet we are united by books and our need for words.

However, it has come to my attention that this is not how most of the world and its people are and that it mildly terrifying to someone like me, who can hardly carry on a conversation without quoting a book or alluding to a classic. I have tried to be less bookish when talking to non-readers, but seeing as I run a blog titled “A Bookish Charm” and have been caught on numerous occasions sniffing the pages of other people’s books (which is one than a little embarrassing), I have not really had success with this approach. Therefore, I have (because this is what a I do in my spare time…yet another bookworm problem) devised a list of ten ways for readers and non-readers (I suppose some might call them “normal people”) to understand each other and even become good friends. 🙂 (I should add as a disclaimer that I know and care for many non-readers and mean no offense as they simply are gifted in other areas.)

For Readers:

1. Know that people will ask you if you have seen the movie adaption of the book you are reading. Try not to be offended, even if the book is waaaaay better. (Of course, if you want to ask them if they have read the book that inspired the movie that they watched, go for it.)

2. Don’t abstain from showing emotion over the book you are reading in public, but don’t be surprised when people laugh as you sob over the tragedies of fictional characters. It hurts, but we just have to live with it.

3. Don’t ask non-readers to smell books. Just don’t.

4. Accept the fact that non-readers probably will not care that your characters are on the brink of disaster and your book is reaching its climax. Even if your company’s conversations are boring and you’d rather read during dinner, sometimes it is best to sacrifice a bit of reading to pretend you’re listening. After all, you can always wonder about the book while you smile and nod.

5. If you happen to be with a non-reader at the mall, understand that he or she may actually want to visit stores other that Barnes and Noble. Just prepare yourself that you will have to try on clothes and probably stop for a pretzel before you can go spend your entire paycheck on books you do not have room for on your shelves.

6. Try not to cry and break out in sarcasm when a non-reader claims to be a reader because she read Twilight and Divergent.

7. Do not try to explain that, based on classic literature, love and happiness are not real, because non-readers will think that you are depressed and pessimistic. We readers know that love and happiness do exist in the real world; we just are trying to discuss themes.

8. Try not to be disappointed on holidays when family members give you gifts other than books. They really are trying to be thoughtful, I promise.

9. Talk to real people. Do more than just hold up the cover of the book you’re reading when somebody asks what it is. Believe it or not, this person is trying to have a conversation with you.

10. Appreciate the fact that not everybody reads. Despite what Jane Austen says (“…who does not take pleasure in a good novel must be intolerable stupid.”) there are incredibly brilliant and lovely people who do not choose to be avid readers and we can still be great friends and perhaps we ought be better off because of it; their connection with the real world and our love for the worlds of books could just be a good combination. (Maybe…)

For Non-Readers:

1. Do not make fun of us for walking and reading, smelling books, and quoting them in our everyday lives. We will label you a “Gaston” and our book clubs will either scorn you or pity you.

2. Be gentle with us. Sometimes we are upset because of a fictional character’s death or an author’s failure to produce a satisfying sequel. Don’t tease us too harshly for getting so emotionally invested in fiction and we won’t tease you for shouting at sports on the television or cursing the politicians on the news.

3. Be aware of how we socialize. If we text you with a book recommendation or invite you to go to the bookstore, know that we like you. Perhaps a lot. It is just our nerdy way of showing affection; we are inviting you into our world of books and, even if you do not accept, you should feel honored that we like you enough to think of you in between chapters.

4. Just smile and nod when we make comparisons between books and real life. If I start rambling about somebody acting like a Scarlett O’Hara, just agree and say that yes, she is being annoying and manipulative. 😉

5. Read something. By doing this, you are proving that you care about us enough to attempt to share our passion for reading. We don’t care if you read every classic on the AP Literature list; we just appreciate that you read Harry Potter or even a magazine because it shows that you are trying to form common ground with us.

6. Ask us for recommendations. Even if you don’t read them and the carefully-crafter list we draw up for you ends up in a wad in your backpack, we love being asked to share our favorites and, like reading, this allows for some common ground.

7. Take us to a bookstore. This is the best way to get to know a bookworm. Let us wander the aisles and listen to us admire the new covers of our old classics. Don’t tell us that we do not have enough money for all of the books; just let us have our fun and after we inhale enough paper and ink, we might put down our stack of books we cannot afford long enough to chat about other subjects.

8. Recognize that we are more than the books that hide our faces. Sure, books are at the top of our list of favorite things, but they are not our entire personalities! Like I said before, my bookworm friends are athletes, artists, and scholars. We like other subjects, probably the same ones that you do, so don’t be afraid to talk to us about other things. We want to get to know you too, so tell us about yourself. After all, books and people are the same in that both have stories unique to themselves.

9. Don’t worry if we withdraw for hours by ourselves. We are fine, off on wonderful adventures between the pages of our books. It isn’t that we don’t like you; we just need time to ourselves and our beloved characters. Many of us are introverts, so just understand that if we don’t reply to your text or hear you calling us to come down for dinner, we are not purposely ignoring you, just resting by reading.

10. If we are stressed out, tell us to go read. In about an hour, we will be back to our normal, nerdy selves. 🙂

If you are a non-reader and read this far, know that you are appreciated by this awkward blogger for struggling through the rambling. And now, I shall bid you adieu, for I am in the library and feel a book calling my name…