Renee is Writing

Every once in a while I go back to my first poetry collection. I re-read the poems and peruse the art work. With a title like, "I am My Mother's Only Poem" I think this is a fitting gift for any mom. Here are some samples of what you can find between the covers. mourning doves perch in pairs never alone ~ your voice in my ear constant and new ******************** autumn ballroom frost painted bare feet sashay and slide expose my soul~ for you to know like your own hand

The question writers get asked the most often is, "where do you get your ideas?" For poets, short story writers, and novelists who write a book a year or several series a year the need for ideas is a constant. How do they have ideas for so many stories or poems? For me, ideas are like rabbits. They multiply at a rapid rate. And in the same way that rabbits create more rabbits, ideas create more ideas and the more I have the more I get. Craft books are profuse with ways to get story ideas: Brainstorm Read newspapers Observe people in the cafe Play the "what if" game Eavesdrop on conversations Each of those methods is helpful and can elicit an array of story or character ideas for your writing. I have on occasion used a few myself. Mostly, however, I don't search for ideas, they find me. And just like those fertile little bunnies, ideas increase exponentially. They float in thin air and crawl inside my ear. They arise from some cells deep...

I believe I was born a poet. I've been writing poems since I was able to hold a pencil and form letters. I fell in love with poetry hearing and reading nursery rhymes. My mother had a set of children's books, a thirteen volume compendium of leather covered books in shades of blue and green. I continued to read the Nursery Rhyme volume long beyond the age when I was reading chapter books and more. That was the birth of this poet. As a child I loved art also but lost that creative niche many years later. Now, in my older age I have rediscovered the pleasures of filling a page with color and shape. Of using crayons, pencils, pens, paint and many other mediums to make art. I have combined my loves of art and poetry more and more and here is a sample, honoring my declaration of becoming the Artsy Poetessa. THE  POETESS She sits on a soft chair of pink and green chintz in the corner of the room. Her legs curl beneath her long blue flowered dress. Her long blonde hair flows...

One month of the year is gone already, but I feel a bit accomplished for a change. Usually by now I have successfully abandoned my goals and dreams before the first of February. One of my goals for 2018 was to sign up for the Life Book Project. This is a year long series of weekly art and self development lessons presented by Tamara LaPorte. You can find information at her website www.willowing.org Tam is a wonderful teacher and a compassionate supporter of artists and guide in self-compassionate growth. Her lessons are detailed with explanations that make it easy for an immature artist like me to follow. She has also gathered a cadre of art teachers who also present lessons in Life Book 2018. Here is my first wobbly attempt at the first lesson. It was a challenge but I have given myself the task of pushing my artistic boundaries this year. My drawings are childish and my painting is unpolished, but for me it's about learning about the fun of the process. I know there will be...

I’m still trying, and failing, to adapt to this new climate. Still trying to acclimate to eighty degree temperatures in January. Southern California is so unlike Long Island where I made my home for sixty-seven years. But since I tend to be an optimist I see the value of being able to take a pleasant morning walk in the middle of “winter.”             This early in the morning the air is cool on my skin and the sunshine is bright and joyful. I’ve become more committed to my daily walks since I got a Fit Bit that tracks my every step and buzzes my wrist when I don’t hit my goals. But what has made my morning walks more enticing and enjoyable is my new interest in audio books. In the past I would walk silently and though I enjoyed the rustle of dry leaves and the songs of finches somehow those walks seemed boring. I would set out to resolve some life issue, or plot issue, and end up thinking mundane thoughts. Now, instead, I lis...

Sometimes a writing prompt can be found right on your own hand and spiced with memories. MAMA’S RINGS             Mama and I sat in the VA hospital waiting room waiting for the doctor. The previous night Mama had a bout of high blood pressure with its typical headache and shortness of breath. She had gotten it down with her medication but it was time to get checked out.             Normally the wait to be seen by a medical professional at the VA was long so we had each brought a book to read but the books lay at our sides and we talked instead.             “Is there anything you want before I get rid of it?” Mama asked. She had always been a minimalist but in her late 80s she was even more determined to unload her possessions as she didn’t want to burden my brother and I with having to deal with th...

We each remember the day we learned to ride a bicycle without training wheels. It was a feeling of triumph not to be believed. Finally we could venture out into the unknown on our trusted steads and see the world.  The magic thrilled us though in the beginning it was scary to try and balance on only two wheels while steering around corners and speeding down hills. Writing is like that and so is life.  When you write you may need training wheels in the form of craft books and magazines, a community of writers to hold you while you learn to balance, a list of prompts to get you started and perhaps some rituals and routines to ensure a daily writing habit. Life requires training wheels as well. Some guidance to help navigate the chaotic world while keeping a balance in your daily life. Training wheels offered me a prompt for writing as I remembered back to the day I first rode my bike without training wheels. TRAINING WHEELS       ...

I wake before dawn, the air cool and charcoal dark. Dreams are a quickly evaporating haze and I am surrounded by stillness. Just the way I like my days to begin. I rise and head to my writing desk with a glass of warm water, lemon juice and honey. A few sips. I light two candles; one coconut vanilla, the other a pink salt candle holder. I set the timer on my iphone for ten minutes, cradle a pink quartz crystal in the palm of my hand and meditate in the stillness of a new day holding new promises like delicate blooms in a reed basket. Soft chimes on the timer signal it is time to get to work. I enter my writing zone trying not to predetermine what I'm going to write about. Words flow from the pen, seemingly along a direct trail from heart to hand. It might be a poem, or a childhood reminiscence. It could be a list of things I need to do, or a list of writing and art projects I want to start on. Sometimes it's a musing on the present state of affairs in my heart, my lif...

At least once a month my husband and I spend a morning in Barnes and Noble sipping coffee and exploring. He will browse art magazines and cookbooks while I explore books based on my current topic of interest. On Sunday we spent just such a morning. When we got to Barnes and Noble soft music was playing, just right for reading, but it soon morphed into something more popular and downright annoying. I want classical or smooth jazz and preferably instrumental when I'm reading. I would also prefer the absence of other people's conversations but it is a public place after all and I have to adjust. At various times my focus has been art magazines and books, literary journals, self-help books, inspirational musings or sometimes health and cookbooks. I always spend some time among the shelves of fiction looking for a new author or one of my favorite author's latest release to add to my ever growing pile of fiction. Sometimes my focus is on writing and that may include novels...

I was sitting in a Weight Watchers meeting one night when a member uttered this eye opening comment. "Success breeds more success." I clearly saw how it related to weight loss as each pound shed helped me believe I could lose more. Two years later I am finally grasping how that mantra could lead to writing success. As I attempted once again to revive an old short story, and once again to start a new novel I intend to actually finish, I came upon that age old wall called writer's block. I never believed I had writer's block as I defined it as not having any idea what to write. My problem has always been having too many ideas and not being able to decide which to work on first. My writing wall comes when just feel like all this writing, the time and the paper and ink involved will lead to nothing but file cabinets filled with half-finished or forgotten stories, novels and poems. I ask myself why bother? Why not just go out and have fun? But then that little phrase...

Snow drifts outside the windows of the car as I drive home from work. Left early to avoid slippery roads and rush hour traffic. Thankful that my old fashioned work ethic doesn't interfere with my sense of safety. I'm listening to the CD "Clear Mind, Wild Heart" by David Whyte and coming to my senses. I have always known I am a poet. Even my license plate says so. I've been writing poetry since I first held a pencil and reading it with the fervor and love of an impassioned woman. So why does it take the thoughts of this Irish poet and philosopher to validate who I am? I have written novels, and keep trying to convince myself that in order to be a recognized and successful writer I need to focus on a novel writing career. But that's not where my heart and soul live. They thrive here in the cadences of poetry and the images that rise in my mind as I listen to the words. Yes, I have been working in a respectable field for over 25 years but this is...

I have loved poetry since I was two years old and heard my first nursery rhyme while sitting on my mother's lap as she read from the pale green first volume of "My Book House Books" series. I imagine I was even younger but memory slims as the years speed by. I know I was entranced by the musicality of rhythm and rhyme and the flow of descriptive and emotional words as my mother spoke them, and later as I recited them again and again from memory. It wasn't long after that when I picked up a lemon yellow number 2 pencil and began to scribble swirls, curves and straight lines across blank papers. I came to love the sound of language and the look of words on the page as my scribbles slowly transmuted into letters, words, sentences and eventually poetic verses. Once I was able to read by myself I discovered the treasures that sleep in the pages of books lined up back to back, exposing their titled spines to my hungry eyes. I read these rhymes over and over and th...