No one to blame but myself.

Don't I know it. And I hate typos. But I've got a copyeditign job to finish, progress to make on the new book (which is already -- sigh -- behind) and I feel like crap.

Still, I love seeing the galley pages. Makes it that much more real.

Most of the stuff I remember writing as a child was poetry, which is odd because I haven't even tried to write a poem since I was in high school. Beyond that, I basically tried to write like whoever was resonating in my head, which means my adolescent attempts at horror fiction sound a lot like Stephen King, and my stories for college creative writing classes owe rather too much to Margaret Atwood. I don't think I had any specific recurring motifs or themes, other than that all my main characters sounded like me -- which is probably still true.

*missing the real-time discussion, as usual*

Something to add though, I hope that that's alright:

Deb, I totally hear you (no pun intended) on children being infatuated with the rhythms (and sometimes the appearance of language) if working at Kindergarten pilot literacy program has taught me anything over the past few years, is that if a book rhymes, it's immediately more memorable.

Also if a word has a clunky or melodic sound, ie "lullaby" or any dinosaur name "diplodocus" the children seem to take much more pleasure in reading it/saying it and wanting to write it. I can get a child to write 10 lines of "iguana" before I can get them to practice the standards of "apple," "dog", or "cat." That Margaret Atwood book (about a Princess, the title escapes me) with all the "puh" consonance is another one they love. Complex language, "pernicious, perspicacios etc" but the sound seems to matter much more than their comprehension.

In my Stein class last week we were experimenting with language and one of the things we did was write the first word we remembered loving on the blackboard. Mine was "contraption" which I blurted out at two when my opa pointed a giant betamax camera at me "Get that contraption away from me!" (it's on video, most likely picked up from my opa who cared for me and used words like that). I'm not saying I made the connection that the word was onomatopeic, echoing the heaviness of the big clunky camera of course, that comes much later, but this sound idea is really fascinating. I mean the success of Robert Munsch seems to be as good proof as any.

Complex language, "pernicious, perspicacios etc" but the sound seems to matter much more than their comprehension.

When I was 10 or 11, I memorized the Wallace Stevens Poem, "the Emperor of Ice Cream," sheerly for love of the rhythm of the words. I still love the line about "in kitchen cups concupiscent curds," even now that I know what "concupiscent" means and that the line doesn't make much sense.

Actually, now that you mention it knowing the meaning of "concupiscent" (latent sexual desire?) kind of brings a disturbing body fluid implication to this poem for me.

edit: but great consonant line, and for you, the sound of the line was the point. Now I kind of dig how "concupiscent" is close to "conspicuous," like the line is guilty of something... maybe, as you put it, not making sense?

Wallace Stevens made me very, very happy.

I love the internal insights into personal writing roads that came out of this discussion. Thanks, all.

Deb, I totally hear you (no pun intended) on children being infatuated with the rhythms (and sometimes the appearance of language) if working at Kindergarten pilot literacy program has taught me anything over the past few years, is that if a book rhymes, it's immediately more memorable.

Must be something in the air--on the radio show I was just on--which was a HOOT, let me tell ya--we were talking about the music of language, and I was saying how no amount of advance in CGI or movies or what have you has ever produced anything as moving as music.

Mind you, mostly I was just cracking jokes...

Dang...sorry I missed that. Seriously. After what we talked about yesterday in here, I couldn't resist drabbling something a little nutty. Anne, Deb, this is for you.

Wilbur wondered if a man could go crazy by degrees, or all at once.He thought he heard his new horse sigh a few times. The beast perked up for Emily. She loved him to bits, but Wilbur had his eye on him. Sure enough, it happened again.

“Wilbur, do you ever wonder what it all means?”

“What what all means, Ed?” It had to be him. Nobody else was out here. “I’m kind of a simple guy.”

“Why you’re in there and I’m out here. Why I’ve attempted to engage you in conversation several times and you’re too rude to respond...that’s what. Common courtesy...please, thank you...that kind of thing.”

“But you’re a horse.”

“A horse has feelings, too, Wilbur.”Ed said. “And I think this is a pretty sad thing for this country that I am ‘just’ a horse to you. At my last place, they called me Timmy. But did you even ask?!”

”Well, no, I just thought you had a long face like my uncle Ed.”

Love it!

And I think this is a pretty sad thing for this country that I am ‘just’ a horse to you. At my last place, they called me Timmy. But did you even ask

dying of laughter

Thanks...and I haven't smoked any of the stuff from the evidence room yet.