Saturday Writing Essential: Squeezing Poetry into your Novel

Good morning friends and writers,

I hope you all a had safe and delightful July Fourth week, full of family, laughter, and sun.

For me, the last two weeks were jammed with challenges. Full of angst. Incredible fear. And relief. Plenty of relief. Blessed relief.

I won't go into the scary details here, as I really want to write something "writerly" today, but suffice it to say alls well that ends well, and I now have a gorgeous granddaughter, Isabella Marie. She's home with her mom now and thriving. Thank God.

And her aunt, my daughter Allison, after a frightening four days discovered she's going to be okay when faced with a horrendous possibility. Both events were totally unrelated, but happened to overlap and fill our fourth of July vacation week. And of course to top it off, my wife's MS went off the charts. Probably because of the high stress, but exacerbations happen anyway. We don't always know what triggers them.

While all this was going on, I babysat my two beautiful grandsons and managed to sneak in some enjoyable moments playing "war" (cards), relearning how to play Sorry (the board game), swimming, hiking, and scarfing black raspberries from the bushes in the woods. These were deeply moving and pleasurable hours which helped me get through the tough times.

I didn't get to write or read as imagined, and to be honest, that disappointed me. A lot. Such lofty plans I had, rather ambitious, but heavenly. I'd pictured vacation being a writing nirvana, punctuated with moments devoted to loving my wife, daughters, and grandsons and sitting by the lake, sipping wine while the boys skipped rocks. While I was fortunate that some of that happened, I have to realize that this "vacation" week was really not about me It was about supporting my family. Jenn needed me to watch the boys while she recovered from her rather severe wounds (emergency C sections aren't as neat and tidy as the usual ones) and while the NICU at Strong fought to stabilize my granddaughter.

(that's Isabella's tiny handy on my finger;Aunt Allison feeding Bella for the first time)

Okay, so we're back on track, life is good, and I've been picking and eating baskets full of strawberries, cukes, zukes, and green beans. That fresh garden produce also helps bring me back to life after a stressful day or week. Man, it tastes good going down. And it's so satisfying to tromp through the tropical-like vines that burst into color and fruit in a few short days. I swear they grew 18 inches while we were away.

So. Enough about me. Let's talk writing.

For those of you who'd like to write a novel, or who already have, let's specifically talk about poetry.

Poetry? How does that fit in a novel?

I'm talking about short descriptive passages that capture those lush images branded in your brain the last time you glanced out your car window and sighed at the beauty around you.

You've had moments like those, right? Even if you live in the middle of the city, there must be visions that thrill you. Like a brave cornflower poking out of a crack in the sidewalk, or the way the lights sparkle at night in the oily puddles, or the majesty of an old brick house whose character lasted for centuries.

Descriptions of these scenes may be used to slow down the action, to paint the scene, or to simply delight your readers. And it's okay to include some poetry like this smack dab in the middle of your book. Really, it is. Anyway, who cares about what the rule books or the stuffy experts say? I say, write from your heart and with your intuition, and worry about genre and rules later. Okay, so I'm a bit of a rebel. Maybe that's why I'm not a NYTimes bestseller yet. (Grin.)

Sometimes I think these poetic little gems turn a plain old mystery into a "literary mystery." But let's not delve into genre right now, or what distinguishes one mystery from another. Maybe that's a topic for another day.

So, regarding "poetic passages cleverly inserted in a great book," I've noticed these little gifts in books by Dean Koontz over the last few years - especially in the Odd Thomas series. Whenever I come across these astounding lovely nuggets, I smile and savor them. Gifts, that's what they are. Pure and simple. Our Gather friend Patricia F. is a master at this. Her writing is pure art and yet, so real and approachable. Don't you think? If you don't know her yet, check out her pieces here.

When I write my LeGarde Mysteries and Moore Mysteries, a similar thing happens. It's not a conscious thing, not at all. It just comes out of me when I picture Gus LeGarde standing in his gardens, or hiking through the rolling hills. And because the beauty of the Genesee Valley here in Upstate NY astounds me on a daily basis, it's a great opportunity to capture and share it. With you. With my readers. And with those who may someday read my books. Like my grandkids.

Most of my "poetic" passages come from visions I'm blessed with just driving to work or walking on the Genesee Valley Greenway. Or even in my own gardens. This heady, bucolic environment breathes life into me, inspires me to no end. And often -as some of you know--I get to capture the scenes with photos.

Here's one I took yesterday, but the image has been ingrained in my head for years. I wrote the following segment in the fifth LeGarde Mystery, FIRESONG: AN UNHOLY GRAVE. (It's not out yet, but I'm working hard editing it, so this came to mind)

In this scene, Gus has just passed an area of the tornado-ravaged countryside and is driving home to check on his family.

"Beyond the perimeter of the damage, the late June wheat crop stood intact, ready for harvest. Heavy-headed stalks waved in the breeze, producing undulating patterns in the great expanses along the roadside. A hint of green whispered beneath the golden-pink surf that rippled over the fields."

Understand, I'm not saying that's the best writing in the world, I'm sure I could hack it up over and over again to tighten it further. But it's an example of what I mean.

Want to practice some poetic writing? I loved it a few weeks ago when you all wrote haiku for us to match my photos. So let's do it again, but this time let's imagine a scene where your character takes a breath, or pauses to reflect, or simply plops down on a rock in the woods. Write us anything that makes you smile.

Here are a few photos to inspire you. Let your imagine fly, dear writers, and post your pieces in the comments below. I'll then copy and add them beneath. And if you want to share passages of your previous work, you don't have to use my photos. Be sure to let us know what book you're quoting from. ;o) I encourage authors to promote their books. After all, nobody ever bought a book they haven't heard about!

Purple clematis (took this last night, too.)

Here's our first entry - from our dear friend Patricia F.

" Rita wandered into the garden to distance herself from Joe's friends who lounged by the pool, quaffing martinis with lifted pinkies, in the late afternoon sun. Birds fluttered to a feeder hung on a low dogwood branch. Rita delighted in the playful darting of chickadees whose feeding was disturbed by a loud and bossy bluejay. There in the cool shade of the tree, a filigreed iron bench beckoned. Rita settled onto the bench quietly, closed her eyes and leaned back. Breathed in the coolness.

She startled momentarily and flicked her hand at her ear, as she felt the softest licking at her cheek. She was delighted to find that the spider she feared was a pair of royal purple clematis, lolling on the vine, with white centers that looked like white hot stars exploding. Rita cupped the flowers gently in her palm and pulled the vine to her cheek. The cool spicy petals followed the curve of her jaw. She closed her eyes again and imagined herself a Tahitian maiden, waiting for her lover to find her in the glade.

Her eyes snapped open when she heard Joe's footsteps crunching the pine needles underfoot.

"What the hell are you doing back here, woman? We have guests. What are you thinking, you stupid bitch?"

Rita let the flowers fly from her hand, and brushed away the tear that creeped down her cheek, washing away the purple softness that had whispered there."               - Patricia F. 

 Poor Rita - doesn't it make you want to whisk her away to a Tahitian island? (A. Lazar)

Foggy morning on the lake

Foggy morning on the lake:
Victoria sat along the bank staring wistfully at the swaying of the trees.
Swing and sway, they whispered along the cool breeze. Vapors, mist collide and mix, water roils and plays. Mist wraps around her like a blanket as she closes her eyes and imagines any place other than this.
For even though beauty plays, her own course is limited.
This is the last time she'll be able to play.
For tomorrow is judgment day.
The day the doctors had told her she would die. - Angela A.,

A lovely piece by Angela. Thanks!  (A Lazar)

And here's a darker, delicious piece by Lewis.

As Sean began to feel his muscles go slack, he felt a warmth caressing the back of his neck like ghost fingers. Using the last of his strength, he craned his neck and saw that the veil of fog had been drawn back from the waters like gossamer curtains, allowing the morning sun to scatter its diamonds across the lake's surface. As his eyes dimmed to a vision of of the blue-violet sky, he viewed the streak of cotton across the sky as if it were his soul, already gone from his dying body and sailing across the infinite.

He smiled. It was a fine morning to die. His leg gave a final rebellious kick, before his view was swallowed by the lake waters, chasing him into darkness.   - Lewis K

On the board walk

Campanula (I forgot what variety, but it spreads like mad all over my yard, even under trees)

Okay, that's it for today. I hope you have a fabulous weekend. And if you love to weave words, remember to write like the wind!

- Aaron

Gordie and Papa

The boys took these photos of us - they're getting to be good little photographers, aren't they?

Julian and Papa

I was so touched by this piece by Pat - I didn't even expect anyone to write about my pix with the grandkids. But I love that you did!

"Smile, Papa. Say boloney and cheese!" Gordie said, giggling so that he could barely steady the camera to his eye, the way Papa had shown him.

"Okay, pal. Steady. Ready, Jules? Boloney and cheese!"

Julian leaned in, his cheek close to his Papa's. It was warm and soft against Papa's bristled jaw. And there was a smell of strawberries about him, likely due to traces of jam on that cheek.

The picnic with the boys out on the dock had been a piece of heaven. Papa had shown the boys how to hook a worm and cast a line. They had caught three brookies, all keepers. The boys had squealed like baby piglets when Papa pulled the fish in. Together, they jumped up and down, making the dock rock and pitch, the chop from the water slapping the undersides of the dock with a sound like smacking lips.

Gram had packed PB & J sandwiches on thick wheat bread. There were cold grapes and watermelon chunks, too, and pink lemonade to wash it all down.

As Papa watched the boys, that whole afternoon, he too felt five again with all the glee that fishing and picnicking in the sun sparked in every boy.

"Smile ,Papa. Big-ly," Julian nudged.

Papa cupped Julian's shoulder and smiled big-ly, freezing the moment forever Patricia F.