(Besides participating in the 2013 Blogging A to Z April Challenge, I'm also participating in National Poetry Writing Month. In NaPoWriMo, I'm supposed to write a poem a day for the whole month. Yes, I'm crazy. Here's the seventh poem.)
Highlands
In the highlands a beauteous lass lived,
skin like winter snow, hair radiant red,
lips that curved in an impish grin.
In the highlands a handsome lad lived,
strong of back, eyes as green as the sea,
a smile like the summer sun.
At a gathering called by the High Lord,
they danced the Foursome Reel,
with eyes only for each other's flesh.
Late that night they crept quietly out
to the meadow with a soft gray blanket
and shared their fiery passion.
"I will love only thee," he declared.
"No one else is there for me," she swore.
Naked bodies intertwined until the dawn.
But he came from the Clan Campbell
while she sprang from Clan MacDonald,
no fiercer foes or feud ever there was.
So the lovers stole away at the dark
of the moon to escape to the coast,
but pursued by warriors of both clans.
Running hand in hand across the meadows,
past the barrows of ancient dread kings,
the lover fled, but the hounds drew nigh.
At last the lovers came to a cliff high,
down below the waves crashed.
"Trapped," she cried despairing.
He drew his sword, swearing
to sell his life dearly for their love,
but then a light appeared.
A blue white glow surrounded
a tall woman, beautiful and bright,
powerful and perilous. She beckoned.
When the warriors and hounds
reached the cliff, they found no one,
only the waves crashed below.
Then they fell to fighting among
themselves until the dawn
and they withdrew, muttering,
blaming the other clan for the loss,
for it be plain to all the lass and lad
had leapt to their deaths.
But to this day, the old-timers say,
on certain nights, when the moon is dark,
the lad and lass love and then twirl
while the Wild Folk pipe tunes
that entrance all who hear
to dance the reel on the cliff high.
(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)
Sunday, April 07, 2013
Saturday, April 06, 2013
F is for Floozy
Floozy and Other Stories was my third book. A collection of my various humorous (I hope) essays from newspapers, magazines, online zines, and other publications. Here's one of the essays in the book.)
Every April 22 we celebrate Earth Day. A day meant to make you feel guilty because – let’s be honest – you’re an untidy, unclean, energy wasting, stinkin’ slob, and it’s time you faced up to it. And yes, I do mean you. Turn off a few lights, walk around the neighborhood, pick up trash, choose paper over plastic, recycle something! Or you will be doomed to spend eternity listening to Al Gore drone on and on and on and on and on and on. Has anyone checked that man’s pulse lately? It’s quite possible he’s one of the walking dead.
However, Al’s not as boring as Vice President Joe Biden. Biden has actually killed people with boredom. Sure, most of them committed suicide, but Biden drove them to it. I think that’s why the VP likes to throw out outrageous comments when he speaks; he’s trying to keep people awake. He’ll be talking: “We need to look at the gross output of the nation so that we accustomize ourselves to the need to increase output in a productive fashion (Let’s bomb Texas and wear flashy high heels!) to offset non-useful activities...”
Of course, I’m Baptist, and we’re used to sitting still and not moving for long periods of time. My pastor likes to ask for “amens” when he’s preaching, and it’s not so much that he needs encouragement as he wants to make sure we’re still breathing.
Anyway, the point of Earth Day is that we – and by “we,” I mean you – are using too many valuable resources that should be preserved so that they can be used by me. No, no, no, just kidding. We’re preserving those resources so that they can be used by our children and their children’s children, even though we know they aren’t going to come see us in the nursing home. Rotten kids with their video games and Twitter. Why don’t I Twitter my cane upside your head? What do you think of that, you punk!
I seem to have wandered off my point. I wonder where I am. Maybe we should call the nurse. No, wait, here I am. My point is that today is Earth Day, and we should all work to preserve the environment so that our children and their children and even their children won’t blame us for turning this green earth into a dry cinder that looks like Sarah Palin’s been in charge.
Here are a few quick tips:
1. Choose paper over plastic, except for breast implants. Most plastic bags are made of polyethylene and can take up to 1,000 years to biodegrade. I refuse to use anything that will outlast me, which is why I date older women. And they have more money.
2. Breathe shallowly so you won’t put out so much CO2. In fact, give up exercise completely as that makes you breathe hard. (I’m going to see if my diabetes doctor buys this. I’ll get back to you.) Conversely, you could plant a tree. Outside is best.
3. Replace one light bulb with a compact fluorescent. CFs use 60% less energy and save 300 pounds of carbon dioxide per year per bulb. Or you could sit in the dark, thus conserving even more energy that I can use for my 52 inch plasma screen.
4. Turn your thermostat up two degrees in the summer and sweat a bit. Or, if you’re a woman, glow a bit. I was told once – by a woman – that men sweat, women glow. At my fitness center, some women glow so much you can smell them from 40 paces away.
5. Reduce, reuse, recycle. Reduce waste, reuse waste, recycle waste. Waste not, want not. Only you can prevent forest fires. Lottery tickets are not investments. Don’t spit straight up.
6. Walk, walk, walk. Don’t drive that car. Walk everywhere! Or bicycle. I’ll wave as I drive by. No, seriously, I will wave.
7. Don’t buy bottled water. Or refill the bottle and use it more than once. Plastic bottles make up 3.6 billion pounds – yes, I said billion – each year in our landfills. I don’t know who’s counting them, but I wouldn’t want that job.
And in conclusion on glorious Earth Day, we need to recycle more and look at the gross output of the nation so that we accustomize ourselves to the need to increase output in a productive environmentally friendly fashion (Let’s moon Ohio while dressed as a Klingon!) to offset non-useful activities...”
(Excerpted from Floozy and Other Stories. Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without the permission of the author and publisher. Thank you for reading.)
(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)
Happy Dirt Day!
Every April 22 we celebrate Earth Day. A day meant to make you feel guilty because – let’s be honest – you’re an untidy, unclean, energy wasting, stinkin’ slob, and it’s time you faced up to it. And yes, I do mean you. Turn off a few lights, walk around the neighborhood, pick up trash, choose paper over plastic, recycle something! Or you will be doomed to spend eternity listening to Al Gore drone on and on and on and on and on and on. Has anyone checked that man’s pulse lately? It’s quite possible he’s one of the walking dead.
However, Al’s not as boring as Vice President Joe Biden. Biden has actually killed people with boredom. Sure, most of them committed suicide, but Biden drove them to it. I think that’s why the VP likes to throw out outrageous comments when he speaks; he’s trying to keep people awake. He’ll be talking: “We need to look at the gross output of the nation so that we accustomize ourselves to the need to increase output in a productive fashion (Let’s bomb Texas and wear flashy high heels!) to offset non-useful activities...”Of course, I’m Baptist, and we’re used to sitting still and not moving for long periods of time. My pastor likes to ask for “amens” when he’s preaching, and it’s not so much that he needs encouragement as he wants to make sure we’re still breathing.
Anyway, the point of Earth Day is that we – and by “we,” I mean you – are using too many valuable resources that should be preserved so that they can be used by me. No, no, no, just kidding. We’re preserving those resources so that they can be used by our children and their children’s children, even though we know they aren’t going to come see us in the nursing home. Rotten kids with their video games and Twitter. Why don’t I Twitter my cane upside your head? What do you think of that, you punk!
I seem to have wandered off my point. I wonder where I am. Maybe we should call the nurse. No, wait, here I am. My point is that today is Earth Day, and we should all work to preserve the environment so that our children and their children and even their children won’t blame us for turning this green earth into a dry cinder that looks like Sarah Palin’s been in charge.
Here are a few quick tips:
1. Choose paper over plastic, except for breast implants. Most plastic bags are made of polyethylene and can take up to 1,000 years to biodegrade. I refuse to use anything that will outlast me, which is why I date older women. And they have more money.
2. Breathe shallowly so you won’t put out so much CO2. In fact, give up exercise completely as that makes you breathe hard. (I’m going to see if my diabetes doctor buys this. I’ll get back to you.) Conversely, you could plant a tree. Outside is best.
3. Replace one light bulb with a compact fluorescent. CFs use 60% less energy and save 300 pounds of carbon dioxide per year per bulb. Or you could sit in the dark, thus conserving even more energy that I can use for my 52 inch plasma screen.
4. Turn your thermostat up two degrees in the summer and sweat a bit. Or, if you’re a woman, glow a bit. I was told once – by a woman – that men sweat, women glow. At my fitness center, some women glow so much you can smell them from 40 paces away.
5. Reduce, reuse, recycle. Reduce waste, reuse waste, recycle waste. Waste not, want not. Only you can prevent forest fires. Lottery tickets are not investments. Don’t spit straight up.
6. Walk, walk, walk. Don’t drive that car. Walk everywhere! Or bicycle. I’ll wave as I drive by. No, seriously, I will wave.
7. Don’t buy bottled water. Or refill the bottle and use it more than once. Plastic bottles make up 3.6 billion pounds – yes, I said billion – each year in our landfills. I don’t know who’s counting them, but I wouldn’t want that job.
And in conclusion on glorious Earth Day, we need to recycle more and look at the gross output of the nation so that we accustomize ourselves to the need to increase output in a productive environmentally friendly fashion (Let’s moon Ohio while dressed as a Klingon!) to offset non-useful activities...”
(Excerpted from Floozy and Other Stories. Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without the permission of the author and publisher. Thank you for reading.)
(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)
Undertow
(Besides participating in the 2013 Blogging A to Z April Challenge, I'm also participating in National Poetry Writing Month. In NaPoWriMo, I'm supposed to write a poem a day for the whole month. Yes, I'm crazy. Here's the sixth poem.)
Undertow
I sink beneath your waves
into indigo wonder
down where charts end
beyond safety limits
Above the sun still shines
against a pale blue sky
the boat circles aimlessly
divers split the water
But you lead on, diamond
scales sparkle in wan light
smile a flash of white
webbed hand cool in mine
And now you and I dwell
in the lovely deep dark
slow dancing as we flow
in love's irresistible undertow
(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)
Undertow
I sink beneath your waves
into indigo wonder
down where charts end
beyond safety limits
Above the sun still shines
against a pale blue sky
the boat circles aimlessly
divers split the water
But you lead on, diamond
scales sparkle in wan light
smile a flash of white
webbed hand cool in mine
And now you and I dwell
in the lovely deep dark
slow dancing as we flow
in love's irresistible undertow
(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)
Friday, April 05, 2013
E is for excerpt
Murder by the Mile will be published late May or early June of this year! Woohoo! Here's an excerpt from MBTM.
From Murder by the Mile.
In his dreams, Bernard would look up and see the hanged man open his eyes and stare at him. In those dead eyes, Bernard would see an accusation that he could have saved him. In his dreams, Bernard would try and try to hold up the man to give him slack so that he could remove the rope from his neck. All the while Bernard would scream at his dream self what he should do. The man would thrash and moan until Bernard woke up. In reality, the hanged man never opened his eyes, barely moved at all, and never made any sounds as he died, but Bernard would dream it differently for years.
On this beautiful day in early November – chilly in the shade, but pleasant in the sun – Bernard M. Worthington limped along Watts Ridge Road as part of the two hundred or so people participating in the Ryton Many Mile Marathon. Occasionally other runners passed him. Some of them he knew, and they asked if he was okay.
“Got a cramp in my hamstring,” he told Merriman Smith who stopped when he saw the limping librarian.
“Done that before,” Merriman said. “Unpleasant. Did you warm up first? I’ve been more flexible than I ever thought possible since I started yoga at the community center.”
Startled, Bernard glanced at his elderly friend. Merriman smiled at him.
:You’d be surprised what this old body is capable of,” Merriman said. “Lots of miles left in me.” He patted his stomach.
Bernard nodded doubtfully. He had never thought of the City Treasurer as being in good shape. Merriman had a sharp mind ideally suited for numbers and budgets, but he had to be at least seventy-five.
“Bimmer, slothing off?” Ron Sims greeted him as the police lieutenant ran up and jogged in place.
“He didn’t warm up,” Merriman said. “He’s got a cramp in his leg. Always warm up, I say.”
“Where’s Lisa?” Sims asked, looking around as if Bernard had hidden her in the surrounding woods.
“She had things to do with Lorena Jo about the wedding,” Bernard said, not liking the question. Bernard had often thought Sims was romantically interested in Lisa even though Lisa disagreed. But she’s mine, bucko, he thought.
“What’s going on, Bernard?” Jerry Ruebuck asked as he joined them.
Bernard groaned inwardly. One thing he didn’t need or want was the help of the overly cheerful and seemingly perfect husband of his former girlfriend. When the former Sherry Hyatt married Jerry, she apparently ordered him custom-made to her specifications.
“Cramp,” Merriman said. “He didn’t warm up.”
“Probably doesn’t get much exercise at the library,” Sims said, smirking.
“Do you need help?” Jerry asked. “I can run back and get my car. Would only take five minutes. I can run this much faster than I can jog. Been saving my strength for the long haul.”
“I brought my cell phone,” Merriman said. “I could call someone.”
“Sherry’s at the aid station up ahead,” Jerry said. “She could drive her car down here.”
At the mention of Sherry, Bernard straightened up. “It’s better. I’ll walk it out.” He didn’t know if Jerry knew about Sherry and him, but he liked to avoid situations where they were all together. Particularly since Sherry seemed to take an unholy pleasure in needling Lisa. One day Sherry was going to go too far, and Lisa was going to deck her. Bernard didn’t want that to happen. Or do I?
“Are you sure?” Jerry asked. “I don’t mind at all.”
“You can’t be too careful,” Merriman said.
“Not at your age,” Sims said.
All three men laughed. Bernard forced a grin on his face.
“I’ll be fine,” Bernard said. He took a few steps and found he could actually move easier. “I may finish walking, but I’ll finish. You can go. Go on. Don’t mess up your race times for me.”
Sims nodded and jogged on.
“You’re sure?” Jerry asked. “I wouldn’t mind a reason to quit. Sherry made me do this. Not that it isn’t for a good cause, but I’d rather sponsor someone else and go and play golf. Besides, this race isn’t a real marathon.”
“It’s enough for us around here,” Merriman said loyally. “It’s been going on for over forty years now just fine.”
The Ryton Many Mile Marathon started in the late sixties during the first running craze. It would have petered out, as a lot of local races did over the years, but it became a charity event. Residents sponsored a runner, and the money went to whatever good causes had been selected by the organizers. This year, the money raised would go to the Ryton Humane Society, the Shelter for Women and Children, and the local Call-A-Ride.
“Oh, it’s a good little race,” Jerry said. “But I like something that stretches me. And it’s not even certified.”
The organizers of the marathon had looked at getting the race certified by several racing organizations, but decided they didn’t like the restrictions. That meant the race didn’t attract serious runners, but because it gave away t-shirts, ribbons, and at least twenty trophies, many amateurs ran each year and raised a surprising amount of money.
Merriman frowned at Jerry. It was one thing for a Ryton resident to criticize anything about the town, but it was quite another for a newcomer to do so. Bernard had lived in Ryton only two years himself and had learned to never say anything disparaging about the town in Merriman’s hearing.
“If it’s stretching you want –” Merriman started.
Jerry’s cell phone went off. The ringtone was a cut from the ’70s song Brick House. “That’s Sherry’s ring,” Jerry said. “Probably wants to know where her man is at.”
Merriman’s face twisted.
Jerry answered his cell and jogged on down the road.
“Humph,” Merriman said. “That wouldn’t be a ringtone I’d use for my wife. If I had one. And not that Hyatt girl. She’s no brick house. She’s skinny as a rail and got a tongue like a rusty nail.”
Bernard thought it best to say nothing. Merriman had probably forgotten Bernard’s history with Sherry and the Hyatt family. Or maybe not. The treasurer hadn’t held on to his office through four different mayors without knowing what to discuss and what not to.
“Well, I’d better get on,” Merriman said. “I’ll tell the aid station you’re coming so they can watch for you.”
“That’s not necessary,” Bernard said, but Merriman had already jogged on.
“Great,” Bernard said to the nearest tree. “Just great. It will be all over town that I couldn’t keep up with him.” He sighed. In high school, Bernard had been a long distance runner. He had expected he would do better in this marathon than he apparently was going to, but too many tacos and not enough exercise had slowed him down. He vowed to start an exercise routine tomorrow. If I live through this race, that is.
He started off again. He found he could walk briskly. His leg seemed to be loosening up. He might even be able to jog in a few minutes if he was careful. He certainly didn’t want to finish the race last. That really would give the town tongues something to wag about as if he and Lisa hadn’t already given them enough when they helped Chief Donaldson solve two different sets of murders.
At the moment, he had the road to himself. He could see a few people in front of him, but everyone behind him had yet to make the turn off from Oak onto Watts. He slowed. He wasn’t trying to win anyway, just finish so that his sponsors would give their pledged money to the Friends of the Ryton Library. The FRL was only a few months old and needed all the support it could get. While the library had a comfortable budget due to the fortune Eliah Ryton had left the library, Bernard was conscious the library lacked grassroots support among the Ryton residents.
In many communities, libraries operated as a social and cultural hub for the surrounding areas. During the many years when the late and unlamented Agatha Ryton-Storer, Eliah’s daughter, had been the Ryton librarian, she had fiercely protected “her” library from any outside activities. For years, the Ryton residents had been able to use the library only within her restricted rules. It was no wonder they didn’t see the potential it offered to enrich their lives. Bernard was determined to change that. He had many plans for the library. He hoped he would be able to implement all of them, but he would be satisfied this year if he could get the FRL up and off the ground.
He followed the curve of the road, not paying attention to his surroundings, although he noticed the treetops were growing across the road. Few people used Watts Road now that the new highway had been completed, but it was a scenic run and the lack of traffic made it well suited for the marathon.
Noticing his left shoe had come untied, he stopped to tie it. He heard a movement in the brush at the side of the road, but he couldn’t see anything. Probably a raccoon or more likely a dog.
He stood and took a step.
His face ran into something.
A shoe.
His gaze traveled up.
A hanged man dangled in front of him.
Bernard stumbled back in horror.
He rushed forward to try to hold the man up.
“Help!” he yelled. “Help me!”
But it was a good five minutes before anyone else ran up to help. By that time, Bernard knew the man was dead, but he kept holding the man’s legs, trying to lift the man up to ease the rope around the man’s neck even though it was too late.
(Excerpted from the forthcoming Murder by the Mile. Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without the permission of the author and publisher. Thank you for reading.)
(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)
From Murder by the Mile.
 |
| Proof cover for Murder by the Mile. |
On this beautiful day in early November – chilly in the shade, but pleasant in the sun – Bernard M. Worthington limped along Watts Ridge Road as part of the two hundred or so people participating in the Ryton Many Mile Marathon. Occasionally other runners passed him. Some of them he knew, and they asked if he was okay.
“Got a cramp in my hamstring,” he told Merriman Smith who stopped when he saw the limping librarian.
“Done that before,” Merriman said. “Unpleasant. Did you warm up first? I’ve been more flexible than I ever thought possible since I started yoga at the community center.”
Startled, Bernard glanced at his elderly friend. Merriman smiled at him.
:You’d be surprised what this old body is capable of,” Merriman said. “Lots of miles left in me.” He patted his stomach.
Bernard nodded doubtfully. He had never thought of the City Treasurer as being in good shape. Merriman had a sharp mind ideally suited for numbers and budgets, but he had to be at least seventy-five.
“Bimmer, slothing off?” Ron Sims greeted him as the police lieutenant ran up and jogged in place.
“He didn’t warm up,” Merriman said. “He’s got a cramp in his leg. Always warm up, I say.”
“Where’s Lisa?” Sims asked, looking around as if Bernard had hidden her in the surrounding woods.
“She had things to do with Lorena Jo about the wedding,” Bernard said, not liking the question. Bernard had often thought Sims was romantically interested in Lisa even though Lisa disagreed. But she’s mine, bucko, he thought.
“What’s going on, Bernard?” Jerry Ruebuck asked as he joined them.
Bernard groaned inwardly. One thing he didn’t need or want was the help of the overly cheerful and seemingly perfect husband of his former girlfriend. When the former Sherry Hyatt married Jerry, she apparently ordered him custom-made to her specifications.
“Cramp,” Merriman said. “He didn’t warm up.”
“Probably doesn’t get much exercise at the library,” Sims said, smirking.
“Do you need help?” Jerry asked. “I can run back and get my car. Would only take five minutes. I can run this much faster than I can jog. Been saving my strength for the long haul.”
“I brought my cell phone,” Merriman said. “I could call someone.”
“Sherry’s at the aid station up ahead,” Jerry said. “She could drive her car down here.”
At the mention of Sherry, Bernard straightened up. “It’s better. I’ll walk it out.” He didn’t know if Jerry knew about Sherry and him, but he liked to avoid situations where they were all together. Particularly since Sherry seemed to take an unholy pleasure in needling Lisa. One day Sherry was going to go too far, and Lisa was going to deck her. Bernard didn’t want that to happen. Or do I?
“Are you sure?” Jerry asked. “I don’t mind at all.”
“You can’t be too careful,” Merriman said.
“Not at your age,” Sims said.
All three men laughed. Bernard forced a grin on his face.
“I’ll be fine,” Bernard said. He took a few steps and found he could actually move easier. “I may finish walking, but I’ll finish. You can go. Go on. Don’t mess up your race times for me.”
Sims nodded and jogged on.
“You’re sure?” Jerry asked. “I wouldn’t mind a reason to quit. Sherry made me do this. Not that it isn’t for a good cause, but I’d rather sponsor someone else and go and play golf. Besides, this race isn’t a real marathon.”
“It’s enough for us around here,” Merriman said loyally. “It’s been going on for over forty years now just fine.”
The Ryton Many Mile Marathon started in the late sixties during the first running craze. It would have petered out, as a lot of local races did over the years, but it became a charity event. Residents sponsored a runner, and the money went to whatever good causes had been selected by the organizers. This year, the money raised would go to the Ryton Humane Society, the Shelter for Women and Children, and the local Call-A-Ride.
“Oh, it’s a good little race,” Jerry said. “But I like something that stretches me. And it’s not even certified.”
The organizers of the marathon had looked at getting the race certified by several racing organizations, but decided they didn’t like the restrictions. That meant the race didn’t attract serious runners, but because it gave away t-shirts, ribbons, and at least twenty trophies, many amateurs ran each year and raised a surprising amount of money.
Merriman frowned at Jerry. It was one thing for a Ryton resident to criticize anything about the town, but it was quite another for a newcomer to do so. Bernard had lived in Ryton only two years himself and had learned to never say anything disparaging about the town in Merriman’s hearing.
“If it’s stretching you want –” Merriman started.
Jerry’s cell phone went off. The ringtone was a cut from the ’70s song Brick House. “That’s Sherry’s ring,” Jerry said. “Probably wants to know where her man is at.”
Merriman’s face twisted.
Jerry answered his cell and jogged on down the road.
“Humph,” Merriman said. “That wouldn’t be a ringtone I’d use for my wife. If I had one. And not that Hyatt girl. She’s no brick house. She’s skinny as a rail and got a tongue like a rusty nail.”
Bernard thought it best to say nothing. Merriman had probably forgotten Bernard’s history with Sherry and the Hyatt family. Or maybe not. The treasurer hadn’t held on to his office through four different mayors without knowing what to discuss and what not to.
“Well, I’d better get on,” Merriman said. “I’ll tell the aid station you’re coming so they can watch for you.”
“That’s not necessary,” Bernard said, but Merriman had already jogged on.
“Great,” Bernard said to the nearest tree. “Just great. It will be all over town that I couldn’t keep up with him.” He sighed. In high school, Bernard had been a long distance runner. He had expected he would do better in this marathon than he apparently was going to, but too many tacos and not enough exercise had slowed him down. He vowed to start an exercise routine tomorrow. If I live through this race, that is.
He started off again. He found he could walk briskly. His leg seemed to be loosening up. He might even be able to jog in a few minutes if he was careful. He certainly didn’t want to finish the race last. That really would give the town tongues something to wag about as if he and Lisa hadn’t already given them enough when they helped Chief Donaldson solve two different sets of murders.
At the moment, he had the road to himself. He could see a few people in front of him, but everyone behind him had yet to make the turn off from Oak onto Watts. He slowed. He wasn’t trying to win anyway, just finish so that his sponsors would give their pledged money to the Friends of the Ryton Library. The FRL was only a few months old and needed all the support it could get. While the library had a comfortable budget due to the fortune Eliah Ryton had left the library, Bernard was conscious the library lacked grassroots support among the Ryton residents.
In many communities, libraries operated as a social and cultural hub for the surrounding areas. During the many years when the late and unlamented Agatha Ryton-Storer, Eliah’s daughter, had been the Ryton librarian, she had fiercely protected “her” library from any outside activities. For years, the Ryton residents had been able to use the library only within her restricted rules. It was no wonder they didn’t see the potential it offered to enrich their lives. Bernard was determined to change that. He had many plans for the library. He hoped he would be able to implement all of them, but he would be satisfied this year if he could get the FRL up and off the ground.
He followed the curve of the road, not paying attention to his surroundings, although he noticed the treetops were growing across the road. Few people used Watts Road now that the new highway had been completed, but it was a scenic run and the lack of traffic made it well suited for the marathon.
Noticing his left shoe had come untied, he stopped to tie it. He heard a movement in the brush at the side of the road, but he couldn’t see anything. Probably a raccoon or more likely a dog.
He stood and took a step.
His face ran into something.
A shoe.
His gaze traveled up.
A hanged man dangled in front of him.
Bernard stumbled back in horror.
He rushed forward to try to hold the man up.
“Help!” he yelled. “Help me!”
But it was a good five minutes before anyone else ran up to help. By that time, Bernard knew the man was dead, but he kept holding the man’s legs, trying to lift the man up to ease the rope around the man’s neck even though it was too late.
(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)
Undying
(Besides participating in the 2013 Blogging A to Z April Challenge, I'm also participating in National Poetry Writing Month. In NaPoWriMo, I'm supposed to write a poem a day for the whole month. Yes, I'm crazy. Here's the fifth poem.)
Undying
You cannot know
the things I have seen
the loves I have lost
Empires have fallen
kings become dust
Nothing remains
Should I tell you of
Alannah, auburn hair
and pale sweet body?
Or of fiery Elizabeth
who rode white horses
across the verdant moors?
A hundred or so Janes,
A multitude of Marys –
and even a few Siennas.
I loved them all
from youth to elder
I watched them die
Love didn’t protect
them from diseases,
wars, or old age.
A few learned my secret
They begged me to give
them the blood sacred.
I told them I could not;
humans were meant
to burn bright then die
Some understood
some fled in fear
some tried to slay me
Still I continue on
four thousand years
and a score more
Searching for anything
-- anything at all --
worth dying for
Love me while you live
and I will love you eons
after you are dead
April 2013
(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)
Undying
You cannot know
the things I have seen
the loves I have lost
Empires have fallen
kings become dust
Nothing remains
Should I tell you of
Alannah, auburn hair
and pale sweet body?
Or of fiery Elizabeth
who rode white horses
across the verdant moors?
A hundred or so Janes,
A multitude of Marys –
and even a few Siennas.
I loved them all
from youth to elder
I watched them die
Love didn’t protect
them from diseases,
wars, or old age.
A few learned my secret
They begged me to give
them the blood sacred.
I told them I could not;
humans were meant
to burn bright then die
Some understood
some fled in fear
some tried to slay me
Still I continue on
four thousand years
and a score more
Searching for anything
-- anything at all --
worth dying for
Love me while you live
and I will love you eons
after you are dead
April 2013
(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)
Thursday, April 04, 2013
D is for diabetes
I think the worse thing about diabetes -- besides the risk of blindness, kidney failure, liver damage, and of course, early death -- is that you don't get to take a day off. Your diabetes doesn't care if it's birthday and your best friend made you a cherry chip cake; it doesn't care if it's Thanksgiving and Aunt Edna's cranberry and mushroom dressing is super delicious; and it doesn't care if it's Christmas and you've waited all year for pumpkin cheesecake and you've been good and by St. Nicholas, you deserve a piece!Diabetes doesn't care. It doesn't give you a day off. If you break your diet, your blood sugar will soar no matter what your reasons are. Yes, you can have small indulgences, but that's it. And even those have to be factored in and carefully off set. There are no quick decisions with diabetes. Everything has a carb cost, and it has to be counted.
Diabetes is about control. Never ending vigilance. You have to plan and scheme and work and make the right choice every single time. It's no wonder that people give up. They get tired. They get worn by all the carb counting. Trying to decide if the side effects of the meds are worth their effects. Trying to stay up on the latest advances because they can't count on their doctor doing so. Choosing the right meds, the right diet, the right exercises, the right doctors, the right food ... Sometimes people give up.
I have at times. Sometimes it just overwhelms me. Sometimes I don't care. Sometimes I let diabetes win. It's not smart. It's not wise. It's because I'm only human, and I get worn.
But -- I made choice to live a long time ago. So I get back up, clean up my diet, get to walking and exercising, and I go on. It's like this: diabetes is a war. We're going to lose a few battles, suffer some setbacks, but we can and will win the war. Even though sometimes it feels like we're facing the worse thing.
(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)
Parts
(Besides participating in the 2013 Blogging A to Z April Challenge, I'm also participating in National Poetry Writing Month. In NaPoWriMo, I'm supposed to write a poem a day for the whole month. Yes, I'm crazy. Here's the fourth poem.)
Parts
He made a parts list:
the arms of Mrs. Harris
who worked out daily;
the legs of young Ginny
who rode a bike to work;
the body of a stripper
who whirled around a pole,
the lovely face of her, too,
but not her sad eyes;
instead the orbs of a calico cat.
The lips he made full and lush,
his dream of an ideal mate.
“She will be perfect,
more than a person born.”
Lightning crashed,
machinery threw sparks.
“She's alive! she’s alive!”
She rose from the table,
with the beauty and grace,
only the exactly crafted have.
He was her first sight,
a flawed creator who
claimed he owned her.
Stretching forth her arms,
she embraced then broke
his fragile neck, whispering,
“A perfect woman only
wants a perfect man.”
April 2013
(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)
Parts
He made a parts list:
the arms of Mrs. Harris
who worked out daily;
the legs of young Ginny
who rode a bike to work;
the body of a stripper
who whirled around a pole,
the lovely face of her, too,
but not her sad eyes;
instead the orbs of a calico cat.
The lips he made full and lush,
his dream of an ideal mate.
“She will be perfect,
more than a person born.”
Lightning crashed,
machinery threw sparks.
“She's alive! she’s alive!”
She rose from the table,
with the beauty and grace,
only the exactly crafted have.
He was her first sight,
a flawed creator who
claimed he owned her.
Stretching forth her arms,
she embraced then broke
his fragile neck, whispering,
“A perfect woman only
wants a perfect man.”
April 2013
(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)
Wednesday, April 03, 2013
C is for characters
After people read my books -- particularly Murder by Dewey Decimal and Murder by the Acre, which are both set in the fictional small town of Ryton, Oklahoma -- I've been asked how I keep the facts about all those characters straight. Truthfully, it's not hard because they "live" in my mind. In many ways, they become more real than real people I meet.I think it's because I spend days and days with my characters. I think about them almost constantly. I wonder what they're doing, how they would react in certain situations, what they would say. Bits of dialogue appear in my mind, almost like I'm hearing the characters say them. I can close my eyes and see their faces and what they're wearing.
My characters live interesting lives. They deal with murder and secrets, love lost and found, danger and thrills. It's easy to pay attention to them; compared to real life's mostly boring chores and duties, my characters are fascinating.
There are times when I've felt my characters speak to me so strongly that I've worried they might be overcoming my personality or I might be developing multiple personalities, some of whom should definitely not be allowed in the real world. But then I finish the story, and they go away, safely tucked away in a book.
Until I start writing again. And there they are, just waiting for me to give them life again. In some ways, it's a bit scary. But in other ways, it's exhilarating.
(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)
Moon
(Besides participating in the 2013 Blogging A to Z April Challenge, I'm also participating in National Poetry Writing Month. In NaPoWriMo, I'm supposed to write a poem a day for the whole month. Yes, I'm crazy. Here's the third poem.)
Moon
She sent the kids to her parents.
Then cleaned the house
spotless like he wanted it.
She cooked his favorite foods,
ham and loaded potatoes,
coconut cream pie for dessert.
She put on the yellow dress,
but wore nothing underneath
because he always liked that.
And when he came home
she waited by the door
with an icy beer to sate his thirst.
After dinner, she gave herself
to him, pretending to enjoy
his uncaring and clumsy hands.
When they finished, he laughed
and said, "I'm glad you learned
your lesson last night, babe."
She smiled as her hands
slide over the bruises
on her arms and neck.
He rolled over and slept
self-satisfied, while she waited
for the sacred moon to rise.
The silvery light touched
their bed and slid over her face,
her eyes gleamed yellow.
When the morning sun rose,
neighbors found his body
here and there and even over there.
(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)
Moon
She sent the kids to her parents.
Then cleaned the house
spotless like he wanted it.
She cooked his favorite foods,
ham and loaded potatoes,
coconut cream pie for dessert.
She put on the yellow dress,
but wore nothing underneath
because he always liked that.
And when he came home
she waited by the door
with an icy beer to sate his thirst.
After dinner, she gave herself
to him, pretending to enjoy
his uncaring and clumsy hands.
When they finished, he laughed
and said, "I'm glad you learned
your lesson last night, babe."
She smiled as her hands
slide over the bruises
on her arms and neck.
He rolled over and slept
self-satisfied, while she waited
for the sacred moon to rise.
The silvery light touched
their bed and slid over her face,
her eyes gleamed yellow.
When the morning sun rose,
neighbors found his body
here and there and even over there.
(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)
Tuesday, April 02, 2013
B is for bounce
Can you bounce? Can you be knocked down and get back up? Can you come at a problem from a different angle when your first, second, or even third approach has been blocked? How resilient we are determines how well we will do in this world.I've always been fascinated by resiliency and how people possess it in varying degrees. A friend and I were talking about her much younger sister who committed suicide several years ago. Even as a little girl, her sister was unable to handle problems. She would cry for help and wait for someone to rescue her. As an adult, she was bright, funny, and compassionate, but whenever life threw something at her, she would collapse or grab a handful of pills and a bottle.
My friend doesn't know why her sister lacked resiliency. There doesn't seem to be any good reason that her sister -- who had many more advantages than my friend -- couldn't bounce. But she lacked the ability to recover from setbacks. And when her husband left her -- exhausted from caring for her -- she took her life. She didn't even try to survive.
I'm not talking about optimism. In fact, I've often seen people who were optimists crumble when they receive a shock. Of course, I've also seen pessimists falter, too, so I don't think that attitude necessarily has much to do with bounce. I think it is deeper than attitude, stronger than stubbornness ... I think it's a quality of pragmatic bloody-mindedness. It's a hard faith in yourself that you can endure, survive somehow whatever life throws at you, and that you're going to do it no matter what.
I don't know where it comes from or how one acquires it. But I do think it helps if you decide to bounce. You make your mind up to get back up. A bit of anger helps. Maybe even fury. And definitely a realistic view of the world and what you can do.
Bounce. It's what helps us survive. I hope you have plenty of it ... and never have to use it.
(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)
Healer
(Besides participating in the 2013 Blogging A to Z April Challenge, I'm also participating in National Poetry Writing Month. In NaPoWriMo, I'm supposed to write a poem a day for the whole month. Yes, I'm crazy. Here's the second poem.)
Healer
Our Rebecca died, then came back,
a miracle the doctors said,
her hands now could heal,
take another’s pain and disease,
We disbelieved at first,
until we watched wounds
fade and ghastly terminals
restored to perfect health.
One by one, two by two,
frantic we crowded her,
talons outstretched,
grabbing, grasping, taking.
Too much, she screamed,
but we would not hear.
We forced her hands
open upon our heads.
She wept, she suffered,
she struggled, but we
were legion, and none
would listen to her pleas.
Finally, she turned her hands
upon herself to expel our
burdens. Our afflictions
returned, but she faded away.
If she returns, we will be wise,
Carefully we’ll cherish her healing
hands. We have made plans;
She will not escape next time.
(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)
Healer
Our Rebecca died, then came back,
a miracle the doctors said,
her hands now could heal,
take another’s pain and disease,
We disbelieved at first,
until we watched wounds
fade and ghastly terminals
restored to perfect health.
One by one, two by two,
frantic we crowded her,
talons outstretched,
grabbing, grasping, taking.
Too much, she screamed,
but we would not hear.
We forced her hands
open upon our heads.
She wept, she suffered,
she struggled, but we
were legion, and none
would listen to her pleas.
Finally, she turned her hands
upon herself to expel our
burdens. Our afflictions
returned, but she faded away.
If she returns, we will be wise,
Carefully we’ll cherish her healing
hands. We have made plans;
She will not escape next time.
Monday, April 01, 2013
A is for Alphabet
I'm participating in the Blogging from A to Z Challenge for April. What is that? To quote from the website: "Using this premise, you would start beginning April First with a topic themed on something with the letter A, then on April Second another topic with the letter B as the theme, and so on until you finish on April Thirtieth with the theme based on the letter Z. It doesn't even have to be a word--it can be a proper noun, the letter used as a symbol, or the letter itself. The theme of the day is the letter scheduled for that day."So now you know what we'll be doing in April. Except on Sundays. And I'm going to be a bit freer with the theme, I think, than some of the bloggers I've read have been. You wouldn't expect anything less from me, would you?
Speaking of the theme, A is for Alphabet applies because I'm (re)learning how to write in cursive. No, I'm not learning how to curse; it's that flowing writing we all used to do in grade school. A couple Saturdays ago, during the program at writers group, the presented asked us to do a five-minute timed writing using cursive. Yikes. I'm typed everything for years. I actually couldn't remember how to make some of the letters using cursive. (Do you know how to write a q or z in cursive? Right off the top of your head? I thought not.)
To relearn, I've been writing the alphabet in cursive. I have a goal of doing it 1,000 times over the next month or so until my hand learns it again. I doubt it will improve my handwriting, which is bad enough that doctors point to it with pride and say, "At least, I don't write that badly," but at least I will know how again.
Supposedly, writing cursive using a different part of our brain than printing or typing does. I'm all for exercising my brain, particularly since it looks so attractive in workout gear. Trust me on this.
Hope you have a wonderful April 1st.
(This post is part of the 2013 Blogging From A to Z April Challenge. Learn more about the Challenge HERE.)
Dryad
(Besides participating in the 2013 Blogging A to Z April Challenge, I'm also participating in National Poetry Writing Month. In NaPoWriMo, I'm supposed to write a poem a day for the whole month. Yes, I'm crazy. Here's the first poem.)
Dryad
In the shadow of an ancient tree,
she stood nude, watching my labors
until I laid down my rake and saw her.
Fair skin like the flesh of an oak,
hair like the golden leaves of autumn,
she smiled at me and beckoned.
What manner of man could resist
such a lovely creature, her only
clothing the spring wind.
Cradled in her long arms,
I only heard her whisper,
“To live requires blood.”
Once, twice, the scythe gleamed.
An ending pain and now I spread
budding limbs toward the blessed sun.
(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)
Dryad
In the shadow of an ancient tree,
she stood nude, watching my labors
until I laid down my rake and saw her.
Fair skin like the flesh of an oak,
hair like the golden leaves of autumn,
she smiled at me and beckoned.
What manner of man could resist
such a lovely creature, her only
clothing the spring wind.
Cradled in her long arms,
I only heard her whisper,
“To live requires blood.”
Once, twice, the scythe gleamed.
An ending pain and now I spread
budding limbs toward the blessed sun.
(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without prior permission. Thank you for reading.)
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Happy Easter!
HAPPY EASTER!
I hope You
have a Wonderful Day
filled with Sunshine and Joy!
(And chocolate, too!)
***
I'm going to be participating in the Blogging from A to Z Challenge in April. I'll tell you about it tomorrow, or you can go HERE and learn more. Talk to you then.Now get out there and rejoice!
Saturday, March 30, 2013
10 Facts About Me v.3
1. My favorite movie of all time would have to be The Lion In Winter. Fantastic dialogue and characters. Amazing performances from the entire cast, but particularly Katharine Hepburn and Peter O'Toole.
2. My current favorite musical groups are A Great Big World, Imagine Dragons, and Tenth Avenue North.
3. My favorite pin is Uni-Ball, micro point. (Since I write, I get asked this a lot, but actually I do almost all my writing on my computer. I hardly ever write in longhand. Just bits in my idea journal.)
4. My favorite superhero is Superman, followed closely by Wonder Woman. The old versions before the New 52 crapped all over them, particularly Wonder Woman.
5. My favorite musical is Man of La Mancha. It's about the only one I would rewatch. Maybe Hello, Dolly.
6. I don't like dark stories that are dark for the sake of being dark. Yes, there are bad things in the world, and fiction will show them, but sometimes authors get enchanted by the bleak and senseless. I have enough of that in the real world without wanting to read an excess of it in books.
7. I dislike food that takes hours to cook. Not worth it. Fresh ingredients simply and quickly prepared are what I like.
8. I don't like chocolate cake unless it has German chocolate frosting.
9. I don't like to text. Not at all. I get annoyed when people text at a meal with me. I made sure they know I'm annoyed. They don't usually do it again. (This doesn't apply, of course, if it's an emergency or important news. Otherwise, it's rude. And don't text in church or at funerals. Really.)
10. I don't like writing down what I don't like. Seems rather pointless and mean.
2. My current favorite musical groups are A Great Big World, Imagine Dragons, and Tenth Avenue North.
3. My favorite pin is Uni-Ball, micro point. (Since I write, I get asked this a lot, but actually I do almost all my writing on my computer. I hardly ever write in longhand. Just bits in my idea journal.)
4. My favorite superhero is Superman, followed closely by Wonder Woman. The old versions before the New 52 crapped all over them, particularly Wonder Woman.
5. My favorite musical is Man of La Mancha. It's about the only one I would rewatch. Maybe Hello, Dolly.
6. I don't like dark stories that are dark for the sake of being dark. Yes, there are bad things in the world, and fiction will show them, but sometimes authors get enchanted by the bleak and senseless. I have enough of that in the real world without wanting to read an excess of it in books.
7. I dislike food that takes hours to cook. Not worth it. Fresh ingredients simply and quickly prepared are what I like.
8. I don't like chocolate cake unless it has German chocolate frosting.
9. I don't like to text. Not at all. I get annoyed when people text at a meal with me. I made sure they know I'm annoyed. They don't usually do it again. (This doesn't apply, of course, if it's an emergency or important news. Otherwise, it's rude. And don't text in church or at funerals. Really.)
10. I don't like writing down what I don't like. Seems rather pointless and mean.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Writer's moon
This is a five minute timed writing about anything at all. I just need the words to flow. I need to break this dam in my mind; I need to release the hounds of the muse to hunt down my story. I need to hear them baying as they corner the elusive narrative. I need to follow them on my computer horse until we corner the story in a box canyon. Then we'll go in, me and my computer with my paper net, and catch the flighty metaphors, the swift similes, the twisty plots, and the tangled tales. Then we'll ride back across the fields of white wheat under the typewritten skies, the victorious writer back from the wild writing hunt, another story to put non-metaphoric food on the table.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Some nights, other days
Some nights, other days
Some nights I think of you
and what we did on other nights.
Some nights I miss your touch
and how you felt on other nights.
Some nights I hunger for your body
and what it gave on other nights.
Some nights I shudder as my empty bed
reminds me of other nights.
Some days I walk happily alone
where we once walked on other days.
Some days I remember the savage fights
and your jealousy on other days.
Some days I recall the lying
and the bitterness on other days.
Some days I don't miss
what we had on other days.
Some days I think it's best we're apart,
but I think different on other nights.
(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. No copying without permission. Thank you for reading.)
Some nights I think of you
and what we did on other nights.
Some nights I miss your touch
and how you felt on other nights.
Some nights I hunger for your body
and what it gave on other nights.
Some nights I shudder as my empty bed
reminds me of other nights.
Some days I walk happily alone
where we once walked on other days.
Some days I remember the savage fights
and your jealousy on other days.
Some days I recall the lying
and the bitterness on other days.
Some days I don't miss
what we had on other days.
Some days I think it's best we're apart,
but I think different on other nights.
(Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. No copying without permission. Thank you for reading.)
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
10 Facts About Me v.2
1. I love old steam trains. Love their look. Love their sound. They were amazing technology pushing at the limits of the knowledge of their time. I wish they still ran.
2. Cupcakes makes me happy. They're like little pastries of sunshine. Lemon, cherry, and strawberry are my favorite flavors.
3. I try to listen to music every day. I also try to sing every day. Life is better oh so much better for having music in it.
4. I try to read 100 books a year. I usually go over that number, but at least a hundred.
5. I am unable to really whistle. Don't know why. Have never been able to.
6. I can eat a whole lemon, peel and all, with salt. Not good for my teeth, but I do love the salty, sour taste.
7. I was unable to master the yo-yo when I was in grade school. I once tried to do that trick where you swing the yo-yo up in huge arc and only succeeded in bouncing it off my head.
8. I like all of the Star Trek series. I miss Kirk, Spock, and Bones, though. A shame that our heroes -- or at least the people who portray them -- get old. The new versions of those three are okay, but not the same.
9. My favorite TV show at the present is Person of Interest, followed by NCIS and White Collar. Oh, I also like the Big Bang Theory, although their scripts seem to be slipping.
10. Archibald MacLeish is my favorite poet. His poetry literally changed my life and kindled a love of poetry in all its forms that burns still today.
2. Cupcakes makes me happy. They're like little pastries of sunshine. Lemon, cherry, and strawberry are my favorite flavors.
3. I try to listen to music every day. I also try to sing every day. Life is better oh so much better for having music in it.
4. I try to read 100 books a year. I usually go over that number, but at least a hundred.
5. I am unable to really whistle. Don't know why. Have never been able to.
6. I can eat a whole lemon, peel and all, with salt. Not good for my teeth, but I do love the salty, sour taste.
7. I was unable to master the yo-yo when I was in grade school. I once tried to do that trick where you swing the yo-yo up in huge arc and only succeeded in bouncing it off my head.
8. I like all of the Star Trek series. I miss Kirk, Spock, and Bones, though. A shame that our heroes -- or at least the people who portray them -- get old. The new versions of those three are okay, but not the same.
9. My favorite TV show at the present is Person of Interest, followed by NCIS and White Collar. Oh, I also like the Big Bang Theory, although their scripts seem to be slipping.
10. Archibald MacLeish is my favorite poet. His poetry literally changed my life and kindled a love of poetry in all its forms that burns still today.
Sunday, March 24, 2013
Flowers
Several years back, I had a new camera and my first version of Photoshop Elements. These flowers are the result. I always intended to make a calendar out of them, but never did. Enjoy! (But don't copy. I might still make that calendar someday ...)
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Not much to say
As a writer, I'm supposed to have a thousand and one thoughts all the time. Words are supposed to flow out of me, a torrent, a flood, but I have to tell you honestly that sometimes I don't have much to say. When I was younger, I used to think those times were a manifestation of writer's block. Now, I know it can simply be because I'm tired. Or have written a lot of words over the past couple of days, and my well is empty.
Or maybe I'm just lazy. I mention that possibility, but my heart isn't it. Although I do think I'm lazier than I should be. Steven Pressfield wrote a book called The War of Art in which he says the force which keeps us from doing creative things or really any endeavor is an actual universal force known as Resistance.
He equates Resistance to Satan. I'm not sure if I buy the book's main premise totally, but it is an excellent metaphor to describe the creative struggle. Perhaps more warlike than many people would prefer, but creative endeavors -- be they writing or art or sculpture or preaching or teaching or parenting really anything that requires us to reach outside the limitations of our being -- are a struggle. I recommend the book. I think there's a lot of wisdom in it.
My point is I simply don't have much to say today, so I'll close.
Or maybe I'm just lazy. I mention that possibility, but my heart isn't it. Although I do think I'm lazier than I should be. Steven Pressfield wrote a book called The War of Art in which he says the force which keeps us from doing creative things or really any endeavor is an actual universal force known as Resistance.
He equates Resistance to Satan. I'm not sure if I buy the book's main premise totally, but it is an excellent metaphor to describe the creative struggle. Perhaps more warlike than many people would prefer, but creative endeavors -- be they writing or art or sculpture or preaching or teaching or parenting really anything that requires us to reach outside the limitations of our being -- are a struggle. I recommend the book. I think there's a lot of wisdom in it.
My point is I simply don't have much to say today, so I'll close.
Friday, March 22, 2013
And now a brief message from our sponsors ...
By Stephen B. Bagley
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Thursday, March 21, 2013
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Hutch
I carved a writing office out of my living room years ago. It's a small space and was never organized. Here's what it looked like:
Amazing, eh? Yet, somehow I produced five books and countless years of newsletters and other publications from that mess. But the plastic boxes that had functioned as book shelves were giving way after twenty years. So I decided to buy a hutch.
First, I had to clear the desk of 20 years of books, papers, letters, bills, etc. Here's what the clean desk looked like:
The last time that desktop was clean was when I moved into my current home. More than twenty years ago.
And here's the new hutch:
Nice, isn't it. I almost hated to put anything on it, but it's meant to work, and to do that, it needed a few things.
Here's my writing space with the hutch and all nicely organized and clean:
And there you go! I'm very pleased with it. It was a lot of work, but I threw away a bunch of stuff and organized the remaining. It's efficient and clean.
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
Author of the Month Laura Eckroat!
I met Laura at the Chisholm Trail Book Festival in Duncan one year. She was a joy to be around. Positive, funny, sweet. We stayed in touch by email after the festival and then connected on Facebook. At that festival, she only had one book out, but now she has three, and her fourth book comes out this summer in June.
These sweet little books are perfect to read to your children or grandchildren. Visit Laura’s website HERE. When you buy one of Laura’s books, you get a code where you can download an free audio version of the books. How cool is that!
Monday, March 18, 2013
"Worn" by Tenth Avenue North
One of my new favorite songs. Thanks to Wendy for sharing it on Facebook.
Sunday, March 17, 2013
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Titles
In my writing corner, I have several outstanding writing books and references that help me immensely. Thought I'd share a few of these with you.
The Lively Art of Writing by Lucile Vaughan Payne. One of the clearest and best writing books. A bit dated now, but worth reading. She practices what she preaches.
The Elements of Style by William Strunk, Jr. and E.B. White. A little classic on writing well. Also, a bit dated, but loaded with good advice.
The War of Art by Steven Pressfield. Inspirational and stirring. "DO THE WORK!" When I feel I can't write, I read a few pages of this book.
Plot by Ansen Dibell. Covers exactly what you'd expect from the title and does it well.
Roget's College Thesaurus and The New Merriam-Webster Thesaurus. I know there are online thesauri by the dozens, but I prefer these two. They give me enough choices without overwhelming me.
Baby Names From Around the World by Maxine Fields. Helps me name my characters. Invaluable when I'm looking for the perfect name for a character.
The New Merriam-Webster Dictionary and The American Heritage Dictionary. Once again, although there are many dictionaries online, these do right by me.
The Random House Handbook and The St. Martin's Handbook. These can answer any grammar and punctuation question I have. I like both, but Random House seems better organized.
Barlett's Familiar Quotations by John Bartlett. I never trust online quotes.
Those are the books I reach for time after time. What writing books are on your shelves?
Friday, March 15, 2013
Sitting
I've been asked many times, "What's the hardest thing about writing?" The answer varies depending on what I'm having to do that day, but today the answer is ... sitting in this chair hour after hour struggling with the words. I do take breaks. More than I should, but sometimes I feel if I don't get up and walk around a bit, get some sun, do something else ... I'm going to go bonkers.
It's a weird pressure when I write like this. I can feel the tension build. When the writing is going well, I'm relaxed and can even forget to eat. You won't think it to look at me, but I often forget meals when the writing is going well. But when it's going like it is lately -- when every word is hard won -- then the tension builds in my neck and shoulders, sometimes triggering a nasty headache.
But still I slog on. The book will be finished. These hard won words are often better than the easy ones. So it's worth the struggle. But I have to get up and walk around a bit now.
It's a weird pressure when I write like this. I can feel the tension build. When the writing is going well, I'm relaxed and can even forget to eat. You won't think it to look at me, but I often forget meals when the writing is going well. But when it's going like it is lately -- when every word is hard won -- then the tension builds in my neck and shoulders, sometimes triggering a nasty headache.
But still I slog on. The book will be finished. These hard won words are often better than the easy ones. So it's worth the struggle. But I have to get up and walk around a bit now.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
The ending we don't know
This is the story whose ending we don't know.
It's nearly midnight in a suburb of a city. Rows of nearly identical houses line the streets. Streetlights pour out circles of light. Far off a siren sounds.
The front door of one of those houses opens, and a man with a broken heart walks out. He leaves his door open, his TV showing the late night news. An envelope on the coffee table is addressed to his estranged wife. The note is blank except for his name and a simple "Sorry."
He walks to the end of his driveway and then pauses. He stands there a long time. A dog barks and finally gets bored with this nocturnal visitor. Mrs. Higgins opens the curtain of her bedroom window from across the street and sees him. She starts to wake her husband, but then recognizes her neighbor and decides he must be going on a walk. She goes to bed.
The man steps onto the empty street and walks down the middle of it.
A few times, cars pass him and slow down, but he doesn't seem lost. He doesn't seem confused. His steps are steady. He's walking with purpose. So the cars continue, but the drivers will remember him later.
He reaches the woods on the edge of town. He stops briefly. If someone were watching him, they would see the momentary hesitation, the brief flash of something like regret. But he moves forward, leaving regret behind. He doesn't look back even though what he's leaving pulls at him. The farther he walks, the less hold it has.
He walks through the woods, following a path that his feet seem to know well. He passes by a young couple making love. The boy is startled and runs away. When the boy returns, the girl is clothed now and it is so not going to happen. It will be three days before they admit they saw the man.
He passes through the woods, only leaving a few signs that he was ever there. The wind in the trees sounds like a river.
He reaches the mountain. He begins to climb. It's not a hard climb, but it makes him breathe hard, makes the sweat glisten on his forehead in the moonlight. Twice he slips, but only falls a couple of feet before he catches himself.
Finally on a gentle slope, he walks to the top of a cliff. He stops and turns back toward what he left. He sees the town in which he lived and loved and lost. He sees his life. He sees what he loved and what loved him and what remains. He sees what's broken and can't be fixed. He doesn't turn into a pillar of salt.
He turns the other direction and takes a few steps. He's at the edge of a cliff. Below there is a river. Beyond the river is a dark wilderness, the beginning of a national park. He removes all of his clothing and leaves it in a pile. He stands there in the rising wind and the uncaring moonlight.
And then he spreads his arms, runs three steps, and leaps into the void.
This is the ending we don't know. His body hasn't been found. It's been six years.
Some believe he fell into the river and it carried his lifeless form to the ocean. Some say that he didn't jump at all, but actually met a secret lover (there had been rumors of such) and went off to start a new life. Others say the wild animals scattered his body as if bears or wolves still stalk the park. At Crazy Eddie's Comic shop, the boys talk of aliens and strange lights.
There is a story, though, which some of us choose to quietly believe: That when he jumped, the winds caught him, bore him up and carried him away into the endless starry sky.
© 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without permission. Thank you for reading.
It's nearly midnight in a suburb of a city. Rows of nearly identical houses line the streets. Streetlights pour out circles of light. Far off a siren sounds.
The front door of one of those houses opens, and a man with a broken heart walks out. He leaves his door open, his TV showing the late night news. An envelope on the coffee table is addressed to his estranged wife. The note is blank except for his name and a simple "Sorry."
He walks to the end of his driveway and then pauses. He stands there a long time. A dog barks and finally gets bored with this nocturnal visitor. Mrs. Higgins opens the curtain of her bedroom window from across the street and sees him. She starts to wake her husband, but then recognizes her neighbor and decides he must be going on a walk. She goes to bed.
The man steps onto the empty street and walks down the middle of it.
A few times, cars pass him and slow down, but he doesn't seem lost. He doesn't seem confused. His steps are steady. He's walking with purpose. So the cars continue, but the drivers will remember him later.
He reaches the woods on the edge of town. He stops briefly. If someone were watching him, they would see the momentary hesitation, the brief flash of something like regret. But he moves forward, leaving regret behind. He doesn't look back even though what he's leaving pulls at him. The farther he walks, the less hold it has.
He walks through the woods, following a path that his feet seem to know well. He passes by a young couple making love. The boy is startled and runs away. When the boy returns, the girl is clothed now and it is so not going to happen. It will be three days before they admit they saw the man.
He passes through the woods, only leaving a few signs that he was ever there. The wind in the trees sounds like a river.
He reaches the mountain. He begins to climb. It's not a hard climb, but it makes him breathe hard, makes the sweat glisten on his forehead in the moonlight. Twice he slips, but only falls a couple of feet before he catches himself.
Finally on a gentle slope, he walks to the top of a cliff. He stops and turns back toward what he left. He sees the town in which he lived and loved and lost. He sees his life. He sees what he loved and what loved him and what remains. He sees what's broken and can't be fixed. He doesn't turn into a pillar of salt.
He turns the other direction and takes a few steps. He's at the edge of a cliff. Below there is a river. Beyond the river is a dark wilderness, the beginning of a national park. He removes all of his clothing and leaves it in a pile. He stands there in the rising wind and the uncaring moonlight.
And then he spreads his arms, runs three steps, and leaps into the void.
This is the ending we don't know. His body hasn't been found. It's been six years.
Some believe he fell into the river and it carried his lifeless form to the ocean. Some say that he didn't jump at all, but actually met a secret lover (there had been rumors of such) and went off to start a new life. Others say the wild animals scattered his body as if bears or wolves still stalk the park. At Crazy Eddie's Comic shop, the boys talk of aliens and strange lights.
There is a story, though, which some of us choose to quietly believe: That when he jumped, the winds caught him, bore him up and carried him away into the endless starry sky.
© 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without permission. Thank you for reading.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Anything
"Anything can happen," he happily said
as visions of angels danced in his head
and aliens in a gold and sliver ship
landed as clowns tumble and skip
past all his broken dreams tossed
while his childhood teddy bossed
all the perfect dreams he once held
and lost when his mind melted.
Me? I just stood there and hoped
he would understand and not mope
when we adjusted his meds
to fix the problems in his head
even though he laughed and beamed
when he forgot the pills blue and green.
Not my job to make him happy, you see.
I'm his doctor; I give pills and take my fee.
Copyright 2013. All rights reserved. No copying without permission. Thank you for reading.
as visions of angels danced in his head
and aliens in a gold and sliver ship
landed as clowns tumble and skip
past all his broken dreams tossed
while his childhood teddy bossed
all the perfect dreams he once held
and lost when his mind melted.
Me? I just stood there and hoped
he would understand and not mope
when we adjusted his meds
to fix the problems in his head
even though he laughed and beamed
when he forgot the pills blue and green.
Not my job to make him happy, you see.
I'm his doctor; I give pills and take my fee.
Copyright 2013. All rights reserved. No copying without permission. Thank you for reading.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Bagley's Happy Acres
By Stephen B. Bagley
I have a farm now. I have over 30 productive animals, including goats, cows, chickens, and even a rabbit or two. I have a small orchard where I have apples, oranges, lemons, mangos, and pecans. In my field, I raise wheat, corn, eggplants, and other staples. I never lose a crop to bad weather. A banker never forecloses on me. Of course, I’m talking about playing the game Farmville 2 on Facebook.
While Farmville is fine, it in no way approaches the grief, heartache, and sheer unending work and frustration of a real farm. By this, you can guess that I am not a fan of farming. You would be correct.
Mind you, I think farmers deserve every bit of support we can give them. I’d much rather send money to them to keep food prices low than sending the money overseas to build gold-plated toilets. Which, according to the news, is how some of our money sent to foreign countries was spent. Of course, when you have billions to spend, it becomes difficult to know what to do with the money. You can’t just let money lie around your palace in piles. It looks so untidy.
Little family farms are almost a thing of the past. Big corporations have taken over the farming world. They’re busy doing everything they can to make a lot of money from farming, including spicing the gene stock of plants in ways that Dr. Frankenstein could only dream of. These corporations make up what is now called ‘agribusiness.’ You can even buy shares in the companies on the stock market, thus paying for your food twice. We’ve come a long way, baby, down a road we probably shouldn’t have.
But back at Bagley's Happy Acres, everything is great. My cute, lively goats jump around happily and never get sick or lost. They even produce goat cheese all by themselves. That’s nothing compared to my cows who produce milk, cheese, AND yogurt. My sheep actually produce bolts of wool and fleece. If only they knitted, too, they would be perfect. And all my animals produce non-stinky fertilizer that I put on my crops with just a click of a mouse button. Did I mention my crops grow in just hours, some in only minutes? If farming really was this easy, everyone would be doing it.
As a friend pointed out, Farmville 2 is a game, not a simulation. If it were a simulation, it would throw in tornadoes hail, floods, drought, insects, the National Farm Bill, hunters who mistake prize bulls for deer (actually happened on my dad’s farm), disease, tractors and balers that cost more than houses, brush fires, the National Farm Bill, livestock theft, freak snow-storms, broken irrigation pumps, ravenous deer and rabid raccoons and skunks, the National Farm Bill, and all those other calamities that make farm boys desperate to become city folk. Naturally, no one sane would play a game like that where the odds were totally against you — although I guess Vegas does okay.
I’ve always thought farmers were a bit crazy to pour their hearts and souls into such a hard life. Even mighty agribusiness finds it difficult to make a profit. Though we all need food, it’s funny that society don’t value the farmers who produce it. And by funny, I mean sad and short-sighted. (I can make funny mean all sorts of things. Isn’t that funny?)
Visit Bagley's Happy Acres — not your forefather’s farm. Thankfully.
From Return of the Floozy. Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying permitted of any kind without permission. Thank you for reading.
I have a farm now. I have over 30 productive animals, including goats, cows, chickens, and even a rabbit or two. I have a small orchard where I have apples, oranges, lemons, mangos, and pecans. In my field, I raise wheat, corn, eggplants, and other staples. I never lose a crop to bad weather. A banker never forecloses on me. Of course, I’m talking about playing the game Farmville 2 on Facebook.
While Farmville is fine, it in no way approaches the grief, heartache, and sheer unending work and frustration of a real farm. By this, you can guess that I am not a fan of farming. You would be correct.
Mind you, I think farmers deserve every bit of support we can give them. I’d much rather send money to them to keep food prices low than sending the money overseas to build gold-plated toilets. Which, according to the news, is how some of our money sent to foreign countries was spent. Of course, when you have billions to spend, it becomes difficult to know what to do with the money. You can’t just let money lie around your palace in piles. It looks so untidy.
Little family farms are almost a thing of the past. Big corporations have taken over the farming world. They’re busy doing everything they can to make a lot of money from farming, including spicing the gene stock of plants in ways that Dr. Frankenstein could only dream of. These corporations make up what is now called ‘agribusiness.’ You can even buy shares in the companies on the stock market, thus paying for your food twice. We’ve come a long way, baby, down a road we probably shouldn’t have.
But back at Bagley's Happy Acres, everything is great. My cute, lively goats jump around happily and never get sick or lost. They even produce goat cheese all by themselves. That’s nothing compared to my cows who produce milk, cheese, AND yogurt. My sheep actually produce bolts of wool and fleece. If only they knitted, too, they would be perfect. And all my animals produce non-stinky fertilizer that I put on my crops with just a click of a mouse button. Did I mention my crops grow in just hours, some in only minutes? If farming really was this easy, everyone would be doing it.
As a friend pointed out, Farmville 2 is a game, not a simulation. If it were a simulation, it would throw in tornadoes hail, floods, drought, insects, the National Farm Bill, hunters who mistake prize bulls for deer (actually happened on my dad’s farm), disease, tractors and balers that cost more than houses, brush fires, the National Farm Bill, livestock theft, freak snow-storms, broken irrigation pumps, ravenous deer and rabid raccoons and skunks, the National Farm Bill, and all those other calamities that make farm boys desperate to become city folk. Naturally, no one sane would play a game like that where the odds were totally against you — although I guess Vegas does okay.
I’ve always thought farmers were a bit crazy to pour their hearts and souls into such a hard life. Even mighty agribusiness finds it difficult to make a profit. Though we all need food, it’s funny that society don’t value the farmers who produce it. And by funny, I mean sad and short-sighted. (I can make funny mean all sorts of things. Isn’t that funny?)
Visit Bagley's Happy Acres — not your forefather’s farm. Thankfully.
From Return of the Floozy. Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying permitted of any kind without permission. Thank you for reading.
Monday, March 11, 2013
Hardest
The hardest thing you
ever asked me to do
was to let you go.
Even now I struggle
with the loss, the place
inside me that no one
has been able to fill.
Are all first loves like this?
Burned so deep we can't
forget the nights of wicked
love and fierce passion?
We only get one first love;
why were you mine?
What god cursed me?
I've had others since you,
those I loved as best I could.
You didn't figure into why
we didn't last. I only remember
you when they're gone, when
the silence fills the room like
your scent once did.
Copyright 2013. All rights reserved. No copying without permission. Thanks for reading.
ever asked me to do
was to let you go.
Even now I struggle
with the loss, the place
inside me that no one
has been able to fill.
Are all first loves like this?
Burned so deep we can't
forget the nights of wicked
love and fierce passion?
We only get one first love;
why were you mine?
What god cursed me?
I've had others since you,
those I loved as best I could.
You didn't figure into why
we didn't last. I only remember
you when they're gone, when
the silence fills the room like
your scent once did.
Copyright 2013. All rights reserved. No copying without permission. Thanks for reading.
Sunday, March 10, 2013
A message from our sponsors
By Stephen B. Bagley
Poetry - Enjoy more than 50 sensual & moving poems, including the award winning "Non-Communion," "Torrent," & "Endless."
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By Stephen B. Bagley
Humor - Laugh at more than 80 hilarious tales from the author's decidedly different life.
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By Stephen B. Bagley
Mystery - Who killed the ladies man? Bernard, Lisa & the chief are back! New expanded edition. 2nd in Measurements of Murder series.
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By Stephen B. Bagley
Mystery - Who killed the ladies man? Bernard, Lisa & the chief are back! 2nd in Measurements of Murder series.
Buy on Amazon
Buy on Barnes & Noble
By Stephen B. Bagley
Mystery - Who killed the librarian? 1st in Measurements of Murder series.
Buy on Amazon
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Buy on Lulu
By Stephen B. Bagley
Inspirational - Have you ever wondered about everyone else in Bethlehem on the night of the Nativity? These charming and touching Tales will tell you their stories.
Buy on Lulu
Saturday, March 09, 2013
Spring
FIVE MINUTE TIMED WRITING ON SPRING
I make resolutions in January. Have for years, but by the time March rolls around, I’m ready to change them or renew them. And Spring inspires me. Something about the green and the rain and storms, I get restless and find myself willing to embark on journeys to new lands, places inside my soul that I’ve never been and, if I were wise instead of foolhardy, wouldn’t go.
In Spring, I understand the song of the Janus, gazing both at the past and the future. I worship God and look for new deities, I rejoice in current lovers and look for new ones, I breathe in the sunshine and seek the new shadows of the woods. The dark of winter gives way to the unsettling southern winds that call my name and promise new experiences. Spring never promises the experiences will be good, just that they will be unknown and new.
In Spring, my year begins again.
Friday, March 08, 2013
Room of Her Own
Room of Her Own
She wanted a room of her own
so he mindlessly gave her
a designer bedroom next to
a nursery in pink and blue
which became a sewing room
later made into craft room
and then into a parlor
to read books when he
was away where she waited
for years until she left.
Walking through the empty house
finally he understood
when she said
a room of her own
she meant
one without him.
Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without express written permission. Thank you for reading.
She wanted a room of her own
so he mindlessly gave her
a designer bedroom next to
a nursery in pink and blue
which became a sewing room
later made into craft room
and then into a parlor
to read books when he
was away where she waited
for years until she left.
Walking through the empty house
finally he understood
when she said
a room of her own
she meant
one without him.
Copyright 2013 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without express written permission. Thank you for reading.
Thursday, March 07, 2013
Hero
We're doing timed writings and paragraphs in my writing groups as a way to open up our creativity. Here's one of my paragraphs.
50-75 WORDS ON ONE OF MY HEROES
One of my heroes is Benjamin Franklin. He lived a full life. He explored every mystery he could from science to naughty women to religion. He was not afraid of what he found and often adjusted his viewpoints as experiments showed him that he was wrong. He was ambitious and not afraid of where it could take him. And his energy was boundless. If I could choose one hero to meet, it would be him.
50-75 WORDS ON ONE OF MY HEROES
One of my heroes is Benjamin Franklin. He lived a full life. He explored every mystery he could from science to naughty women to religion. He was not afraid of what he found and often adjusted his viewpoints as experiments showed him that he was wrong. He was ambitious and not afraid of where it could take him. And his energy was boundless. If I could choose one hero to meet, it would be him.
Wednesday, March 06, 2013
Hutch
Thinking of getting a hutch for my desk. Currently I use these plastic boxes two stacked up on each side of my computer and monitor with a board stretched across the top. I’ve been intending to do something better – better looking and more functional – for the past 20 years, which is about how long the boxes have lasted.
Alas, the plastic boxes are beginning to sag and crack. They’ve held long and in a task they weren’t designed for. Strange how temporary things can easily become permanent.
Since I’m going to have to replace the plastic boxes, I think it’s time to buy an actual hutch. And if all the books, CDs, DVDs, pens, pencils, paperclips, computer programs, paper, other office supplies, etc., won’t fit on the hutch, then it’s time to discard them.
Or more likely to find them another home. What? Me discard office supplies? You must be out of your mind.
Alas, the plastic boxes are beginning to sag and crack. They’ve held long and in a task they weren’t designed for. Strange how temporary things can easily become permanent.
Since I’m going to have to replace the plastic boxes, I think it’s time to buy an actual hutch. And if all the books, CDs, DVDs, pens, pencils, paperclips, computer programs, paper, other office supplies, etc., won’t fit on the hutch, then it’s time to discard them.
Or more likely to find them another home. What? Me discard office supplies? You must be out of your mind.
Tuesday, March 05, 2013
Pressure
I have so much to do today. I'm behind on everything. Well, nothing like pressure to gear me up. Tally ho!
Monday, March 04, 2013
Found!
The issue of ByLine has been found! Thanks to everyone who looked. I appreciate your efforts.
Sunday, March 03, 2013
10 Facts About Me v.1
1. I've lived in Oklahoma my whole life. I don't know if the state has warped me or I've warped the state, but we're definitely warped.
2. My father had eight siblings. Seven sisters and one brother. I think he would have liked to have a family that large on his own.
3. My favorite fruit is grapes. I also like strawberries, bananas, kiwis, watermelon, and blueberries. And fresh pineapple. Just so you know should you want to send a fruit bouquet.
4. I had two brothers and two sisters. My youngest brother passed away when he was a baby. I would liked to have known him. My other siblings are still with me.
5. My favorite author -- besides me, of course -- is Terry Pratchett. I buy him in hard cover books, and when I'm feeling particularly blue or overwhelmed by the cruelties of this world, I reread one of his funny, wise books.
6. I typically read three or four books at a time. I've always done this. I've been told that it's a symptom of Adult ADHD (Adult Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder). I doubt this. It just takes a lot to feed my brain.
7. I am a Type 2 diabetic. Food is my drug, sugar is my meth, but I'm trying to get clean. Some days I do better than others. It's a day by day thing.
8. When I read a really great book, I find myself taking it apart to find out how the author did it. This enhances the experience sometimes. Other times, it ruins the book for me.
9. Mexican food is my favorite food.
10. I like to write books that I'd like to read. If I'm not interested in it, then I can't force myself to write it.
2. My father had eight siblings. Seven sisters and one brother. I think he would have liked to have a family that large on his own.
3. My favorite fruit is grapes. I also like strawberries, bananas, kiwis, watermelon, and blueberries. And fresh pineapple. Just so you know should you want to send a fruit bouquet.
4. I had two brothers and two sisters. My youngest brother passed away when he was a baby. I would liked to have known him. My other siblings are still with me.
5. My favorite author -- besides me, of course -- is Terry Pratchett. I buy him in hard cover books, and when I'm feeling particularly blue or overwhelmed by the cruelties of this world, I reread one of his funny, wise books.
6. I typically read three or four books at a time. I've always done this. I've been told that it's a symptom of Adult ADHD (Adult Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder). I doubt this. It just takes a lot to feed my brain.
7. I am a Type 2 diabetic. Food is my drug, sugar is my meth, but I'm trying to get clean. Some days I do better than others. It's a day by day thing.
8. When I read a really great book, I find myself taking it apart to find out how the author did it. This enhances the experience sometimes. Other times, it ruins the book for me.
9. Mexican food is my favorite food.
10. I like to write books that I'd like to read. If I'm not interested in it, then I can't force myself to write it.
Saturday, March 02, 2013
A commercial message!
By Stephen B. Bagley
Poetry - Enjoy more than 50 sensual & moving poems, including the award winning "Non-Communion," "Torrent," & "Endless."
Buy on Amazon
Buy on Lulu
By Stephen B. Bagley
Humor - Laugh at more than 80 hilarious tales from the author's decidedly different life.
Buy on Amazon
Buy on Barnes & Noble
Buy on Lulu
By Stephen B. Bagley
Mystery - Who killed the ladies man? Bernard, Lisa & the chief are back! New expanded edition. 2nd in Measurements of Murder series.
Buy on Lulu
Buy on Amazon
By Stephen B. Bagley
Mystery - Who killed the ladies man? Bernard, Lisa & the chief are back! 2nd in Measurements of Murder series.
Buy on Amazon
Buy on Barnes & Noble
By Stephen B. Bagley
Mystery - Who killed the librarian? 1st in Measurements of Murder series.
Buy on Amazon
Buy on Barnes & Noble
Buy on Lulu
By Stephen B. Bagley
Inspirational - Have you ever wondered about everyone else in Bethlehem on the night of the Nativity? These charming and touching Tales will tell you their stories.
Buy on Lulu
Friday, March 01, 2013
The power of the Net
I'm attempting to find a 1993 February issue of Byline magazine. The magazine is now out of business. In that issue, they published my poem "Passion." Because of lost box during a move, my copies were lost. The box has never been found. I'd like a chance to get that issue or even a scan or photocopy of the page that had my poem on it. Other magazines published the poem, and I eventually collected it in my chapbook EndlesS, but that particular credit meant a lot to me. Can the power of the Net -- you -- help?
Here's the poem:
Passion
If I could, I would seduce you
into poetry. I would run
feathery words over the bare
shoulders of your muse, touch gently
the moist secret places of your
metaphors, delicately brush
your lips with similes and plunge
rhythm and rhyme into your soul.
I would take you past the threshold
where passion and structure meet, where
one image means the difference
between indifference and glory.
If I could, I would do these things
and do them long and do them well
until when you heard poetry,
you would gasp, don't stop oh don't stop.
From EndlesS. Copyright 2008 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without express permission. Thank you for reading.
Here's the poem:
Passion
If I could, I would seduce you
into poetry. I would run
feathery words over the bare
shoulders of your muse, touch gently
the moist secret places of your
metaphors, delicately brush
your lips with similes and plunge
rhythm and rhyme into your soul.
I would take you past the threshold
where passion and structure meet, where
one image means the difference
between indifference and glory.
If I could, I would do these things
and do them long and do them well
until when you heard poetry,
you would gasp, don't stop oh don't stop.
From EndlesS. Copyright 2008 by Stephen B. Bagley. All rights reserved. No copying without express permission. Thank you for reading.
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