He’s still…

I am writing a novel.

A friend of mine, who has been reading the chapters as I write them, asked… ”I’ve always wondered about the writing process. Now that you’ve started and gotten a good ways in, how much has the ending changed since you started? Or has it simply become more defined?

I responded…

Interesting to be asking me this question at this exact moment when I have been contemplating killing one of my characters that I had not originally intended on killing.

Everything becomes more defined.

I create an outline to guide me where I have been with my minds thoughts.
I scribble on thousands of little pieces of paper what I imagine.
I test things for reality in real life, (this can be very fun)
I ask questions and questions and more questions.
I listen.

And then I go back to the outline. At times moments change on that outline, but not the truth of where I was going, because that is where I have already been. The first time around (the outline) it is like being at sea in a storm, all is fast and furious, and then it is over and you know everything that happened, but the details are missing until you go back and really look at them, really think about what went down, then you have a story.

When my best friend/partner read my response to this other friend, he started laughing. I looked at him questioningly. He explained, “No, no, I like it. It makes sense, but…” he tried to control his hystirics, “it’s just…” and here he made his voice sound like Yoda, “The truth of where I was going, I know, because I have already been there.”

He still has not stopped laughing.


Moon Frost


Writing by moonlight on white paper, red pen
Out the window, black trees grow in a frost field sea

Simple silence to this early morning glee, broken
By fog horn regularly warning of the dangers to be

Yet, I, safely surrounded by glistening white lands,
Hear the horn sounds,
And desires are for the ocean’s calls.

Out the clear glass pane, where
A yellow feather clings,
After the bird hits and falls;

I watch the cloud change colors passing by the moon.


The Island

The Island

The white, white sail lolls lazily back and forth; there’s not one blown breath of wind from the gods in the sky. The sound of oily feathers flapping produce a black bird gracefully skimming the ocean’s surface, touching tips of wings to water which creates ever-widening ringlets. We in the boat watch while we ghost by a sleeping seal with whiskers just above the surface of a mirror of clouds. There he rests until our shadow falls on him, he wakes and looks at us with doglike eyes, a snuffle sound, then he dives. We rest, our bruises healing in this gentle morning calm; the boat rising over smooth long swells left from a three-day storm. We enter a safe harbor of an island left alone, now summer is gone. We dive into cool waters wearing only skin, it passes by leaving minute bubbles where little hairs capture air. Ashore pebbles from the beach stick to our bare feet, and in a field once mowed, my love picks a buttercup to hold under my chin; we laugh not remembering what it stands for. Lingering in the air is sweetness, rottenness, life mixed in a forgotten orchard still living. We rest till rested, then leave. The waves hiss under our hull. Far away from all the shores, only blues of sea and sky, the air a salty mix, our souls find peace. With feathers like a fish’s scales, colorful and bright, a weary traveler in the night finds refuge on the boat.

Feel the wind

Sailing, july 2015

Sailing, july 2015

Oh, there is blessing in this gentle breeze
that blows from the green fields, and from the clouds,
And from the sky: it beats against my cheek,
And seems half-conscious of the joy it gives.

William Wordsworth, The Prelude. 1805

The weather has called me to the salty waters…