"Write now is good."

Little, powerful

Photo: monarch butterfly by The Divine Miss K

When multiple butterflies appear out the living room window, above my car in traffic, and overhead in the park, I know it's September. The monarchs are migrating southward.

One recent blustery noon, we stopped to gaze at a monarch, grasping tightly to a flower, being buffeted around by strong winds. The gusts were so powerful that the flower the butterfly held was completely horizontal at times. The flower would lay parallel to the ground, until the wind threw it upright and then down in the opposite direction. Still, the butterfly hung on. We watched for ten minutes, mesmerized. We looked as we walked away, witnessing the wind continually toss the migrating butterfly every which way.

At last look, the monarch was beating the wind.

This image stayed with me. Wanting to understand the monarch's power, I did some research.

Now, imagine that you are a monarch:
- You weigh between 0.25 and 0.75 grams (for comparison, a dime weighs 2.3 grams).
- You can fly 12 miles or 18 km per hour. If you have to, you can fly much faster for quick sprints.
- You fly, on average, 50 miles (80 km) per day.
- In 30 days, you will have flown 1,500 miles (2,414 km).

It might be pure instinct that drives the monarchs. There is definitely an internal mechanism that switches on and guides them when the time is right. I understand science's take on all this.

Then I go back to what so amazes me:

Their delicate, paper-thin wings. Their spindly legs. Eating only flower nectar and water for fuel. An ability to travel hundreds, even thousands, of miles. Seeing monarch after monarch this time every year and ruminating over what they encounter on their journey, only more mystery fills my thoughts and drives my imagination.

Monarch facts and map courtesy of Monarch Watch

For more takes on the Sunday Scribblings prompt "powerful", click here.

The Intergalactic Collector's Dilemma

Photo: Spaceship by Bialy-Fox

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is "collector personality".

Rusty rocket ship gears
Meteorite flakes
Pluto pet sheddings
Luscious lunar cakes

Jupiter storm-cloud vapors
Frozen comet dust
Vintage Venus trinkets
Ancient starlight crust

Little Dipper droplets
Nebula nectar divine
Gauzy Saturn saris
Moody Martian wine

Intergalactic travel has
So much to do and see.
Now I must land my spaceship—
There's no room left for me!

I wrote the poem's end first, then went back to the beginning, and wrapped up with the middle. The image of a crowded, souvenir-filled spaceship propelled it forward.

Read more takes on "collector personality" at Sunday Scribblings.

Welcome to Writers Island

Photo: Flat Island by Nature Explorer

While writers of the past have often worked in complete isolation, writers in 21st-century Blogville regularly congregate online. We cyber-writers now have a new destination for meet-ups: Writers Island.

If you already participate in an online writers' community like Sunday Scribblings, haiku: one deep breath, or the (late-great) Poetry Thursday, you'll be familiar with the Writers Island format:

If you are a writer, this is a place to express yourself. Whether you write poetry, short stories, essays, or prose -- you are invited to join in. Every Saturday a writing prompt will be posted here on Writers Island. Every Tuesday at approximately 12:01 AM, U.S. East Coast Time, a post will open for you to submit the "link only" to your contribution for that week's prompt.

The first Writers Island prompt, "my imaginary life", will be available to receive your links next Tuesday, September 11.

Prompts + community + weekly deadlines can really spur writing output and boost creativity. Laini Taylor, one of Sunday Scribblings' co-creators, just shared an exciting example of this last Sunday:

I also have a very exciting announcement to make! When Meg and I started this site last year, my motivation was to get myself writing new and different things -- and it really worked! I wrote stories, and I loved some of them. And my husband/illustrator Jim and I got the idea to propose a collection of three of them to some publishers as an illustrated book for young adults. Well, I am so thrilled to announce that we have just sold that book, Goblin Fruit to Arthur A. Levine Books, an imprint of Scholastic. Yayyyyyy!!! It is comprised of two long short stories and one novella, each of which began life as a prompt HERE. The prompts were: "real life," "music," and "the monster." The stories are creepy, sensual, supernatural romance for teenagers and the book will be fully illustrated in the manner of a classic fairy tale book. So, a BIG tip of my hat to writing prompts, and to this wonderful community of scribblers. Yay! Thanks to all who've participated for the past 75 weeks!

Alright, you Writers Itching to Write—I recommend you give one of these communities a try, if you haven't already. You'll feel challenged, exhilarated and connected. If you've been suffering from writer's block, these prompts will help dislodge it. Prefer to draw? Sketch something based on the prompt, add some words, and post it. Care to compose something musical? As long as there's a writing component, it's allowed. Get creative, and enjoy!

"Slippery" — a sonnet

Photo: "Where, exactly, is the apartment for rent?" by ianqui

This week’s Sunday Scribblings prompt is “slippery.”

I wrote a Shakespearian sonnet about one of Gotham's characters. Perhaps you've already met...

Into Metropolis, I brought with me
My poker face, blank checks and references.
After his moist hand shake, we sped to see
Some properties’ abundant offenses:
A window’s broken glass; burned, melted rugs,
With ceilings extra low; thin plastic walls;
A deli below sent up extra bugs
To feast amongst the dark garbage-strewn halls.
“Such a view — the Empire State Building!”
I squinted, smiled, and told him, “No, it’s not.”
The Chrysler Building stood there tall, laughing
At someone who in his own lies was caught.
I started towards the door, shaking my head
At the day’s worth of slippery I’d been fed.

For more takes on "slippery," visit Sunday Scribblings.

This is a true story, by the way.

Are you eccentric? Take the definitive quiz.

Photo: daydream by benefit of hindsight

This week’s Sunday Scribblings prompt is “eccentricity”.

Famous writers and other artists are often known for their strange characteristics. Often, the weirder the creative person is, the more famous an artist he or she becomes.

Are you destined for artistic greatness? Take this completely unscientific quiz to determine your “E.Q.” — “eccentricity quotient” — and find out. Note: Give yourself 1 point for each YES answer, and 0 points for each NO answer.

The "Eccentricity Quotient" Quiz:
1. Do more than five extremely large wild animals reside with you in your primary residence? (If you are a zoo keeper, Vegas show act, or Jane Goodall, please skip this and move on to question #2.)

2. Do you take long (silly) walks, through all sorts of weather, just for fun?

3. Do you dress in comfortable clothes?

4. Do you give standing ovations to the sounds of subways, rushing rivers, or music on the radio?

5. When telemarketers call you, do you try to sell them something instead?

6. Do you eat very, very slowly?

7. If your favorite song is playing, yet no one is on the dance floor, do you bust out your best moves anyway?

8. Do you give regular poetry readings or dance performances to audiences of infant children, stuffed animals, and toy trucks?

9. Do you have a collection of lucky hats (or shoes or t-shirts or socks), and do you wear them often?

10. Do you blog?

Scoring — How did you do?
0—2 points: Not eccentric... enough... yet....

3—5 points: You’re a bit weird, and must work much harder at it.

6—8 points: You are solidly strange; keep it up!

9—10 points: You’re well on your way, Oh Great Being of the Bizarre.

OR...Did you disregard the quiz instructions entirely and answer each question instead with a poetry slam monologue, a stream-of-consciousness five-paragraph essay, or an interpretive dance performed at your local mall? If so, then CONGRATULATIONS! You are an Idol of Eccentricity, clearly destined for artistic greatness. Go directly to YouTube to start broadcasting your eccentricities and developing your following.

Feedback:
How did you score? Are there any questions that should be on this quiz? See you in the comments.

For more takes on eccentricity, go to Sunday Scribblings.

Eating the dragon

Photo: wasabi by photoplasia

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt, "spicy", inspired me to write a haiku triplet. While there is much to say about spices, like spices themselves, a little goes a long way.

Wasabi rapture:
Green dragon exhales full blast —
I cry spring rain, laugh.

Jalapeño sting —
Fiery oil brought shouts, screams, and
Pleas for soothing snow.

Ground black pepper dust
Dances, settling into cream,
Charging it with bite.

For more spicy writing, check out this week's Sunday Scribblings.

Behind the words

Photo: Masks by kamoda 

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is "mask."

You have used words as a mask.

How do I know this? If you're a human reading this (1), then you have used words to hide some part of yourself.

Your co-worker asks, "How are you?" as part of his daily morning greeting.
A certain Monday, you feel his friendly inquiry is intrusive, obnoxious.
Lemon juice in your eyes, not lemonade in your mouth.
You say, "Fine, thank you," even though you woke up late, missed your train, stepped ankle-deep in a puddle, and mistakenly received decaf instead of your usual rocket fuel.
You feel the exact opposite of "fine," but you don't like to use other four-letter words so early in the morning, or so early in the week.

Sweating, you wonder why you ever came to the pool.
"Ha! You don't even know how to swim!"
Your face burns as the kids around you, including some who are years younger, snicker.
"I do, too!" you shout back, hoping the force of your voice will silence them, especially since your accusers are correct.
Because you doth protest too much (2), the mob ups the ante.
"Oh, yeah? Prove it!" they reply.
You wonder if drowning would feel better than eternal neighborhood humiliation.

Flashing lights coming closer always indicate trouble for someone.
"Do you have any idea how fast you were going?"
You stare straight ahead. So many answers overwhelm your tongue, even though only one is right. You fish around to catch one of the wrongs.
"Uh, uh, no?" you say.
The mirrored lenses reflect unconvinced. You know they will soon see that you're one of the county's most diligent speed demons.

I could go on, but I'd be writing this post until late October (3), at least.

Notes:
(1) The androids and extraterrestrials among us, I cannot speak for. When they're ready to drop their masks and say something, I'll welcome them to the conversations here. ;)
(2) Apologies to Wm., who may — or may not — have written while masked.
(3) I've promised not to wear a mask this year, as they are "too scary."

For more takes on "mask", visit Sunday Scribblings.

Ocean view

This week's Sunday Scribblings prompt is "ocean":

We found ourselves on a rocking boat in the Atlantic. Hours of sea spray dosing us made us feel tired, our skin covered in salt crystals. Yet we energetically checked our gear in preparation for the dive of the day: the wreck of a 19th-century royal mail steamer, whose innards splayed out below us like a human rib cage.

Our leader settled us as we readied to enter the water. He told us how the ship had left a nearby island heading back to Great Britain, with a large crew and an experienced captain. Somehow they got caught in a gale, an unusually strong one, and navigating incorrectly, found themselves near an unusual configuration of huge jutting rocks. In the darkness, this invisible peril rose out of the waves without warning (the rocks were visible clearly in daytime). This nighttime storm thrust the ship squarely upon the sharpest one, delivering a huge gash to the sturdy underbelly, and sinking it immediately.

We listened, captivated, imagining the fear and panic this crew must have felt. I felt deep sadness at hearing the tragedy's details, and our leader asked us how we felt. Many shared similar senses of loss, at how unjust life can be, how quickly life can be taken.

Then our leader had one last fact to share.

"The ocean doesn't care," he said quietly.

I remember squinting my eyes and coughing as I took in what he said.

"The ocean doesn't care," he said again quietly. "And because the ocean doesn't care if you are the nicest person in the world, or the best wife or mother, or that you've got a great career back home, or that a million people depend on you, you have to treat it with respect. The ocean has a power and unpredictability that no one can fully grasp until they've felt it. Yet to fully experience it is risky, and I don't recommend surfing in hurricanes or riding out sea squalls on a boat."

Then he took a deep breath and continued. "Today the sea is choppy, and the currents are stronger than usual. We've ridden hours to get here, and we're going to dive. Remember that the ocean is just the ocean. If you don't follow procedure, and you wind up making a fatal mistake, don't rage at the ocean — rage at yourself as you join this steamer ship's crew below us." He then turned to check the oxygen level in his tanks.

All of us made it back to our land lives. I've told this tale many times in the past few years — in thanks to the leader who kept us safe, and in honor of the sailors, long gone, who we visited below.

For more takes on "ocean," click here.

Wings and Scribblers

Photo: Wings like an Emblem by creativity+

So much work this week. I feel completely grounded. No time for playful writing. No chance for daydreamed musings. My days are full of research, rewrites and deadlines.

This is good. I realized that in order to take flights of any worth and beauty, we must have our earth-bound periods. Birds always rest eventually. Their times in air are often short, the means only to get from nest to food to tree to food and back to nest. Their wings are mere tools and hold none of the romantic meanings that the wingless muse about.

When birds soar and dance on air, feeling free and unencumbered, it's because the practical and necessary work of eating, sleeping, and resting make it possible.

Hummingbirds drinking nectar from flowers will always fascinate me. But if I gazed at them all day, when would I write? When would I produce the pieces that inspire other ideas and actions to take flight?

I write to encourage wing growth. That means I'll treasure the work and keep writing. In a few weeks, I'll be able to unveil this week's work behind the wings, when everything is finished. Then we can all watch what takes flight together.

Thank you, Scribblers, for encouraging and supporting my writing wings. We are part of an amazing writer's community, and I always look forward to our weekly flight together.

Congratulations to Laini on her new book, Faeries of Dreamdark: Blackbringer (the inspiration for this week's wing prompt on Sunday Scribblings).

My top 5 secret identities

This week's prompt for Sunday Scribblings is "secret identity."

Throughout my lifetime, usually around Halloween, I've taken on other identities. They've not been so secret, as my disguises are most often homemade and simple. It's always easy to tell that it's me.

But then I realized this: After I take the Halloween costume off and it's back to normal life, if I still feel like my costumed self, yet I look like me, then that's a secret identity, right? Aha!

So I've come up with a short list of favorite secret identities. These sprang to life when I was much younger, and are in no particular order:

1. An intergalactic princess fleeing the Empire with her two adorable 'droids in tow. (I felt like Princess Leia, though strictly earthbound, for at least a year.)
2. A ten-year-old neighborhood spy, in cahoots with best friend, stealthily roaming the neighborhood with notebooks and pencils in hand, soon discovering that there was absolutely nothing worthwhile to record. Once we found a neighbor taking a nap in his car, but because he napped for so long, we eventually gave up finding anything else out about this "incident" and went home. (Our parents had no idea...or did they?)
3. A black cat. (Is this why I made feline-allergic people sneeze?)
4. A dolphin or a mermaid, depending on which pool and which mood I was in at the time. (It's still fun to pretend this while swimming.)
5. Static. Yes, static. One time when a telemarketer called, I pretended to be noise interference on the line. The call quickly ended. My secret identity was highly effective. (The twelve-year-old mind is full of strange inspiration. Now I just thank them and say I'm not interested, though it's not as effective as being static.)

Now you know.

For more takes on "secret identity," visit Sunday Scribblings.