Dear Readers,

Well, I did get a few comments, but I was hoping for more, especially since the two comments came from my sister and my husband.  Yes, I have revealed that they, too, read my blog.  While I am aware that I don't get very much traffic through this blog, I was hoping that a few of you would come out of the woodwork and comment or ask questions.  So, since my readers tend to be the silent type (which is okay, too), I will answer the question my husband left and give you a snippet of writing for my Creative Writing class.

Question from Nlewis: What do you love about writing?

I believe the question should be worded: What do I not love about writing?  I love so much of it.  I love telling stories.  As far as my memory stretches, I always had a story to tell.  I delighted in telling stories, hearing stories, and when I was finally able to, reading stories.  While I delight much more in fiction, I am finding certain niches of non-fiction that tend to draw my eye and mind as well.  However, I tend to be more fickle in that respect.  I love how stories are written.  I love the patterns they tend to follow, the rules they tend to bend and even break, and I love the journey they all take.  Writing allows me to create my own paths; my own journeys that tend to break or bend rules.

I also love words.  Words are such an ambiguous thing to me.  They have so many meanings and with simple letters strung together to form words, you can create innumerable images and worlds that can mean whatever you would like them to.  It is a mysterious world and it is one I am passionate about.

In general, I am in love with books and everything they represent.  Back in 2001, I attended the University of Oklahoma for a single semester and had the blessed opportunity to utilize their magnificent library to study, read, and explore.  And explore, I greatly did.  I explored every level, every floor, every room that I was possibly allowed to enter.  They have a section (which I later learned many large libraries, particularly University libraries, had) called the stacks.  It was several stories from what I recall and the floors in this section were semi-transparent.  You could look up and see the silhouette of any feet above you and look down and see a blur of color of someone should they be below you.  In these stacks were just old bookshelves lined with old, dusty books.  There were books in every color, size, and shape.  There were newer books buddying up to older texts with worn spines or aging pages.  Some books had those generic covers, some had their title imprinted beautifully on the spine while some remained anonymous until opened and revealed.  I was in awe of how many books there were.

I grew up in St. Louis, Missouri, which had quite a fine public library system.  I had a library card at age 4 (I believe I still have it too) and bi-weekly my mother took however many of us children wanted to go to the library and check out some books.  I was always there.  While I know I did not read every book on every shelf, I certainly knew my way around that library.  As the years passed, we went to other libraries in the same public system and I began to learn to navigate them and peruse the titles in each.  But when I went to that library at OU, I was speechless.  After I explored and learned how to find my way through the maze of books, I would go to the library and sit in different places every day.  I would walk up and down the stacks and run my fingers along the delicate spines of all these books and listen to all the unsaid, type-written words in each book from each author.  I saw every writer, every story, every subject, and I imagined every telling.  I drunk it all in as long as I could, and then I would retire to the Great Reading Room where I would sit and pretend to read or study and watch everyone in my peripherals and envision their thoughts and their studies.

I should have know by then that I was desperately in love with books and libraries and that I always would be.  I still wander through libraries, back and forth, touching the spines and envisioning all the information, but no library has ever had so great an impact on me.  The library is beautiful, and I am not ashamed to say that when my husband and I were engaged, I looked into a few libraries to get married in.  Alas, there rules were a bit too stringent and not very wedding-friendly so we moved on, but I still dream of that wedding picture of my husband and I donned in our wedding attire and posing amidst those beloved stacks.

To get back to his question: What do I love about writing?  Again, what do I not? I love writing, I love words, I love books, I love pencils, pens, erasers, ink, my writer's bump, writing, typing (both on a computer and a typewriter), stories, poems, plays, songs, paper, the smell of books, stories, ideas, imagery, abstractions, figurative language, editing, everything.  Well, I could say I dislike Writer's Block tremendously, but who doesn't?  I understand why it exists, and there are ways around it, but it will always suck.

To give MelD her request, I will provide you all with a list poem that I had to write for my Creative Writing 2800 course.  The rules for this poem are as follows: Write a poem that is simply a list of concrete statements (either phrases or complete sentences or descriptions- do not use only single words, however).  See what happens when you speak in images only, no explaining or telling.  No abstractions allowed!!

Because of these rules, this is not my favorite poem.  This is not my favorite project, but here is what I wrote:

Not Important

Bethany Lewis

One balled up tissue, used

and used again, one blue iridescent box

of Kleenex lined with aloe and vitamin

E. One soda can three-quarters full

of Diet Dr. Pepper. The can is still cold.

One pair of glasses,

not mine. One red watercolor

pencil, one mechanical

pencil, one pair of fingernail

clippers, recently used.

A French syllabus, half in French

and the other English. One

black folder, Twenty-four colored

pencils, a manual sharpener

alongside a single highlighter.

Five hundred

sheets of printer paper, Sixteen photographs of different

angles of the same infant

in the same Halloween outfit,

One pair of scissors.

One bill, unpaid, one flashlight, one USB

drive, six pens, two wood pencils, three

markers and a glue stick.

One glade room freshener,

a lamp, and a laptop complete

with purple mouse and Asian

symbol mouse pad

Atop a white writing desk

Loved, hated, used for studying,

Writing, eating, drinking, sex,

and surfing the Internet.

Where letters were written, friends

made and lost, Pictures

shared, calls relayed

damaged in anger and often

forgotten under papers and books.

Dragged from apartment

to apartment to home to apartment.

Just a white writing

desk. Unimportant and soon

to be replaced.

Quote of the Day:  'Classic.'  A book which people praise and don't read. ~Mark Twain