I love a fresh start.

Summertime on the Puget Sound

We’ve had a cold, soggy spring in Tacoma. Most days, the sky and the Puget Sound have been a uniform shade of gray. At long last, the springtime sun flirts with us from behind the clouds, bringing promise of a new beginning.

The other day, I was reading a social media conversation among writers about fear of the blank page. Many find it hard to begin a new project, intimidated by all that white space. Me, I love a clean slate, a fresh start, a wide-open vista of endless possibilities. I love to sit down at my computer, or outdoors with my notebook, and just blather forth. Blah, blah, blah! Natter natter natter! Etc., and so forth, and so on!

I love that part.

Imagining scenes and characters and writing them down is easy and fun—for me, anyway. The hard part is cleaning it up and making sense of it all.

Right now, I’m working my way through the craft book that has my writer friends all a-twitter: Lisa Cron’s Story Genius. My half-finished mystery story needs a good clean-up, afflicted as it is with my usual slow-paced start, over-abundance of characters and side-plots, and protagonistic pontifications. So far, I’m finding Cron’s approach very helpful, like a stern but sympathetic teacher who raps her ruler on my desk every time she sees my attention start to wander.

Another fresh start that’s beckoning is summer break. My giddy anticipation of the end of the school year is more than a bit ridiculous, considering that I teach only five hours per week. But still—the promise of summer glimmers on the horizon: warm, lazy, self-directed days, unimpeded by commuting or lesson plans.

And I’ve decided not to accept any teaching jobs next year, having remembered the hard way how much prep time goes into each lesson taught. I only have so much focus and energy per day, and far too much of it has been spent on finding or creating materials for French instruction. Hats off to elementary and preschool teachers. Having stood briefly in your shoes, I have more respect than ever for the sheer amount of work you do to keep those little ones excited about learning. Y’all must be mainlining caffeine to do that all day long.

This detour back into teaching has sharpened my awareness of how much I enjoy writing. If I ever hope to publish my work, and I do, I need to devote my high-energy time to that pursuit. Lesson learned.

So, here’s to a new season and a fresh start.

Researching for Fiction Writers

Happy May to all. Are the growing light and warmth lifting your spirits? I hope you’re finding new energy and inspiration for your creative endeavors.

I’m back at my desk after a month-long road trip. One benefit of a break from the same-old-same-old is an appreciation of the passage of time. Unlike my usual routine, days spent exploring new places don’t blend together in a blur. And for once, I don’t feel like I’ve just finished writing last month’s IWSG blog post.

In case you’re new to this discussion, the Insecure Writers’ Support Group hosts a first-Wednesday blog hop for writers. IWSG is a great resource for writers of all types. I’ve really enjoyed meeting and learning from other scribblers via this blog exchange. Give them a look here and join the conversation: http://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com/

This month’s question: What is the weirdest/coolest thing you ever had to research for your story?

Well, I’ve spent lots of time learning about poisons and historical erotic art. No, I didn’t use them both in the same story, but perhaps I should. Hmm…

So far, my stories all have contemporary settings, so I really don’t spend much time researching places and times. My settings are fictional, though based loosely on favorite towns. This gives me the freedom to plop down the people and places I need in a charming setting that becomes a character which both comforts and challenges my protagonist.

Poulsbo, Washington, another source of inspiration for my fictional settings.

Two of my as-yet-unpublished novels take place in a fictional Northern California town that blends  details from Half Moon Bay and Pleasanton in California, as well as Port Townsend, Enumclaw and Edmonds in Washington, and a dozen other charming, small-town Main Streets I’ve visited. You know the type: a few restaurants, some art galleries, a funky clothing boutique or two and, a tavern, a wine bar and, of course, a marvelous bookshop. The town is populated by local artists, artisans, entrepreneurs, and other colorful, sometimes prickly characters. It’s just the kind of place I’d like to live—but it works out much better in fiction.

In real life, small towns like that can be closed-up and closed-minded, not very welcoming to newcomers, and full of petty jealousies and interpersonal drama. People in a larger town, like the one I inhabit in real life, are less interested in poking their noses into others’ business. I like that freedom, as well as the access I have to lots of cultural events and beautiful places to walk.

But wouldn’t it be nice to live in a close-knit, funky, artists’ colony on the coast? Wouldn’t it be great to be part of a close-knit community that feels like family?

This month’s question has tickled my curiosity. I think I’ll make a point of visiting more charming little towns this summer—as research, mind you.

Is that tax-deductible?

Lucy, I’m home!

Wheeler Historic Farm, Salt Lake City, Utah

Lobby of the Grand Geiser Hotel in Baker City, Oregon

We’ve returned from our three-week road trip to find our home intact, our possessions still here, and everything functioning as it should. There’s always that moment of apprehension just before opening the door: will we find the windows smashed? The basement flooded? The fridge full of rotten food, thanks to a power outage? But all is well.

There’s nothing like a break in the routine to refresh the mind. I’m ready to tackle old projects with renewed vigor, and to jump back into the manuscript I finished while on vacation.

Vacation from retirement? Yup. Whether earning a paycheck or not, I need the occasional escape from the familiar. Every time I return from a trip, there’s a delicious whiff of newness in the air, a promise of a fresh start. I feel like tackling neglected chores and projects, trying new things.

Specifically, talking with my husband’s son the brand-new doctor has pointed me toward a new eating plan. For the next month, D and I are trying the high-protein, low-carb route to shed ten or so pounds. I don’t give two cold dog turds what people think of my middle-aged bod on the beach, but I do worry about the impact this plump tum will have on my health.

And D’s brother, a gifted guitarist, has lent me a lovely smaller-sized guitar to try. After a year of learning to play the ukulele, I’m ready to graduate to six strings. My hands are small, though, and big-bodied guitars are not comfortable with my injured right shoulder. I hope this size will work for me.

I hope the warm part of the year brings some lovely vacation time for you. What are your vacation plans?

Dancing with Jessica

(Names have been changed to protect the innocent.)

D and I are enjoying our drive-about through the Western U.S.  So far, we’ve visited friends and family in Northern and Southern California, Las Vegas, and now Salt Lake City. Four of the five G brothers are converging here in the town where they grow up for a day of talk, food, drink and guitars. I’ll do my best to keep up with my little ukulele. I’m lucky to have married into such a musical family, and such a welcoming one.

The chance to travel like this is one of the prime blessings of retirement. Of course, a little just-us time between visits is an important component of a successful road trip. On our way through Nevada, D and I spent the night at the Virgin River Casino/”Resort” in Mesquite, on the Arizona border.

Everything you’d imagine, good and bad, about a budget casino-hotel was on offer. Lots of lumpy, sad-looking old folks with various infirmities, staring glumly at their slot machines. Chatty, cheerful waitresses who call you Hon as they bring your bargain plate of prime rib. A cloud of cigarette smoke that permeates everything and clings to your clothing. Squealing kids splashing in the pool. Passers-through staring in wonder at the blinking lights, ringing bells, electronic music, and weird, wonderful artwork on the gambling machines. Jaded-looking croupiers and dealers in polyester vests, awaiting the next bunch of suckers—er, gamblers. Cocktail waitresses squashed into tight mini-skirts, trudging through the rows to deliver cheap alcohol. Just watching them made my feet hurt in sympathy.

I must say, though, that the food was tasty, the hotel room clean, and the bed comfortable. At the bar, a very competent quartet played rock standards and country tunes from the 80s to the present. The dance floor was filled with white people in their sixties and seventies doing the same complicated line dance to every tune and clearly having a good time.
And behind them, doing her own funky thing, was Jessica. I learned her name during the band’s break, when she staggered out to shout greetings to the gamblers. Many called her by name, and someone said, “She’s gonna get her ass thrown out of here again.”

Probably fortyish, Jessica wore a red ribbed tank top but no bra. She was short and thick, and her mussed blond hair hung loose around her stocky shoulders. The length of her white pants suggested that she’d been wearing heels earlier but had discarded them somewhere along the way—perfectly understandable while dancing, though probably not the best idea while trailing across the casino floor.

On the one hand, I felt sorry for her. She was making a spectacle of herself and, judging from the way the waitresses rolled their eyes as she passed, this was not her first time doing so. She gyrated and spun and tottered across the dance floor, throwing her arms wide at the band, and then at the crowd, and then shooting leering grins at the few lone guys in the bar. Every few minutes she’d plop down onto the edge of the stage and strike a pose, probably to catch her breath. The line dancers ignored her, as did the band.

On the other hand, she seemed so joyful, so determined to wring every last drop of fun from the occasion. When the line dancers left, Jessica kept dancing. Her swirling, zig-zag path across the dance floor reminded me of a little girl dancing at a concert or wedding. Her infectious grin was adorable, and I so wanted someone to get up and dance with her. Or maybe take her home—which was probably what she was hoping for. Who knows?

D consented to one dance with me, and afterward I contented myself with wiggling in my chair. Of course, the movement caught Jessica’s eye, and she trotted over like a happy puppy and held out her hand.

And so we danced, Jessica and I. I twirled her across the dance floor, nearly dumping her on her behind—not deliberately, mind you. It’s just that she was pretty unsteady on her feet. But it was fun, and I was glad to share her energy for a few minutes.

There’s something to be said for exuberance, and a lot to be said for dancing. And I wonder—how big of a change in my circumstances would it take to make a Jessica of me? After all, I love to dance, and I like my wine. If I were all alone, could I resist drinking too much and tearing up the dance floor?

Here’s to Jessica. I hope she finds a dance partner.

So, when can I read your book? Also, two new books for you.

The first Wednesday of the month brings our monthly question from the Insecure Writers’ Support Group. IWSG is a great resource for all us scribblers, and I’ve really enjoyed meeting other writers via this blog exchange. Give them a look here and join the conversation: http://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com/p/iwsg-sign-up.html

This month’s question: Have you taken advantage of the annual A to Z Challenge in terms of marketing, networking, publicity for your book? What were the results?

Um, yeah. About that…

There comes a time when an as-yet-unpublished writer starts to wince when asked “What have you published?”

Nothing, okay? I’m still flogging the query circuit, submitting to competitions, tweeting like a sparrow, and hoping for a bite. I’m cheered by tales from traditionally published writers who received fifty, a hundred, even more rejections before getting that golden ticket.

And I’m starting to educate myself about self-publishing. The steamy romance novel I’m working on? If I don’t get a publisher for that one within six months of completion, I will self-publish. So there. But I won’t be one of those self-published writers who flings a half-baked, poorly edited story out into Kindle Land, so that means beta readers, and editor, and more time…

But it takes so long! And I was feeling okay about that, continuing to plug away, a thousand words or more each day, until, over the weekend, I received a text from a critique group member whose work I enjoy and admire: “Do you have a book out?” We’d talked about his previous book publicity events, and discussed doing one together. That was several months ago. At our last meeting, he showed me the pre-order page on Amazon for his latest self-published novel, a speculative fiction tale called The Secret Deaths of Arthur Lowe. If you enjoy creepy, eerie tales in a realistic setting, check it out here:

https://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_c_1_21?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=the+secret+deaths+of+arthur+lowe&sprefix=the+secret+deaths+of+%2Caps%2C241&crid=2JTP5BUK2GDVS

Meanwhile, on I plod, perhaps the slowest runner on the track, and using this blog to connect with other writers and practice creative non-fiction. Happy scribbling to you!

And speaking of publishing, my blog buddy Stephanie Faris has a new children’s book out in her charming Piper Morgan series.

Piper Morgan tries her hand at acting in the fourth book of the charming Piper Morgan series.

Piper’s mom is helping out at a local pool shop, and the owner wants to shoot a commercial for his store. Piper thinks it’s the PERFECT opportunity to get in front of the camera and experience a little bit of showbiz. But will Piper’s contribution to the TV commercial make a splash—or will it go belly-up?

Bio: Stephanie Faris is the author of the middle grade books 30 Days of No Gossip and 25 Roses, as well as the Piper Morgan chapter book series. An accomplished freelance writer, her work has appeared in Writer’s Digest, The Writer, Pacific Standard, Mental Floss, and The Week, among many others. You can find this latest book here:

https://www.amazon.com/Piper-Morgan-Makes-Splash-Stephanie-ebook/dp/B01GD9CQC6/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=&sr=

http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/piper-morgan-makes-a-splash-stephanie-faris/1123861540?ean=9781481457170

http://www.indiebound.org/book/9781481457170

And here’s where you can meet Stephanie: https://stephaniefaris.com/

Podcast Paradise Part Two

Last week, I shared some favorite podcasts for writers. Here are a few more podcasts I’ve been enjoying lately that, while not specifically geared toward writers, have given me tasty food for thought while I burn calories. Enjoy, and please share your own favorites!

  • The Minimalists Podcast. You might have seen their documentary Minimalism, a Documentary about the Important Things, recently released on Netflicks. Former corporate strivers Joshua Fields Millburn and Ryan Nicodemus ramble on (and on and on) about their conversion to a minimalist lifestyle. Their podcasts often run over an hour, but I find these two young guys (both thirty-five) amusing and inspiring in their search for a more intentional life, which is my number one goal as well. Good stuff—I highly recommend this one.
  • The RobCast. I dipped my toes into this podcast because The Minimalists praised his podcast so highly. So far, I’ve been delighted with Bell’s non-preachy exploration of the good life and spirituality.
  • Optimal Living Daily. These are quickies, mostly ten minutes or less. Pleasant-voiced narrator Justin Malik reads the best blogs on personal growth. How cool is that? Think of the time it would take you to find and read all these blogs. Excellent idea.
  • Here’s the Thing with Alec Baldwin. I looooved his interview with Carol Burnett, and look forward to more.
  • 2 Boomer Broads: Life, Love, Laughs, and Unsolicited Advice. Giggly fun as Dr. Sharone Rosen (chiropractor) and Rebecca Forstadt-Okolski (health blogger) chat about issues facing women over 50. Warning: one of these ladies, a voice-over actress, has a squeaky voice, something I normally abhor. However, their chats are so entertaining I find it easy to overlook it in this case.
  • 10% Happier with Dan Harris. The author of a book by the same name, journalist Dan Harris interviews high achievers in many fields to discover whether one can be both successful and enlightened. Very thought-provoking.
  • Revisionist History. I love this one! Malcolm Gladwell, author and deep thinker, offers ten episodes from 2016 in which he takes a different view on issues ranging from education to food to the Vietnam War. Fascinating.
  • Call Your Girlfriend. While I reject, spit upon, and trample the idea that a mature woman like me must keep up with the latest trends in order to stay “relevant,” I do find it interesting to see what thoughtful younger people are up to. Ann Friedman and Aminatou Sow, two young BFFs who live on opposite coasts, discuss current events both serious and frivolous. Very enjoyable.

Podcast Paradise Part One: Podcasts for Writers

I’m a latecomer to the podosphere–Is that a word?–but lately I’m getting lots of value from free podcasts I download from iTunes. Not only do they increase my motivation to take frequent exercise breaks, but they ease my commutes and keep me company at the gym. As a mostly-introverted writer, I enjoy these entertaining, informative, lively conversations that require nothing more than my attention. And they come with a pause button!

Here are some I’ve enjoyed in the past six months that relate at least tangentially to writing:

  • Happier with Gretchen Rubin. Rubin, author of The Happiness Project and Better Than Before and her sister, TV writer Elizabeth Craft, offer lively conversations about habits and attitudes that lead to a happier, more productive life—and isn’t that what it’s all about?
  • So You Want to Be a Writer. Australian writers Valerie Khoo and Allison Tait talk about all things writing and interview writers. Good stuff.
  • Self-Publishing Roundtable. Here’s another band of Aussies who, alas, published their last podcast in December of 2016, but I’m gobbling up all their good advice while it’s still relevant and topical. Very informative, and fun accents!
  • TED Radio Hour. TED talks in podcast! Who knew? There’s lots here of interest to writers.
  • Magic Lessons with Elizabeth Gilbert. The author of Eat, Pray, Love and Big Magic interviews creative types, including many writers. Great inspiration here.
  • The New Yorker: The Writer’s Voice. New Fiction from the New Yorker. Short stories read by actors. Really good!
  • Kendall & Cooper Talk Mysteries, by Washington mystery authors Wendy Kendall and Julie Cooper. Great for mystery fans and writers.
  • Seated at the Writers’ Table. This one leans more toward screenwriting, but contains lots of useful info for all fiction writers.
  • The Literary Salon. Mostly under an hour, the last podcast was posted in October of last year. Host Damian Barr interviews writers, who then read from their work.
  • Writing Excuses. These are quickies, lively fifteen-minute snippets about writerly topics. Lots of humor.
  • Helping Writers Become Authors. Another quickie, all under twenty minutes, K.M. Weiland offers advice for writers on a wide variety of craft and publishing issues.
  • Literary Lunch. In 2016, RO Literary Agency put out seven podcasts about the publishing industry. I particularly like their discussions of query letters, the good and the bad. Very specific.
  • Dead Robots’ Society. “A gathering of aspiring writers podcasting to other aspiring writers.” This was the first writers’ podcast I tried. Although it’s aimed mostly at the self-pub sci-fi and fantasy set, I’ve found lots that useful here, and their discussions are entertaining too.

Do you have any podcast recommendations to share, especially those that pertain to writing?

How to Overcome Your Work Ethic in Retirement

My husband suggested this blog topic, which made me smile. We both struggle with this affliction, though I suspect I have a worse case.

I’ve always been an efficient multi-tasker—well, a multi-tasker, anyway. Like a juggler on a unicycle, for years I’ve kept multiple balls in the air as I lurched from crisis to near-disaster and back again. It helps to think of it that way, to visualize my former self peddling frantically while wearing a sparkly tutu and giant clown shoes, an exaggerated look of panic on my painted face. Makes it easier to set down the balls and step out of the center ring in search of a new role.

But now that I’m retired-ish, who’s checking to make sure I’m achieving adequate yearly progress? (Sorry—having worked in the public school system, certain odious phrases just come naturally to me. Add that to my to-do list: banish the buzzwords.) Bereft of job assignments from without, I’ve become my own worst boss.

Even though it’s going on three years since I left full-time paid employment, I have a full-time to-do list. I want to exercise for an hour each day, keep the house and garden clean, practice Spanish daily, write at least a thousand words of fiction each day, plus a weekly blog post, read and comment on the work of my critique partners, read fiction for fun, stay informed about current events (talk about your juggling clowns), travel, sew, cook healthy and creative meals, make new friends, keep the old, visit family, explore new places…

Holy cow, this is worse that before! And then, god help me, I took on a part-time job. Two, actually.

Enough! I retired with two goals in mind:   #1: write, and #2: enjoy myself.

So what if I waste an hour or two reading interesting stuff online? All my life, I’ve relaxed by reading magazines—and what is the internet but one big magazine?

So what if I don’t hold myself to a strict workout schedule? I move around pretty well most days and get to the gym often enough to justify the cost of membership.

So what if I still haven’t yet published a book? A quick glance at Amazon reminds me I could self-publish anytime. I prefer to plug away at my manuscripts in hopes of eventually achieving traditionally published status. If I don’t, readers await elsewhere.

Henceforth—a momentous-sounding word, right?—henceforth I shall remind myself that my number one obligation in retirement is to enjoy myself. I’ve earned a break for all this frenetic busy-bee-ness.

Besides, those clown shoes gave me blisters, the greasepaint gave me pimples, and that unicycle seat chafed. Time to relax.

Reworking an Old Story, or the Blob That Ate the Bully

Wow, February just flew by. Like, zoom! Once again, it’s time for the IWSG question o’ the month. IWSG is a great resource for writers. and hosts a monthly blog hop. Give them a look here and join the conversation:

http://www.insecurewriterssupportgroup.com/p/iwsg-sign-up.html

March 1 Question: Have you ever pulled out a really old story and reworked it? Did it work out?

Why, yes I have! There were a few months when I was deep into edits for my second novel and had no new material for my twice-monthly critique group, so I unearthed a few old short stories lurking in my hard drive. Their style and content was quite different from my usual MO: instead of women’s fiction and cozy mysteries, these were Twilight Zone-esque speculative fiction.

How did that work out? I got enthusiastic feedback from my group members, most of whom write sci-fi and fantasy. The experience was a good reminder that I am capable of writing in a variety of styles and genres, and that doing so is good exercise for my writing muscles. Here’s a sample from the middle of The Vengeance, the tale of a little girl whose fear and anger at a bully manifests in a surprising way.

Miss Craft kept her promise. She stood at the school yard gate and watched as Katie quick-stepped toward the bushes, a thick patch of scratchy junipers where generations of kids had burrowed tunnels and hidden from teachers. Kids talked about the ‘cave’ inside there, but Katie had never worked up the nerve to peer inside.

As she passed, she heard scrabbling and whispers.

“Katie!” a voice hissed from inside the thicket.

Katie jumped, then looked back over her shoulder. Mr. Cricks, the principal, was talking to Miss Craft. The teacher glanced at Katie and waved her on, then turned to her boss.

A strong hand clamped onto Katie’s arm, yanking her inside the bushes. Another hand, cold and clammy, pressed over her mouth. Sharp twigs scratched her face and bare legs, and her backpack caught fast on a branch. For a moment, there was a tug-of-war between the backpack and the hand, but eventually Big Joyce won, and Katie was pulled into the “cave.”

Deep-green junipers arched overhead, leaving just enough room for the shorter kids to stand. Big Joyce had to hunch over, which only made her look more menacing. Katie whimpered and wrapped her arms around her shivering little body. Snarky Kelly and the other toadies grinned at her like hungry dogs waiting for a treat.

Big Joyce glowered. “Thought you could just walk on by, huh? Told you I’d be waiting for you, bitch.”

Katie could only stammer. She’d never heard a third grader say the B word. But that didn’t matter now, because she was going to die here, in the bushes.

Big Joyce yanked off Katie’s pink headband. “Nice bandage,” she sneered. “Want another one?”

“Naw, she wants more. Lots more bandages,” Snarky Kelly yapped.

“Yeah, cover up her ugly face,” Skinny Wanda crowed.

“Stupid little …Katie,” Dumb Laura chimed in.

The pack of toadies and their queen encircled Katie, blocking any chance of escape. Everything seemed to slow down, and Katie’s vision became watery as she swayed on rubbery knees. The cave smelt cool, and damp, and earthy–and a little bit rotten…

Joyce twirled Katie’s pink headband around her thick finger. “Think I could choke her with this?”

The toadies snorted and cackled.

Just behind Joyce, Katie saw a movement on the ground, as if water were flowing from the wall to pool around Joyce’s feet. Katie shivered, feeling colder and colder.

“Look at her shaking. She’s gonna pass out.”

“Hey,” Kelly asked the others, “can you really die of fright?”

“Let’s find out,” said Joyce, and lurched toward Katie. But her feet didn’t follow. They were stuck fast in the clear, thick goo oozing up her scabby legs.

“What the hell?” Joyce looked down, screamed, and toppled forward, taking Katie down with her. The toadies scattered, scrabbling out of the bushes like rats. Kicking hard, Katie managed to wriggle free.

The goo thickened as it expanded, sucking Joyce in. It reached her waist, then her chest, then her shoulders, making slurping sounds as it swallowed the squirming child. Joyce bucked and thrashed, her clawed hands scrabbling in the dirt, her eyes wild. The goo flowed up to her neck. Joyce gasped, her face purple, her mouth wide–but no sound emerged, for now the goo had filmed her face, stopping her screams.

Joyce fought a long time, her motions jerky, then sporadic, and then she was still, floating twisted inside the blob. The thing shivered, slid like a great slug back toward the wall, and then extended a thread of clear slime toward Katie. She scrabbled backward like a crab, “No! No please!”

The thing paused, then slowly extended its—what?—tentacle?—and gently brushed Katie’s leg. She braced herself for pain, but it felt cool, gentle. And though it made no noise, somehow she heard it say, “You’re welcome.”

It slithered back under the wall and was gone.

 

The Wisdom of Walt Whitman

Judging from the main portions of the history of the world, so far, justice is always in jeopardy.
–Walt Whitman

A brave soul brought a free-verse poem to today’s critique group. I’m seldom moved to write poetry, and I seldom seek it out, but I do enjoy reading it when it crosses my path. The purpose of poetry, after all, is to communicate a profound meaning in a compact package. Fiction tells a story, but poetry paints in colors of emotion. The poet slams you with a fist of truth, or slices into your heart with painful beauty, or distracts you with a charming image before ambushing you with a weighty understanding.

Some of today’s group members declared themselves uncomfortable critiquing poetry, or averse to poetry without a regular rhyme or meter. Of course, this made me think of my favorite poet, Walt Whitman.

We need you today, Mr. Whitman. Supremely democratic, proudly American, and a wonderful proto-hippie, you (mostly) eschewed the accepted poetic forms of your day to write sprawling, untamed poems that echoed the power and beauty of our (then) new nation. You celebrated the beauty and perfection of the common man—not as one looking down from his lofty tower, but as one who walked among them.

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe
and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off
work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the
deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing
as he stands,
The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the
morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at
work, or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young
fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.

I think both my red and blue friends would find echoes of their varied conceptions of America in Whitman’s poetry. The bigots, of course, would not. Whitman was very inclusive.

Whoever degrades another degrades me,
and whatever is done or said returns at last to me.

And Whitman would not shrink from today’s debate and contention, I think. Nor would he admonish anyone to shut up, calling them “snowflakes.”

Have you learned the lessons only of those who admired you, and were tender with you, and stood aside for you?
Have you not learned great lessons from those who braced themselves against you, and disputed passage with you?

Whitman would not discourage marchers, and would probably wear a pink hat.

There is no week nor day nor hour when tyranny may not enter upon this country,
if the people lose their roughness and spirit of defiance.

So here’s to Papa Walt Whitman, a devoted American and wise poet who broke the accepted rules to create something wise and precious. In these contentious times, may we be inspired by his all-encompassing, inclusive love for America.