I meant to post up my word metrics last night, but I was way too tired. Looked up in the midst of jamming out words to find out it was almost 11:00. And I get up for work at 5 AM. /sigh
So I got a fair amount in last night, but I came to a realization. I hate writing poetry. Even if it’s something simple and needs only to meet the barest parameters in order to fit the category of poem, I still can’t stand it. When I froze in my work last night, realizing that some kind of nursery rhyme would be perfect for what I wanted to say, that of course meant I had to come up with something. Four lines at the most just to get the point across. In the end I would have rather written 5,000 words rather than write another poem, haha!
This got me reflecting on why I hated writing them so much. I do enjoy reading them after all. Then I recalled being in a number of poetry workshops when I was a kid. One was a poetry recital, and not just something simple where you get in front of the class and read the lines. The poem had to have movement with it, hand motions, and after it went over well at my school I was asked to go to a regional poetry recital. A big stage, a large audience, much different from the small, familiar classroom. Before I could go though to represent the school, I had to be given speech lessons. My R’s sounded very British (though to this day I’m not quite certain why) and I was repeating words like Rose and Runaway over and over again to try to help get rid of it and train my mouth to say it correctly. I think I’ve always had a fair bit of compassion for anyone who comes outside of the US and tries to speak English for the first time because of that experience. I was reciting “The Runaway” by Robert Frost if you’re curious. I didn’t win, or even come close, but darn it my R’s were perfect! 🙂
On top of that, one of my SAGE classes in school had us writing poems. Some we did in a group, but most of them had to be individual ones. I think we had a quota to fill, and after a while I was sick of trying to figure out what words rhymed and getting the rhythm down. As you can imagine, since I was in fifth grade at the time, most of the poems came out as pure nonsense. I blame both incidents on my loathing of poetry writing as an adult, at least that’s my excuse.
Regardless though, the story needed it, and well, you know how that is. You’ll jump through any number of hoops to get a story just right. Even fiery ones spouting poetry.
Here are some slightly belated word metrics
Project: Ghosts of Pikes Peak – Working sequel for Night Feeders.
Summary: The old, abandoned Davis Farm just outside the bustling city of Pikes Peak is riddled with malicious spirits. Werewolf detective Colton Fen has been assigned to a half-vampire partner, Rennick Dalton, to handle the troublesome ghosts, but even their combined strength may not be enough to dissuade the poltergeists from plucking victims from the outskirts of town. Is this a simple case of ghost infestation or is there something far more malicious going on in the farmhouse?
Current total words: 27,658
New words written: 2,315
Progress in Story: We meet the villain of the tale, though he was rather slow to show his face. Even now Colton isn’t quite sure what he looks like. He does know what he smells like though, and sounds like, and feels like unfortunately.
Total Words for 2012: 37,239
Snippet: I told tex_maam that I would include a quote this time, just for her. So here’s a bit that includes the poem that was so darn hard to write.
The creature leaned forward to draw fingers along his scalp and down a few strands of hair. The labored breathing was almost directly in his face, and Colton held his breath for fear of retching in the thing’s face. “Soon enough, you will join it, lovely beast. Now that you are here, it is merely a matter of time.”
It stepped back finally and Colton gulped down a breath of air. “A matter of time before what? Before you finally put me out of my misery?”
“Oh, I don’t think you would be able to be killed off quite so easily. What is it they say?
Fire is one choice, but they come back enraged
Time is no good either, for they can never age
A fool will turn to water, but they refuse to drown.
Death only greets a werewolf in her finest silver gown.”
The creature gave another deep laugh that only put Colton more on edge. “No, you’ll last longer than any of the others. Certainly longer than this pathetic man at least,” he gestured to Rennick who stood motionless behind the sluggish creature.