Blog Dis

The other day, I laughed my ass off reading material I'd written a while back, like years ago. This little stroll down memory lane made me think of one of my principal editors, who I shall Mister Editor, to respect his privacy, as he's not offering services at present. Can't say I blame him. Too often, I taxed his patience with my dog-awful writing, such as when I had flipped to him my first attempt to write a limerick, as part of a contest, put on by Irish Spring. At the time, and after thoughtful consideration, he returned my limerick to me, but not before he pulled out his sharp machete, to hack it to pieces. You see, when in between writing novels, I like to switch up what I'm writing (this blog as an example) bcus it's healthy to trick your brain to change gears, to keep the wheels well-greased. So, I wrote my first limerick, those years past, in between writing novels three and four, despite being uncertain what the hell I was doing. My first try was clunky and stupid and Mister Editor had kindly deconstructed my work with such velocity and skill that my head spun to the far corner of the room, where it hung for a bit, until I pulled myself together and started again.

"Cadence," he kept saying, and again and again and again, with each revision I submitted. Cadence, my ass, you critical bastard, I called him, under my breath. I knew he was right, though. I love how this man's mind works, automatically like an editor and critic, without pretense. A writer is supposed to be able to turn their pen or hand to any style of writing and whip off a ditty without batting a green eyelash. Not so, my X-friends. Some writers are masters with a particular style and will specialize, while others are like roaming feral cats who'll wander from one garbage pile to the next, looking for easy-pickings to eat. I don't know which category I fall into, earnest pulp fiction writer? Would-be poet? Fantasy author? Who can say who belongs where. The point of the exercise is to try and see what comes of your effort.

Here's my 15th revised version of said limerick:

There was a fine fellow named Ginger,
Who said, "I love to joke with the girls and linger."
A fresh wink and a tickle,
A sly word and a giggle,
What an Irish Spring kisser is Ginger.

I don't belong in the nefarious world of editors. Their keen eyes are like lasers pointed at one spot, until a hole has been burned through the wood to the floor. I don't write much poetry these days because I'm basically wrung out of ideas, having released three collections of free verse, before releasing my series of six novels. Occasionally, I'll post one of these poems on my X-timeline. But attempting to pen a limerick seemed like fun, at the time, until I realized it wasn't fun, not even a little bit. The fewer words you're permitted to use, the harder it gets. According to the rules of writing limericks, a limerick is a five-line poem; the last word of the first, second and fifth line must rhyme, as must the last word of lines three and four. Whether or not the cadence is pitch-perfect, well smack my behind with wet finger-tips because I wouldn't stake my life on knowing if my cadence is perfect, even if it snuck up behind me to bite.

Apparently, the origins of the limerick are unknown, though Edward Lear, an English artist, illustrator and poet (died 1888) had popularized limericks.

Mister Editor, was kind enough to send me a Wiki link. After reading some of Lear's limericks, clearly he played with the form until mastering various styles. I was exhausted just from one solitary attempt to write one simple limerick. I returned instead to free verse, and eventually to novels. But again, and as I write this post, here's my final idea for a new free-verse piece:

Awry

Oh silly me, oh silly goose
my caboose is as flat as a pancake
I sit all day and write away
the hours that keep me awake.