Joyful Noise

For all those who thought this was going to be my attempt at turning a movie into a mentor, think again. (Though it's not a bad idea.)   But, no.  Today, I am not channeling Dolly Parton or Queen Latifah.

Instead, I am sharing a way of capturing those moments in life that require a different kind of voice.  In this case, multiple voices.  Some things in life deserve to be told through poetry.  So, taking a cue from Joyful Noise by Paul Fleischman, you can craft poetry to tell a story you might not be able to tell any other way.

Do you know how the poems go?  They are meant to be read aloud by two people, one reading the left column, the other reading the right.  Sometimes the words come together.  Sometimes, deliberately, they come apart.  Find someone to read this excerpt from the poem "Grasshoppers" with:

Grasshoppers hopping high Grassjumpers jumping                           Vaulting from               leaf to leaf stem to stem plant to plant leapers

Grasshoppers hopping Grassjumpers jumping far leaf to leaf stem to stem Grass- leapers

This form of poetry can put our writer's observations in new light, setting a new  pace, and--in this case--giving readers the sense that these tiny insects are skittering across the pages.  It can also catch hold of conversation, as in the You Read to Me, I'll Read to You series.  But, for my purpose, I needed it to hold onto a precious memory (Again, the power is in reading this kind of poetry aloud, so find someone to read this with you or click on this podcast):

I Remember Tickle my feet Daddy Stop Daddy Do it again Daddy Push me Daddy I could touch the sky I swing so high Grab my feet Daddy Let go Daddy Just for me? Daddy Daddy

I can still remember How you would Tickle my feet Even when I'd beg you to  Stop You'd Do it again I'd swing forward and you'd Push me Until I thought I could touch the sky You'd Grab my feet And pull me until I thought I would come out of my seat And then you'd Let go I knew you'd built that swing set Just for me Sometimes I close my eyes and I remember Daddy

Putting thoughts and experiences into narrative doesn't always come easy.  But this form of poetry--by the virtue of its poetic form--takes the pressure off.  And gives us a way of experimenting with language  that sometimes lets the story tell itself.  Have fun with this one!  Go on, try it!  

Thunder Cake? Try...Wonder Lake!

Setting is a very important element for most stories.  For some, it adds depth to an existing plot line.  For others, it is the story.  Take Thunder Cake by Patricia Polacco. Setting is so important to this story's development that Patricia takes an entire page from the start of this picture book to set the scene: 

"On sultry summer days at my grandma's farm in Michigan, the air gets damp and heavy.  Stormclouds drift low over the fields.  Birds fly close to the ground.  The clouds glow for an instant with a sharp, crackling light, and then a roaring, low, tumbling sound of thunder makes the windows shudder in their panes.  The sound used to scare me when I was little... This is the story of how my grandma--my Babushka--helped me overcome my fear of thunderstorms." 

What do you notice?  

• Precise language--sultry, damp, heavy, and not just adjectives: drift, tumbling, shudder.
• Figurative language, specifically, personification:  The windows shudder in their panes.
• Present to past tense
• First person
• A mix of short, snappy and long, lyrical sentences.

What a perfect mix of the qualities I was looking for to capture my weekend getaway, as I went camping again for the first time in almost a decade:  

When I was little, we spent warm July weekends camping in this very spot.  Back then, we called it Wellington Lake.  Now, it goes by "Castle Mountain."  The lake--like glass--still reflects the forest and the sky the way I used to try to capture it in my sketchbook: dark against light.  The clouds, churning from white to grey, still roll in over the top of the "Castle" mountain as the wizard I always imagined living there perfects his early afternoon spells.  This is the story of my return to the lake, the mountain, and my childhood.

Think of what might happen next in this story.  This weekend was the first true rain of a very busy fire season.  And not just any rain.  Monsoon rain. Fire-ban-lifting rain.  Some things I'm considering as I continue writing:

• Would the story be better told from the point-of-view of my six-year-old daughter?
• Would it help to eliminate some of the six characters?
• How might I incorporate the power of repetition and dialogue the way Patricia does as they count the distance of the lightning?
• How can I pass time to capture an entire weekend? Or should I capture just the first night?

We pulled off the dirt road that winds its way around the lake.  I looked in the rearview mirror, "Camryn, we're here.  We're camping!" 

Without another word, we both jumped out of the car.  The air was crisp and clean.  The clouds, already beginning their trek across the sky, marched from the mountain at our backs to the horizon split by two dark hills on the opposite side of the water.  

"Are we sleeping here tonight, Mama?" Cam asked.

"Yes, baby.  But we've got some work to do before it rains."  No one, except the weather, was keeping time.  I headed to the trunk of the car and pulled out the green drawstring bag.  "First, we need to get our tent up.  So, find us a nice, flat spot," I told my six-year-old apprentice.  

Scanning the ground--littered with nothing but pine needles, pine cones, and decomposing granite--she pointed to a spot just at the base of a tree. "How 'bout here?" she asked.

"Perfect," I answered, sliding the contents of the tent bag onto the gravel that would serve as front porch to the space that--for the next two nights--we would call home. 

As I unrolled the tent, she helped me pull each corner until it was stretched on its woven bottom.

"Now, for the fun part," I said as I emptied the smaller, narrow green bag of its contents.  

"Like this, Mama?" she checked with me as she slid each fiberglass rod into its steel ferrule, turning each useless bundle into two fully-functioning tent poles.  

"Perfect."

Just as she finished, the first rumble crept over the mountain.  The clock was ticking.

"Mama..."

"I know, sweetie. We'll hurry." Our eyes met, silently assuring each other that we would make it in time.   

Summer is full of sensational settings.  The weather can work for or against us.  And even if weather is not the issue, this mentor helps us establish the importance of setting the scene before the story ever gets off the ground. Or--in this case--falls from the sky.  
What story might you tell? Go on, try it.