Poetry as Freelance Inspiration

“Deadlines and commitments….what to leave in, what to leave out…”

Bob Seger, Against the Wind

I’m wrapping up National Poetry Month with some tips on how poetry can not only relieve stress, but also inspire one of the hardest-working writerly types: the freelancer. A freelance writer’s day is filled with deadlines, marketing, queries, article ideas, research, and perhaps a little writing squeezed in between. A lot of freelancers I know make their living by service pieces, articles or web content that has a specific goal. While we can write a standard piece in a lively way or admire a well-turned phrase, there isn’t a wide amount of wiggle room in most of what we do. Since I started in poetry and grew into freelance writing, I’ve developed a few tricks to keep the creative side fresh and improve my overall work.

1. Headline haiku. I’ve been working for hours, I’m on a tight deadline, and my frazzled brain has completely lost the main thread of a project. I want to step away from my computer for a few minutes, but I don’t want to lose my train of thought. So I go outside, or sit by the window and watch the birds swoop down and snatch up kibble from the dog dish; while I’m away from the work, my mind takes all the info that’s trying to shoulder through a thin door, and lines it up, haiku-style.

Historic, urban

Iowa fills nation’s plate;

American charm.

As I’ve just proved, the haiku doesn’t have to be good, it just helps organize the thoughts. For my own use, charts, lists and bullet points aren’t nearly as effective as this poetic tack.

2. Take a project further. Several years ago, I was hired by a local non-profit to visit the local rest home and interview a few people about their lives. It was an amazing day, filled with stories of loss, love and wisdom. After I wrote up the individual profiles, I still couldn’t get a few of those open, friendly folks and their stories out of my mind, so I wrote a poem about each of them. The one that still sticks with me was about a man who couldn’t remember his own son’s name or where he was, but recounted his experiences in depth about homesteading in Alaska, including one eventful day when bears smelled breakfast cooking and broke the cabin door down while he and his wife hid upstairs. He remembered that he had won an award once for his work in teaching drama, and began pulling out all these newspaper clips from his life. The poems I wrote from that day were worth more to me than the check I received, and I started interviewing other elderly neighbors and relatives, distilling their stories to one life—or even one moment—caught in a single poem.

3. Outdoor spot poetry. If you’re looking for the perfect activity on an autumn artist date, try this: pack a few colored markers in your pocket and head out to a local park. As you relax and feel your creativity twanging back into shape, take out a marker and scribble a quick poem on a leaf or a bit of tree bark, then let the wind whisk it away. (Yes, you should use water-based markers, but I’m not the pen police.) The feeling of watching your words lifting up with the breeze and becoming part of nature is liberating. Plus, you’ll occasionally get someone shuffling through autumn leaves and discovering your poem. I always hope it’s a pleasant surprise, but either way, it’s still a great method to boost your energy levels and relieve that deadline stress.

Big Hairy Deal

I’ve never been pregnant, but I’ve always had long hair. As an observer of one and a participant of the other, I can tell you that both conditions make people touchy-feely. When my mother was pregnant with my younger brother, folks discovered their inner Buddhist and had to rub her belly. Me, they pet like a Shetland pony. Yes, even now, when I’m no longer young and cute, total strangers come up to me, comment on my hair, then stroke it like I’m the main attraction in a petting zoo. Sometimes they ask, most times they don’t; I half-expect to be offered a cracker afterwards. I’ve grown used to the attention, but if anyone is with me when this happens, their jaws drop.

My hair is beyond waist-long, but doesn’t reach my knees yet; it’s very thick, yet somewhat fine, and I keep it braided most of the time, which fascinates people. Even braided, it nearly reaches my waist. Combs? Ha! I’ve broken brushes in it, and lost a curling iron in its depths some years ago. Since I often wear a bandanna over the braids, people have asked if it was a wig. (Uh, no.) Some petters have pleaded with me to never cut it, even though they themselves have short hair, which makes me feel a bit like a spotted owl: you don’t want one in your own house, but you feel good just knowing it exists somewhere.

“It’s so pretty and long, why don’t you wear it down?” some people ask. Because with one stiff breeze, I have more knots than a Boy Scout camping trip. Plus, I’m always sitting on it accidentally, shutting it in doors, and experiencing other humorous but painful mishaps. Don’t get me wrong, I do love my long hair. It does that wonderful mermaid shimmy when I swim, and I could whip someone with the braids if I really wanted. I wouldn’t keep it around if I didn’t enjoy it.

But now it will be someone else’s to enjoy.

Yes, I cut it yesterday, with the help of my scissor-wielding husband. The ponytail is 26 inches long, not counting the little bit above the rubber band. I haven’t decided which charity to send it to, Locks of Love or Pantene Beautiful Lengths. I have a couple of days to decide, because the silly thing isn’t dry yet; another fact of long hair. If I get enough feedback in one direction or another, that's where the big hairy deal will go, so let me know what you think!

Until then, I'm going outside. The sun is shining, there's a nice, strong breeze, and I have some Mary Tyler Moore-style hair flipping to do.

Teeming Tags: TMI Day!

Jen at Creatif tagged me with a meme several days ago, and Amy at Mind Over Mullis got me the other day, so I'm teeming with tags, and tag-teaming to move along the memes! It's TMI Day here at plaidearthworm, but I hope at least I'm weird enough to be entertaining.

Seven random or interesting facts:

I’m a state-certified hospitality instructor. In fact, I took the extra course and can teach other people how to be hospitality instructors. If you had a tourism business and rude and/or clueless employees, I’m the one you called after five customers stormed out because the desk clerk couldn’t interrupt her hourly phone conversation with her boyfriend long enough to check people into their rooms. Yeah, I have a lot of material saved up for the novel.

I am a Southern girl. Do not stand between me and strawberry shortcake, homemade biscuits and gravy, or fried bologna sandwiches with flat cheese. You have been warned.

Qapla! I’m a Klingon. I used to dress in full leather regalia, bumpyhead and all, then go to conventions or march in parades. (In the pic, I'm on the left of our club's Klingon Bug of Prey.) Our group even adopted a section of highway for a couple of years. There’s no greater freedom for a shy person than to stride into a Burger King in full makeup and costume, then order a Whopper with a side of gagh.

As the wife of a magician, I know how most of your favorite illusions are done. And I’m not telling. Neener, neener.

AmyDoodle confessed that her secret crush was Captain Jack Sparrow. Mine is Captain Jack Harkness from Torchwood. Ah, John Barrowman in all his hunky, alien-busting glory, sporting a trenchcoat, a swagger, and a piercing gaze that makes you forget your own name; that’s why I wear a name tag at home on Saturday nights, about 8 p.m.

I’ve never been on a vacation. The closest I’ve been is in high school, when I went on a school trip to New Orleans, and once my hubby and I spent about a day and a half in St. Louis. I grew up very, very poor, and understood that family vacations were for rich people, not folks like us. Now, it’s a combination of no spare funds, having too many animals to take care of, and not being able to get away from work. Rather funny when I realize that most of my writing income comes from business travel articles.

When it comes to video games , I’m happy in the last couple of decades. Don’t give me Guitar Hero or Gears of War; but if you have a copy of Leather Goddesses of Phobos or Hitch Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, let me know. Text-based adventures like those, or sly games like Al Lowe’s Leisure Suit Larry: Love for Sail are my choice every time.

And as a TMI bonus:

1) If you could live for a month in one world or time period from a novel you’ve read, which would you choose?

Discworld. No doubt about it.

2) If you could be one character from a comic book or fiction series, who would it be?

Hmmm, tough choice, because I’d love to spend a month as Nanny Ogg, but in a comic book world, I could have gravity-defying ta-tas like Witchblade. Ooh, better, a member of FemForce. They had all the moves, without the heavy lifting of defeating criminals constantly.

3) Where (in the real world) is your dream vacation spot?

Cleveland. Yes, I said it. Never been there, but I’ve researched it so much for articles this year, I think I’ve fallen for Ohio. Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, tons of cool museums, great food, Corner Alley. Add a side trip to Toledo so I can see a Mud Hen game, and I’m a happy girl.

4) Name a celebrity or TV personality whom you would like to have lunch with.

Ew, really? Most of them are so full of themselves, and I don’t suffer ego cases well; I once sprained my forehead from excessive eye-rolling. But it could be interesting to have lunch with Craig Ferguson; he’s funny, smart, and I have a few questions about his writing style.

If you're still reading after all that, congrats. You get a coveted TMI Meme Survivor Award. And now, I'd like to tag Rebecca at Writer's Roundabout, Rick at Rickwrite, Dawn at Anything That Pays, and Karen at Write Now. If you've been tagged, feel free to pick either meme you wish. Taggee's choice!

Bwah-hah-hahahahaha! I'm free of the memes!

Poetry for Fun and Profit

Hey kids! Would you like to earn dozens, even hundreds, of dollars per year? How about achieving fame and prestige with your 8^th grade English teacher? It can all be yours with the amazing universe of poetry.

While poetry won’t score you the Golden ATM Code of your dreams, it can provide a nice little side income, especially during those inevitable times in a writer’s life when both the cupboard and the wallet are empty. Personally, writing poetry for profit kept me in touch with the Muse until I could quit the day job and jump into freelance writing full time. Below are a few of the ‘markets’ that I relied on during my professional poet phase.

Family events. I once worked with a lady who gave each of her sons’ brides a beautiful keepsake doll as a wedding present, and wanted a unique poem for each occasion. She would tell me essentially what she wanted to say to her new daughters-in-law, and I wrote a poem to go with each doll. She was a great customer, and I occasionally had lunch money until she married off all her boys. While weddings were a great gig, you can also do this for baby showers, graduations, anniversaries and other noteworthy moments in family life. Sometimes you’re a ghostwriter, or, more correctly, ghostpoet, but other times you can sign your name and become part of a treasured family heirloom.

Holidays. Ever been broke and wrote poems for your family members as Christmas or birthday gifts? Yeah, me too. (If you said no, don’t worry. With rising gas prices and the economy, poetry may be your go-to strategy this December.) While you may not charge immediate family for custom poems, you can charge other people’s families without guilt. While word-of-mouth is often your best advertising, try a small ad in the local newspaper for various holiday seasons, like Christmas or Valentine’s Day. If you’re a quick poet, advertise just a week beforehand, so desperate shoppers (guys who forgot) will jump on the chance to have a personalized poem in time for the big day.

Festivals and public events. I first read about this idea in Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones, but it’s something I’ve never actually tried, because I’m not good with crowds, performance art, or thinking on my feet. But if you feel ready for the challenge, get yourself a booth at the next fair or festival, and offer on-the-spot poems. It’s a novelty, just like taking home a caricature, except with more feeling, unless, of course, you’re writing a poem about the person fishing, driving a sports car, or playing soccer. At one time, I had planned to try this, and figured that you could use ‘templates,’ or basic poems you had written previously, and fill in the essential info in the moment. If anyone is brave enough to go for it, let me know how it works out.

Granted, writing poetry to order isn't for everyone; your customers usually like their poems to rhyme, and follow a basic 'roses are red' form. If your artistic notions cringe at the thought of such pedestrian material, then this really isn't for you. Plus, there is a business aspect to think about, from setting rates to poem length and presentation. I never made more than the IRS-allowed hobby amount, but I had great fun, and met some interesting people. Poetry for profit won't get you published in magazines, but it is excellent practice, and you get a chance to make folks happy, one line at a time.

Poet? Know it! Rhyme? Every time.

Poetry: It gave you rhyming power to tease each other on the playground, helped you express all that teenage angst, and, if you were a guy without a guitar, probably got you laid in college. Now it’s time to give something back, to rehearse, feed the culture with sonnet and verse. Why? Because April is National Poetry Month, a great reason to celebrate the shiny pebbles and itchy grit we rip from our souls and lay out on paper.

Even if you’re not a writer, you probably know a few poems, perhaps some Frost or Kilmer caught in the cobwebs of your brain during your school years, or a rather catchy, well-worn limerick involving a young lady and the destination of Nantucket. But the poetic world is so much larger, and April is a perfect time to explore. The official website at poets.org is chock-full of great ideas, or you can go off on your own to discover the quiet, meaningful words of Basho, the visceral punch of Amiri Baraka, or the quirky wit of T.S. Eliot.

If you do feel inspired, take on the daily poetry challenge at Writer Digest’s Poetic Asides blog, or join NaPoWriMo on the Poets.org forums. And check back here frequently, because I've succumbed to a spell of overgeekiness, and have several posts lined up on how to incorporate poetry into your freelance world, for both fun and profit.

Heigh-ho, White-out, away!

I've always dreamed of becoming a vigilante, correcting wrongs and making things right. I would call myself the Masked Editor, and would attack public signs everywhere, stripping away misplaced apostrophes and telling the motel owners up the road that, no, there are not two 'i's in Jacuzzi. I've even created a novel character that fulfills my dream, making the world a better place to read.

Now I discover that someone has actually stepped up and pulled on the thong of truthiness: the Typo Eradication Advancement League is currently cruising the nation, fixing bad grammar and spelling on signs throughout the country, and saving countless writers and English teachers from daily brain aneurysms. The league of four team members post their successes--and failures--on their blog, and the founding member, Jeff Deck, was featured recently on NPR.

While the windmills may be too many to conquer, I'm glad to see a few wily Quixotes out there, living the dream and ticking off business owners across this great land.

Fabulous? I'll take it

Tomorrow I will be 40 years old. It doesn't seem possible to me; I feel like I'm sixteen on the inside, and I've just been playing grown-up. My mom says the same thing when her birthday rolls around each year. But tomorrow, older people will say I'm still a kid, and younger folks will be amazed that I can still feed myself. (What? You're not on MySpace or FaceBook? Duuude.)

But reaching the big 4-0 means I have officially earned the right to wax poetically about 8-track tapes, record players, television with only three stations, safety-free playgrounds, and school handouts with smudged purple printing from the mimeograph machine. It means telling whippersnappers about being five years old, and my mother sitting me down in front of the television to watch Nixon's resignation speech, saying, 'This is history. Remember this.' And I do. I also remember watching President Carter deal with the hostage situation, and wondering if the world was coming to an end. Or staying up late on a Saturday night to watch an Elvis movie, and always falling asleep before the credits rolled. Or when Pong was the next big thing, but it couldn't compare to a sunny day outside during summer vacation. Writing that first poem. Winning that first contest. Getting that first clip. Roller rinks, disco queens, parachute pants, poodle perms, my off-the-shoulder Flashdance-style sweatshirt that had to be left on the shoulder during school hours, freezing during the winter in my first apartment, having a Buddhist nun come along and pay the heating bill when we couldn't--so many memories for such a short span of time. And a few questions along the way, such as:

When did the music of my teen years start turning up on classic radio?

Why am I now afraid of sneezing or belly-laughing in public when I'm not close to a bathroom?

Why did I hate my body so much when I was a size 6? Why am I more confident now looking like the Goddess of Willendorf?

When did booties and thongs quit relating to the feet, moving higher up?

Isn't there more between the life stages of getting caught without undies and wearing purple?

As for that last one, I intend to find out.