Word-wrangling

Musings from the Junk Drawer, part one

Poetry, Word-wrangling

Deep cleaning my room last week yielded a poem, longish, written in tiny print on two pink sticky notes stuck together. Thoughts from a younger me, fifteen or sixteen, maybe.

Knowing I had typed it out once upon I time, I went digging through my files, and found another old poem instead. So here’s some nostalgia for you…

Ode to a Blank Page

By Lia Rodriguez, schoolgirl (Oct. 7, 2012)

A blank page is a world to claim, an open door, a beckon to fill it.
It is a call to make the two-dimensional three-dimensional, to turn lines into life.

A blank page knows no rules. It is an ocean vast and untamed.
“Sail me!” it cries. “Make me into more than ceaseless motion.
Place your vessel upon me, and I shall carry it.”

A blank page, to me, is wood to a carpenter; a slab of marble to a sculptor.
“Make me beautiful,” it pleads. “I shall bear your work well.”

A blank page is a garden. “If you work me,” it promises, “I will yield an abundant harvest.”
Sweat and toil bring sustenance and life.

A blank page is naught on its own. Yet without it, my work is naught.
So in alliance, we give each other significance.

A blank page is a mountain to climb. The journey has its difficulties,
but the view from the summit makes every stumble well worth the pain.

A blank page is a world to claim, an open door, a beckon to fill it.
Behind every full page is an empty page. Beside that empty page, there is a writer.
And behind that writer there is a village, who said, “Sail the ocean, climb the mountain, claim the world.
We would like to see the view from your eyes.”

Thanks for being part of the village!

A Word-Wrangler’s Answer

Ponderings, Word-wrangling

“Harnessing the power of words?”

“Yes.”

“But that doesn’t really say anything. I mean, what is it you do?”

Silence, my favorite way to speak.

“No, I get it. You’re good with words. You’re a writer…”

There’s more, I can tell, so we wait.

“…But it’s kinda vague.”

“I know. It’s a roundabout way of saying I’m a writer because I want to remind people of what writing is, at its core.”

“Communication.”

“Yes. Using the power of words. To convey ideas, truth, feelings.”

A nod.

I continue, “And it’s not just that it’s vague, it could even sound ominous. ‘Harnessing the power of words.’–It’s a perfect description for writing propaganda for a totalitarian government.”

“And you’re okay with that being your tagline?”

“I think we should acknowledge that words have power. It can be a scary thought. It carries responsibility. And I don’t think you can be a great writer if you aren’t a little awed by what words can do.”

“I guess you’ve thought about this a lot.”

“Yeah. It’s why I write.”

“Because you like power?”

“Haha. I walked into that one. No. Well, I like using power well. I want to make the most of my life. Words seemed like a good way to do that, for me. I think it started with teaching, helping the other kids in my class. There was something powerful about explaining things the right way to the ones who were struggling. It would click, and I could see a new light on their faces. It was like I was watching their brains make connections. And it took the right words to unlock it.”

“That’s really cool.”

“And then I realized how much I had learned from stories, and I wanted more there to be more good ones, so I started writing. And, well, music adds something really special. So musical theatre–to inspire, to embolden. Words wielded well can do marvelous things–they can open people’s eyes and hearts, and…I think that’s important.”

“Wow. So you think of yourself kind of like a windmill and the words are the power, the wind. You harness them to get things done…or something. I’m going off the word-wrangler post, here.”

“Sure that’s the idea, but I wouldn’t choose a windmill. I’d say harnessing like a sail.”

“Like a sail? Powering a ship?”

A smile. “Moving people.”

When Google Translates Poetry

Music, Water Between Us, Word-wrangling

Computers don’t know when they’re confused, so sometimes artificial intelligence gives you utter nonsense and sometimes the brilliant ravings of a mad genius.

I’ve found Google Translate to be gold mine for poetic inspiration.

Working on the musical Water Between Us , I got to play with English translations of Armenian folk songs, fusing human translations with Google’s attempts. My aim was to craft not an exact translation, but a poetic interpretation faithful to the original.

Google crunched some numbers and popped out these gems–“flooded runaway fountains” and “look at my heartbeats.”

Even without a computer’s brilliant nonsense, translating idioms creates gorgeous eloquence. “The roads are crying awaiting your return.”

I didn’t end up using this song in the show, but it’s too beautiful not to share.

Here’s a line from “Kanchum Em Ari Ari:”

“The roses are wet with dew, my love…”

Google continues: “Circles are the cries of my heart.”

Humans say, “Those drops of dew are my hearts tears.”

I think Google gets the profound card here.

Grief can lend a certain kind of madness to one’s words. Like a vain attempt to express something beyond language.

So when a computer makes our language all topsy-turvy, it somehow sounds just right when everything feels all wrong.

Highly Conflicted Characters

Literature, Word-wrangling

Highly conflicted characters keep us reading.

Fiction. Storytelling. Theater. Make-believe.

Maybe it seems like a safe way to come to terms with our highly conflicted selves.

When dishonesty or a shallow eye writes characters that fall flat, we feel bored or betrayed.

Bored because they aren’t alive.

Betrayed because they aren’t like us.

A character’s struggles must be as much as internal as external. Don’t just face the hero with hard things. Face him with the one thing he fears most in order to save someone else. Make her deepest-held fears wrestle with her deepest-held ideals. Hold up the two virtues a character values most and offer an “either or.”

In their weakness, they are strong. The strong know how to be vulnerable.

Why do we know this, deep down?

Minor characters can be flat, and we don’t notice. But major characters need inner battles or we disconnect.

Mr. Darcy. Jean Valjean. Margaret Hale.

(Click here to expand.)

And then there’s the kid with no name.

I don’t know if I’d call his an inner conflict. But there are things that don’t seem to belong together.

He’s one of the most interesting characters I’ve met.

I met him in a book called Milkweed by Jerry Spinelli. I picked up the audiobook for one dollar. The library was getting rid of it. Presumably because it’s a children’s book about a Polish Gypsy boy who wants to be a Nazi. (I assume some parents complained.) And, as it happens, the boy’s best friends are Jews. So obviously, there’s going to be some kind of inner struggle, sooner or later. Even if it comes as one decisive blow.

“This is crazy,” I thought when I read the back cover. It got crazier.

The kid knows nothing. No one taught him to fear. No one taught him to hate. No one taught him who he is. When the book opens, he only knows one thing—how to survive. Seriously, he doesn’t even know his own name.

We meet a puzzle.

Innocent, naïve, and a lawbreaker, a thief.

Who is he really? What are we to make of him?

He sees the marching and wants to be a Nazi.

Then, “What’s an angel?” he asks.

Wow.

This book is not for the faint of heart. But I don’t think you are, if you read this far.

The Word-Wrangler

Word-wrangling

If you’ve seen her writing fervently in a little notebook in the strangest of places wearing a satisfied grin of concentration–you’ll know it from the slight furrow of her brow–you might think it’s easy.

Word-wrangling.

You’ve seen inspiration so good she puts a pause on running errands and sits in her car scribbling. She’s capturing the bits of lyrics and dialogue and perfect phrases that float in on the breeze. And it looks like it. A breeze.

Sometimes.

But sometimes she has to lasso the wind. The words won’t come, and when they do, they feel grey and tarnished, heavy as lead, and just as dull. So she wrestles and ropes and gets those windmills turning.

Sometimes the wind’s blowing up a storm. Lightning strikes so fast her pen can’t keep up. One too good to lose is about to get away. So she saddles up a pony and goes scrambling after words scattered by a gust. Sometimes she doesn’t make it in time.

This is the life of a word-wrangler. Going headlong after the just the right turn of phrase–words wild and beautiful, running free across the mind, kicking up sparkling dust. Hiding in the canyons. Taunting the wind. They’re out there. She knows it.

Chase ’em down. Lasso ’em. Line ’em up.

I don’t know about easy. But you’d better bet it’s buckets of fun.

Here’s to all the word-wranglers. I know your aches and pains. I know your joy. I know some days it’s hard to stay in the saddle. I know you’ll be glad you did.

If you know a word-wrangler, pass it on, will ya?