CJ's Writer Thoughts

Heartbeats

2012-01-24T13:00:00.000-05:00

I was thinking this morning about life. I have a cousin who recently passed away and I miss her. She was three years younger than I am. Did you ever think about life? You know, how really tenuous it is. None of us know how long we're here for, or how many beats our heart has.

I wrote a poem about heartbeats years ago. It was written tongue-in-cheek, a little on the silly side I guess, but it rings true in some respects. You just never know, instead of heartbeats, life might be metered in hours. I think it's important that we live it to the fullest.

Heartbeats

Life is so uncertain.

No one knows

how long they have.

What if we're all born with
a predetermined number
of heartbeats
and when they're gone,
we're gone?
Just in case it's true ,
I'm sure not
going to waste mine
running down some road
in silly spandex
pants and a jog bra.
I want to make my
precious beats stretch
to as many years as I can,
especially since at my age,
I've used up so many of them
just getting here.
I'll spread them out,
save them for what's important,
like running away from
something, or someone, bad.
I also intend to use a lot of them
for making love.
If life really is a journey
and not a destination,
I might as well enjoy myself
along the way ...

Books and Book Stores

2012-01-22T09:07:00.001-05:00

I love book stores. I get all warm and fuzzy when I'm in a book store. It comes from a love for books that began nearly sixty years ago, when mama took us to the children's room of the library for the Saturday morning book readings by Miss Amy.

Even now, I can feel the magic I felt as a child the moment mama opened the heavy library door and herded us into the entrance lobby. With each step up the stairs to the main room, my imagination came more alive. Stories and adventures were everywhere, and I wanted to hear them all. The towering shelves of books rose on either side of me and were visible in any direction I turned. It filled me with such awe and wonder.

Miss Amy always sat in a rocking chair. "The Chosen Book" rested in her lap, as she waited for the oval rug in front of her to fill with children. I sat quietly, struggling to contain my growing excitement. What wonderful book had she picked to read today? Where would the new adventure take me? Would it be sad, or funny, or maybe, even filled with danger?

Then, suddenly, it was time. Miss Amy welcomed us to Story Time, as she slowly opened "The Chosen Book". With the very first sentence, I was captured and the magic began. I was no longer me, sitting on a rug in the children's room of the public library. I was living within her words and magically transported in time and space. That is when I knew I wanted to someday, somehow, create that very same wonder and magic in a book.

I finally realized that childhood dream. I am the author of three children's books and a collection of twenty short stories. Magically, I still relive the awesome wonder I knew as a child, when I'm surrounded by books. In a book store, of course, I have the added advantage of being able to own the books I love so much.

Years later, I am an author. I've done a lot of school visits, poetry workshops, book fairs, book store signings, and library readings. I can truly say I know the joy Miss Amy felt, while doing her children's room readings. I've grown addicted to seeing the magic, the awe and wonder, in the faces of today's children as they now live within my words ... oh, and it's always a special treat, when some of the books I'm surrounded by in a book store are mine.

[CJ Heck is the author of four books, which are available through Amazon.com (CreateSpace), Kindle, Nook, and look for it in your favorite book store. For book excerpts, school visits, and more information, please visit Barking Spiders Poetry: http://www.barkingspiderspoetry.com]

One Summer Morning

2012-01-21T08:39:00.000-05:00

Every child uses their imagination. In it, they can be whatever they want to be. The problem is how to remain that way, once we grow up.

I woke up this morning to a snowstorm that must have begun last night, because there are several inches already on the ground. It's pretty, but at my age, I've grown weary of the cold and snow. Southern climates are starting to appeal to me more each year. Anyway, as I was having my coffee, I thought about a hot summer day years ago...

It had been a long, hot, sticky summer. I was driving home from Walmart one morning and already it was promising to be another sweltering day. A few blocks from home, I saw a small homemade lemonade stand that was set up in the grass along the sidewalk. It reminded me of how we used to make bookcases, back in the late 60's, to hold a stereo system. It consisted of two cinder blocks piled one on top of the other at each end, with a wide board laying across the top.

A large hand printed sign was taped to the front of the board and hanging down. It was perfect for the little stand, printed in crooked capital letters with crayon -- even the 'N's" and "E's" in the word LEMONADE were printed backwards, which added to the mystique. It was so adorable, I just couldn't resist. I parked my car and bought a glass for fifteen cents and told them they could keep the change from my quarter.

Jacob, (8), and Sissy, (6), took their business very seriously. With loving teamwork, Sissy held the plastic cup, while Jacob poured in the lemonade from the pitcher. Playing my part as a satisfied customer, I drank ALL of my lemonade -- even though there wasn't NEARLY enough sugar in it.

I couldn't stop thinking about the little lemonade stand and its entrepreneurs. There was a poem in there, somewhere, and I eventually gave my imagination free reign. Here it is, and there's a special little twist at the end.

The Lemonade Stand
(from the book, "Barking Spiders 2")
by CJ Heck

Get your ice cold glass of lemonade!
Hurry, 'fore it's gone.
We made it just this morning.
See the table that it's on?

We promise that you'll like it
and there's sugar in it, too --
not like it was the other day
when mom and dad said "Ewwwww."

Get your ice cold glass of lemonade!
Boy, grownups sure are funny --
they smile a lot at little kids
who are trying to make money.

Thank you, ma'am, and thank you, sir,
you've helped us out a bunch.
Sissy, let's go make some more.
It's almost time for lunch.

Get your ice cold glass of lemonade!
Only fifteen cents a glass!
We've got to make more money
and we've got to make it fast.

Daddy said it wouldn't work,
that people wouldn't stop.
They'd hurry right on past us
and then they'd laugh a lot.

One last glass of lemonade!
This was so much fun!
Let's get this table put away
and then we've got to run.

Sissy look ... it's snowing!
But that will be all right.
Now we have money for presents
'cause Santa Claus comes tonight.

Oh, and even thinking about that summer day, my cheeks still ache from the lemon-sour pucker.

Chuck Wendig on Writing

2012-01-17T07:31:00.002-05:00

I came across this article today and I want to share it with every writer out there. It's a bit graphic, at times, but I guarantee that it'll bring a smile, an outright laugh, make you think, and it will make you look at the craft of writing in new ways. It did for me.

I've only cited five here, but I guarantee, the rest are worth your time, as well! To read the entire article, please visit Chuck Wendig's Blog.

Enjoy!

About the Author:

Chuck Wendig is equal parts novelist, screenwriter, and game designer. He is the author of the novels DOUBLE DEAD, BLACKBIRDS, and MOCKINGBIRD. In addition, he's got a metric boatload of writing-related e-books available, including the popular 500 WAYS TO BE A BETTER WRITER. He currently lives in the wilds of Pennsyltucky with wife, dog, and newborn progeny.

25 Things Writers Should Start Doing (ASAFP):

1. Start Taking Yourself Seriously
This is a real thing, this writing thing, if you let it be. It’s not just about money or publication — it’s about telling the kind of stories only you can tell. Few others are going to take you seriously, so give them a 21-middle-finger-salute and do for yourself what they won’t: demonstrate some self-respect.

2. Start Taking the Time
Said it before, will say it again: we all get 24 hours in our day. Nobody has extra time. You must claim time for yourself and your writing. Time is a beast stampeding ever forward and we’re all on its back. Don’t get taken for a ride. Grab the reins. Whip that nag to go where you want her to go. Take control. Hell, pull out a big ol’ electric knife and carve off a quivering lardon of fatty Time Bacon all for yourself. (As a sidenote, the Germans had a name for that phenomenon: Zeitspeck. True story I just made up!)

3. Start Trying New Stuff
Branch out. Get brave. Look at all the ways you write now — “I write in the morning, sipping from my 64-ounce 7-11 Thirst Aborter of Mountain Dew, and I pen my second-person POV erotic spy novels and it earns me a comfortable living.” Good for you. Now punch that shit right in the ear. Okay, I’m not saying you need to change directions entirely — what kind of advice is that? “Hey, that thing that works for you? Quit doing it.” I’m just saying, mix it up. Make some occasional adjustments. Just as I exhort people to try new foods or travel destinations or ancient Sumerian sexual positions, I suggest writers try new things to see if they can add them to their repertoire. Write 1000 words a day? Try to double that. Don’t use an outline? Write with one, just once. Single POV character? Play with an ensemble. Mix it the fuck up. Don’t have just One True Way of doing things. Get crazy. Don’t merely think outside of the box. Set the box adrift on a river and shoot it with fire arrows. Give the box a motherfucking Viking funeral.

4. Start Telling Stories in New Ways
Another entry from the “Set The Box On Fire” Department — with the almost obscene advances in personal technology (the smartphone alone has become more versatile than most home computers), it’s time to start thinking about how we can tell stories in new ways. A story needn’t be contained to a book or a screen. A story can be broken apart. A story can travel. Your tale can live across Twitter and Foursquare and Tumblr and an Android app and Flickr and HTML5 and then it can take the leap away from technology and move to handwritten journals and art installations and bathroom walls and — well, you get the idea. Let this be the year that the individual author need no longer be constrained by a single medium. Transmedia is now in the hands of individuals. So give it a little squeeze, and find new ways to tell old stories.

5. Start Reading Poetry
Poetry? Yes, poetry. I know. I see that look you’re giving me. “What’s next, Wendig?” you ask. “We all hold hands and dance around the maypole in our frilly blouses and Wonder Woman underoos?” YES EXACTLY. I mean — uhh, what? No. Ahem. All I’m saying is, all writing deserves a touch — just a tickle — of poetry. And do not conflate “poetry” with “purple prose” — such bloated artifice has no room in your work.

Now, do yourself a favor and go to Chuck's blog and read the rest!
CJ

Child-Speak

2011-12-31T09:17:00.000-05:00

I miss the days when my three girls were small. Now don't get me wrong, we have a great relationship now that they're grown, and I wouldn't change one thing. It's just that, sometimes, I miss all of the little things they did and said in their innocent exuberance for life.

One thing I remember is how they created their own words for things. Once I overheard a conversation between Carrie, the oldest, and Heather, the youngest. They were watching TV together on the couch. Carrie asked Heather if she would tickle her back for awhile. Heather said she would, IF she could borrow a "clo" from Carrie. Carrie was all right with that. She seemed to know just what Heather was asking, because she said, "okay".

Whatever a "clo" was, they had made an equally beneficial barter and both girls were satisfied. The more I thought about it, the more curious I grew, until finally, "Girls? What is a clo?"

Carrie matter of factly stated, "A clo is a clo, mom. You can have a LOT of clothes, but a clo is just ONE of them."

Hmmm ... how stupid of me ...

I'll give you another example of a created word. Sesame Street had this animated typewriter guy that had a face and it was on the word segment of the show. It had this little song-sound it made every time it wheeled itself to the left or right, "Noo Nee Noo Noo", or something similar to that.

Anyway, we were all in the car headed to the library one day and a tiny foreign car pulled up beside us at a red light. One of the girls pointed and yelled out, "Hey, you guys, look! A noo-noo car!" The other two understood perfectly ... again, I had to ask.

What follows now is the direct result of one rainy Saturday afternoon, having to play indoors, and an imaginative and highly inventive orneriness:

"Permagosh"
(from the book, "Barking Spiders 2)

Mommy's on the couch.
Daddy's in his chair.
I'm in a corner on a stool ...
yeah, they put me here

'cause I did somethin' naughty
that I'm not supposed to do.
I invented Permagosh
mixing things with their shampoo.

First a real long worm of toothpaste,
then a cloud of shaving cream,
then two glugs of mouthwash
('cause I love the color green).

I stirred it in a mixing bowl.
Boy it smelled real good!
It was even looking better
than I ever thought it would!

Could it be a cure for cancer?
Take the itch from skeeter bites?
Or maybe, heal a sunburn
when it hurts to sleep at night?

Two shakes of baby powder
made it WAY too hard to stir,
so I added Mommy's perfume.
Permagosh smelled just like HER!

Eww ... then the bowl tipped over.
Permagosh was on the floor
and when I turned around,
my mom was by the door.

Now mommy's on the couch.
Daddy's in his chair.
I'm in a corner on a stool ...
yeah, they put me here.

Enjoy your Saturday, my friends. I know I will.
~Hugs, CJ

New Year 2012

2011-12-30T12:58:00.000-05:00

Wow! We only have a couple of days left in 2011. It's hard to believe another year has come and (almost) gone. Personally, I hate to see it go -- I didn't have a problem with 2011, did you?

I've been thinking about all the years I've seen come and go. Each of them was good. Some were actually great. I can't really remember any years that were only so-so. Come to think of it, I don't think I ever lived in a year that I wished was over. It's just like what Forrest Gump said in the movie. "Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get."

I believe I've touched on what excites me about another new year -- the surprise of it all. Of course, it would be nice to have a crystal ball. In 2012, will I sell five million books? Will I finally be rich and famous? I'll just have to wait and see ...

So, come Saturday night, I'll pour myself and Robert a glass of bubbly to greet another new year ... too bad we'll probably be asleep on the couch by the time midnight arrives.

Happy New Year!

Senior Christmas Poem

2011-12-19T08:29:00.000-05:00

I'm NOT making fun of seniors ... I AM a senior ...

A SENIOR CHRISTMAS POEM
~Author Unknown~

T'was the night before Christmas at Rock-A-Way Rest,
and all of us seniors were looking our best.
Our glasses, how sparkly, our smiles, oh how merry;
our punch bowl held prune juice, plus three drops of sherry.

Support hose were taped to our walkers in hope,
that Santa would bring us soft candies and soap.
We surely were lucky to be there with friends,
secure in our residence and our Depends.

Some of our grandkids sent Christmassy crafts,
like angels in snowsuits or penguins on rafts.
The dental assistant here borrowed our teeth.
From them she crafted our holiday wreath.

The bed pans, so shiny, all stood in a row,
reflecting our candles in a magnificent glow.
Our supper was festive, the joy wouldn't stop,
with creamy warm oatmeal with sprinkles on top.

Fruit salad with Jello, all jiggly and great,
and puree of fruitcake was spooned on each plate.
The social director then let us play games,
like "Where do You Live?" and "What Are Your Names?"

Old Mr. Looper was feeling his oats,
proclaiming that reindeer were just fancy goats.
Our resident wanderer was tied to her chair,
with hopes that at bedtime she still would be there.

Security lights on the new fallen snow
made night look like day to us old folks below.
Then out on the porch there arose quite a clatter
(But we're all so deaf that it just didn't matter).

A strange little fellow then flew through the door.
He tripped on the sill and fell flat on the floor.
T'was just the director, all togged out in red,
who giggled and chuckled and patted each head.

We knew from the way that he strutted and jived
that our social security checks had arrived.
We sang and we hummed in our monotone croak,
till finally the clock chimed its 8 p.m. stroke.

And soon we were snuggled again in our beds,
while the nurses distributed our nocturnal meds.
And so ends our Christmas at Rock-A-Way Rest.
'fore long you'll be with us ... we wish you the best!

Christmas Morning

2011-12-18T08:28:00.000-05:00

A scene that will be played out in thousands of homes next weekend ... hugs to all and a Merry Christmas! ~CJ

(Yawn ... s t r e t c h ... yawn ... scratch-scratch) Jumping out of bed with a sudden realization ...

"(poke-poke) Claud? You up? Wake up, it's Christmas." (poke-poke)

"(loud yawn) (stretch-s t r e t c h) Stop poking ... I'm up. You sure Santa was here?"

"I think so. Let's go see. Shhhhh, we gotta be quiet. Don't wake anybody up ... not yet. We have to see if he came, first. Then we'll wake 'em up."

(stairs creaking) (tip-toe - tip-toe - c r e a k - tip-toe - c r e a k)

"He came. He came!"

"He did? Let's go tell them!"

"Shhhhh, wait. Can you see anything, Claud? Can you see what he brought?"

"Nope. It's too dark. But I can see presents under the tree! I can see the puffy stockings and there's stuff sticking out of 'em! C'mon, Cath'. Let's go get 'em up!"

(creak-creak) (tip-toe, tip-toe, tip-toe) (creak-creak) (tip-toe, tip-toe) (creak-creak)

(pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter)

(doorknob turning)

"Bill! It's Christmas and Santa was here. Get up ... shhhhh."

(pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter)

(doorknob turning)

(nudge) "Timmy, wake up. Santa came." (nudge-nudge)

(yawn) "I'm up ... stop that."

(poke-poke) "Chippy, chippy? Wake up. Santa was here. It's Christmas!"

"Don't poke. I'm awake, I'm up."

"Shhhh, where's Shari? She's not in her crib."

"She ... she's prob'ly sleeping with mommy and daddy. She has a cold."

"Everybody, c'mon. Let's go get mommy and daddy up!"

"In a minute. I gotta pee."

"Me too!"

"Me too!"

"Me too!

(door opening, closing, opening, closing, opening, closing, opening)

(feet shuffling in the hall) (pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter)

(doorknob turning)

(squeaky hinges)

"Mommy-Daddy, Merry Christmas! Wake up, Santa Came! Wake up!"

A Grandson at Christmas

2011-12-17T06:45:00.000-05:00

Just a few more days and Christmas will be here. Like everyone else, I've been busy shopping, wrapping and baking, and then there's always so much last minute stuff to do -- for instance, I'm still shopping for Robert. He's pretty tight-lipped this year when I ask him for ideas. He says all he wants for Christmas is me -- and while that's lovely and very romantic, I still want to find the perfect gift for him.

I'm thinking about a phone call I received from one of my grandsons, who was six at the time. He happily told me how excited he was about Christmas and then he asked me what I thought Santa Claus was doing right now. In the spirit of the season, I turned his question around and asked him what HE thought Santa might be doing right now ...

Without any hesitation at all, he answered, "That's easy, Gram! Santa is prob’ly practicing his HO-HO-HO’s while he’s polishing his sleigh and taking care of the reindeer. I think Rudolph is getting ready to lead all the others and his nose is already shiny and red. The elves are prob’ly busy packing the toys into Santa’s big red bag." Then he told me, "Ya know, Grammy, even if the elves wake up at the same time the sun does in the morning, it will still take them the whole week to get all the toys loaded in the sleigh!"

He continued, "The elves are prob’ly running around cleaning up the workshop because pretty soon, they have to start making toys for NEXT Christmas! Some of them are prob’ly even reading late wish lists from kids all over the place, and deciding if they should tattle and tell Santa which kids were naughty -- but maybe they won‘t ‘cause tattling isn‘t nice."

I had to laugh when he said, "Mrs. Claus has prob’ly been cooking all week. It just wouldn’t be good to have a bony Santa. You know, just in case someone peeks when he comes down the chimney. She's baking lots of stuff for Santa’s trip, and even putting some carrots in a baggy for the reindeer in case they get hungry on the way. And everybody KNOWS Santa gets cookies and milk from kids at the houses where he goes, too, so that will keep him fat."

He then told me that the very last thing Mrs. Claus will still have to do is make sure Santa’s red suit is clean and his boots all shined up. Then on the last night before Christmas Eve, Santa will go to bed early ‘cause everyone has a busy night Christmas Eve.

I asked him then if he could remember why we gave and got presents at Christmas. He said, “Sure, Grammy. It’s ‘cause God let His little boy, Jesus, be born on Christmas. See, we can’t give Him birthday presents ‘cause now He lives up in heaven with God again, so they invented Santa Claus to give Jesus’ presents to all of the kids. Then ... I don’t know when, but then Santa Claus became real.”

“How do you know Santa Claus is real?” I asked him.

“Grammy, if he wasn’t real, how come we can write letters to him? How come we can sit on his lap and talk to him? It’s just something kids know. Then we go to church and thank God for giving us Jesus and for giving us His presents.”

Then my daughter called him to the dinner table, so we shared “I love you’s” and said "goodbye".

After I hung up the phone, I smiled … I really needed that. I'd been so busy with everything that I had lost sight of the important things. As warm and fuzzy as it all can be, I had always gotten a little melancholy at Christmas. After the enormous build up, it was always over so quickly, about as long as it took the little ones to unwrap what it took us weeks to buy and wrap.

When I look at Christmas through a child‘s eyes, I remember the awe, the wonder and the ... magic. And it isn’t really all that bad, believing in Santa Claus. It’s pretend, yes, but pretending is such a huge part of childhood. It’s practice for growing up and, like Christmas, childhood is also over before you know it. But as long as our children understand the true reason behind Christmas, the belief in Santa is harmless -- and it brings such joy to children.

As I sit here this morning wrapping another gift, I can't help thinking about what my grandson told me. It really is true. This present really is a birthday gift -- I so wish I could have given it to the Baby Jesus ...

As for Santa Claus ... I still believe. Maybe I'll even let him decide what to bring Robert for Christmas ...

Christmas Trees

2011-12-16T09:52:00.000-05:00

I have a small rant today. Robert and I have been searching the whole town for a REAL Christmas Tree for a week now and we can't find a single parking lot anywhere where real Christmas trees are for sale. We find that so totally strange.

There used to be Christmas tree lots everywhere. The boy scouts sold them, and the fire department did, too. Even the local high school used to sell Christmas trees as a fund raiser. You could spot the lots easily, too, with long strings of colored lights strung high overhead, all the way around the lot and visible from a block away.

I remember when I was a child, Daddy would pile us all into the station wagon and, like they did in the movie "Christmas Vacation" with Chevy Chase, we would head out into the country to cut down our tree. But it was so much more than just cutting down a Christmas tree. It was a tradition in my family and it kicked off our whole holiday spirit. While Daddy was putting the lights on the tree, we wrote our letters to Santa. Then, that done, everyone helped to decorate the aromatic pine with decorations.

Is the lack of real Christmas trees because everyone is buying fake trees these days? I suppose fake trees are okay ... for some people. They sure look real, not like the yucky spindly ones that first came out years ago. I hear tell they even come with lights already attached, too.

(shaking my head) Nope, that's not for me. I'm just NOT buying a fake tree, and if I have to drive to other towns, I WILL find a Christmas tree lot selling REAL Christmas trees. I would miss the smell of pine and besides, I love tradition. No wonder I never want to grow up ...

Dear Santa Claus...

2011-12-15T06:06:00.000-05:00

Dear Santa ...

by CJ Heck

You always bring me many things,

my little sister, too,

things we love to play with

and so many things to do.

I see you in big limos

waving at us in parades.

I see you in the shopping malls

and even in arcades.

I see you on the corners

where you're ringing little bells.

I see you talking on TV

advertising big hotels.

It causes me to wonder

if you're really really there,

or are you just too busy

with all those things to care?

See, I have a best friend, Tommy,

and I'm sending his address

so this year you won't miss his house,

'cause Tommy, he's the best.

Please, Santa, take some time off

from those other things you do

and this year, visit Tommy's house?

He needs some presents, too.

[from the book, "Barking Spiders (and Other Such Stuff)", 2000, by CJ Heck]

The Christmas Miracle

2011-12-14T08:54:00.000-05:00

A Short Story
by CJ Heck

The storm had begun last evening just after dark with gentle flurries. Now in the early morning hours before dawn, it was snowing like a son-of-a-bitch. Jake Simons pulled his collar up as high as it would go, hoping to shrink the opening enough that it was less inviting to wayward flakes. "Never mind," he thought, "never you mind. It's winter, it's snowing, and it is what it is."

This morning, like every morning, snow or no snow, Jake walked the tracks, picking up rogue coal jostled from the railroad cars bouncing along the tracks. It couldn't buy food, but each shiny black lump was precious and it went a long way to keep his family warm in these tough times. The heavy snow seemed to punctuate just how hard things were -- and how bad they could still get.

As he walked, he pushed the snow away with his boot. The coal was nearly impossible to see and, with each step, his heart grew heavier, knowing his pockets were nearly empty. How in the world had things ever have gotten so bad?

It was only days before Christmas, and Jake still hadn't found any work. "Children shouldn't have to grow up this fast." Jake said aloud into the dark, while the wind gobbled each word as it was spoken. "In their innocent dreams, Santa is in the North Pole and his elves still make toys to deliver by sleigh on Christmas Eve -- even now in the Great Depression."

Jake's oldest delivered groceries and stocked shelves for Burt down at the market on Tuesdays, while Tommy, the middle child, had a paper route. Even Dotty, his wife, had a job one day a week cleaning for Annie Parker. Her husband owned the town's mill. Jeb Parker did what he could, hiring for a day here, a day there, but few needed what the mill produced, so even Jeb was on hard times. And Sarah, sweet Sarah, was only two years old. This was all she had ever known. How he wished he could make everything better.

Hours later, Jake had reached his lowest point yet. It was dark and snowing even harder, as if that was possible. All day long, Jake had stood in the growing lines for the few jobs that were available, but there were always more men than jobs. Overcome by exhaustion and grief, he sat down hard on the curb, his feet planted in the freezing slush below. With his head in his hands, he fought back unwelcome tears. Jake's spirit was broken and he felt so defeated.

Blinking through tears of resolve, Jake prayed for his immortal soul. "God, help me, I'm worth more dead, than alive." Then, with his service revolver pointed at the roof of his mouth, he suddenly noticed something half buried in the slush between his feet. In quiet disbelief, he slowly reached down and picked up a wet and crumpled fifty dollar bill ...

Christmas at Mel's

2011-12-13T09:30:00.002-05:00

A Short-Short Story
(from the book, "Bits and Pieces", October 2011)
by CJ Heck

A broken neon sign flashed "Mel’s" atop a small darkened bar on the edge of town. The air was heavy with stale smoke and beer, blending faintly with the odor of dried spit on unclean bodies.

Sadie sat at a small table alone pondering the world and its problems, two drinks past actually seeing beyond the unkempt nails she drummed nervously on the chipped Formica in front of her. The lines in her face were knit as if by a palsied hand dropping stitches here and there where a pox scar decided to roost.

For Sadie, this was home -- at least until tonight’s john, with an empty glass and full libido, swaggered up and invited her to the nearest no-tell motel. Life sucks, but it was her life. Feeling in control, a spider in her web, she threw back another drink and waited.

The hours passed and Sadie now slumped in the chair at her favorite table at Mel's. With each drink, the world's problems faded further, until she was only mildly conscious that she had more than enough of her own. Merry Christmas. Yeah, yeah, so what? she asked indignantly into the air.

Sadie slowly counted the empty glasses lined up in front of her on the table. Seven. Nice. Rhymes with heaven. How 'bout that -- as if I'll ever be there. They prob'ly don't let people like me in a ritzy place like that. Sadie pushed the thought away. She studied the half empty glass that was still in her hand with the same intensity a demented gypsy might, upon watching her favorite crystal ball suddenly deflate right before her eyes.

Tired, the lines in her face met in an intricate pattern just above her penciled brows as she pondered her situation through the booze fog. Damn Mel. Damn his twinkle lights. Damn things hurt my eyes. Fuckin' barkeep, why'd he have to put twinkle lights in here ... as if anyone wants to see the graffiti better, she cackled to herself. Sadie watched as the room with its new holiday lights blinked, first red, then green, then yellow through the gently swirling smoke. She threw back the rest of her drink. It made her want to puke, that's what it did.

Who the hell cares if it's Christmas Eve? Every day's the same to me, she thought. I'm just a workin' woman tryin' to make a buck. Bad enough, everywhere you go, bells are ringin' on every corner, music blastin' outta radios, snow and slush in every step you take, and all that fancy decoratin' to remind you, you're fuckin' alone. Merry Christmas ... yeah, Mer-ry Christ-my-ass! Cash registers are ringin' big time, too, Sadie thought, with a bitter smile.

Damn, business was slow this time of year. Every john she knew was prob'ly home playing Santy Claus with the kiddies and Husband Of The Year with the wife. What a joke, she thought. What they really want, I give 'em. What they really need, I give 'em. They're all the same. What a fuckin' joke, she thought ... yeah, only the joke's on me. I'm the one who's sittin' and waitin' in a blinkin-stinkin' hellhole all by m'self.

Sadie set empty glass number eight at the end of the line on the table and raised a finger at the barkeep for another drink. Waiting was a bitch ... just then, a shadow fell through the swirling smoke to settle eerily on Sadie's table. It was strangely blinking in mixed colors through the empty glasses in front of her. Surprised, she looked up to see one of her regulars standing there. Finally, she thought to herself, and 'bout time, too. Already a plan had formed in her mind to do him fast and then get some shut-eye. She gave the john her best crimson smile.

The man leaned down and handed Sadie a folded bill. With a sad smile he said, "Go home, Sadie. This one's on me, and ... and well, M-Merry Christmas to you." Then he turned and walked back through the swirled and blinking smoke to the door and back out to the street with Sadie staring slack-jawed at the door closing slowly behind him.

Damn, if that don't beat all, Sadie thought, as she unfolded the fifty dollar bill. Then she scooted her chair back, pushed herself away from the table, and for the first time in years, Sadie's face softened into a genuine smile.

How beautiful a day can be when kindness touches it. ~George Elliston

Coshocton Tribune Interview

2011-12-02T05:03:00.000-05:00

Coshocton Natives Find Common Ground with Writing ...
7:21 AM, Dec. 1, 2011

Coshocton Tribune
Coshocton, Ohio 43812

Written by
Leonard Hayhurst
Staff Writer

COSHOCTON -- Two childhood friends from Coshocton now are sharing their lives and their literary talents with the world.

Coshocton natives Catherine Parrish, who writes as C.J. Heck, and Robert Cosmar got reacquainted two years ago during a multi-class reunion for graduates of Coshocton High School that Cosmar organized. Although they were two years apart in school, they said they can't really remember talking or seeing each other since they were young kids, almost 50 years before.

"We were often thrown together as a group of kids," Parrish said. "(Cosmar) said he didn't remember me at all in high school, although I'm sure we passed in the halls, but he said 'my last memory of you as a child is you sitting beside me in the back seat of my parents' car. I was about 9 years old, and you were about 11. I remember looking over and seeing those blues eyes and thinking 'oh my God, it's a girl.'" He said he never forgot those blues eyes.

Parrish received an email from Cosmar sent by another classmate about the reunion and from there, they began writing back and forth. A rekindled friendship flamed into love, and Cosmar eventually moved from Coshocton to be with Parrish in DuBois, Pa.

"We're motivating and stimulating each other to grow and more fully express who we are," Cosmar said. "We do what we love to do, which is basically write and share stories."

Cosmar knew Parrish was a children's author, and the two often would talk about writing and literature. Shortly after getting together, Cosmar mentioned he had written three short unpublished stories about 20 years ago. Parrish said she asked to read them and was impressed immediately by their quality.
"I demanded, 'Why haven't you published these? They're wonderful!' He answered, 'Who'd want to read those? They're so old,'" Parrish recalled.

Parrish offered encouragement and editing, which resulted in Cosmar publishing his first book, "Trilogy of Awareness" in September, 2011.

Cosmar describes the book as one meant to inspire imaginations. One story deals with a banished alien prince; another tells of a middle-aged man, lost in life, who is whisked to a parallel dimension, and the final tale is about the ghost of Jimi Hendrix aiding young guitarists at a music camp near Woodstock.

"My stories are allegories. On one level, they're like your 'Twilight Zone,' Rod Serling-type stories. They present a platform that's very obvious and understandable that applies to life in general, maybe your situation or someone else's situation, but somewhere in it, it takes you to a place of awareness and that's why it's called 'Trilogy of Awareness,'" he said.

Parrish has published four books since 2000, the most recent being a collection of short stories and flash fiction entitled "Bits and Pieces from a Writer's Soul" and "Me Too! Preschool Poetry," both in September. Her newest book "Barking Spiders 2," a sequel to her "Barking Spiders and Other Such Stuff (2000)," has been nominated for the 2011 Cybils Children's Book Award in the poetry category.

Parrish said much of what she writes about comes from her children or from her childhood in Coshocton. Although she can't remember her teacher's name, Parrish never will forget how a fourth-grade teacher at Washington Elementary School encouraged her to write poetry as part of the class. She said she and Cosmar still have friends and family in the Coshocton area and visit often.

"We had such a wonderful childhood living (in Coshocton)," Parrish said. "We could go anywhere. It's not like today where (parents) are afraid to let their kids go out alone. I remember walking down Main Street up to Elm Street by the hospital and (Cosmar) remembers the same thing. We'd play outside until dark, and nobody worried about us. We loved Coshocton growing up. It's such a wonderful, wonderful town."

llhayhur@coshoctontribune.com; (740) 295-3417

Dear ...

2011-12-01T07:16:00.000-05:00

Dear Rain,
Please go away. It's the first of December. How can I think Christmas without the white stuff you can so easily become?

Dear Santa,
Christmas seems to arrive a week earlier each year, as the decorations since Halloween attest. Do you have your elves working earlier, as well?

Dear Freshly-laundered Bed,
I shall dream of you all the day long.

Dear Newly Clean Duplex,
Never let yourself go. You are so worth it and I love you.

Dear Hair,
Let's find a conditioner and shampoo that work well together and stick with it.

Dear Robert,
I adore you. Please never change. Your kisses make my whole world go round.

Dear Universe,
Please help my books sell and send people to my new website. It's awful, feeling invisible ...

Dear Family,
I love you all and wish we lived closer. I have a mountain of hugs to share.

With Love,
Me

A Treasure in the Attic

2011-11-14T10:26:00.000-05:00

A Treasure in the Attic
by CJ Heck

There's magic in an attic
when you're patient enough
to wade through
the spiderwebs and dust
to discover it.
I found a picture of Mama there
in an old camelback trunk
crowded with forgotten relatives
pressed in albums,
between dried rose bouquets,
and size six shoe boxes
hiding old love letters
bound in faded ribbon.
How I wish I had known her then --
young and pretty,
living in a world
filled with Daddy,
before children and cancer.
The photo was crackled,
its corners dog-earred,
but there she was.
A bandana tied round her head
almost held the whispy curls
reaching for freedom
in an ocean breeze,
pants rolled up mid-calf,
cuffs barely skimming the water,
she looked so happy.
And from a trunk in the attic
I unearthed a treasure,
a love that had shaped me
throughout my life.
How terribly I miss her.

Lunch with Friends

2011-11-13T10:53:00.000-05:00

This came to me today from a friend that I value very much. After you read this, I think you'll understand ...

"One day I had lunch with some friends. Bob, a short, balding golfer-type about 69 years old, came along with them. All in all, it was a pleasant bunch.

When the menus were presented, we ordered salads, sandwiches, and soups, all except for Bob who said, "Ice Cream, please -- two scoops, both of them chocolate."

At first, I wasn't sure my ears heard him right, and the others were aghast, as well. "Oh, and along with some heated apple pie." Bob added, completely unabashed.

We tried to act quite nonchalant, as if people did this all the time. But when our orders were brought out, I found that I didn't enjoy mine. I couldn't take my eyes off Bob as his pie a-la-mode went down. I noticed that the other guys couldn't believe it either. They ate their lunches silently and grinned suspiciously.

The next time I went out to eat, I called and invited Bob. I lunched on white meat tuna and whole grain bread. He ordered a parfait. when I smiled, he asked if he amused me. I answered, "Yes, you do, but also you confuse me. How come you order rich desserts for lunch, while I feel I must be sensible?"

Bob laughed and explained, "I'm tasting all that is possible. I try to eat the foods I need, and I do the things that I should do so I'll be healthy, but listen, life's so short, my friend! I hate missing out on something good. This year I realized how old I was." He smiled, thoughtfully. "I haven't ever been this old before.

Before I die, I've decided to try those things I had always ignored. I haven't smelled all the flowers yet; there are trout streams I haven't fished; there are more hot fudge sundaes to wolf down and kites to be flown over my head in the wind. There are too many golf courses I haven't played, and I've not laughed at all the jokes yet. Oh, and I've missed a lot of sporting events ... and potato chips ... and cokes.

I want to wade barefoot again in puddles and feel the ocean spray on my face. I want to sit in a country church one more time and thank God for everything. I want peanut butter spread every day on my morning toast; I want un-timed long distance calls to all the folks I love the most.

I haven't cried at all the movies yet, or walked in the morning rain. I need to feel wind on my face, and I want to be in love again. So, my friend, if I choose to have the dessert, instead of having dinner, then if I die before night fall, I'll be able to say I died a winner, because I missed out on nothing. I filled my heart's desire. I had that final chocolate mousse before my life expired. I would die a happy man."

With that, I called the waitress over. "S'cuse me, Ma'am. I've changed my mind. I want what he's having -- only add even more whipped cream!"

This is my gift to you -- let's make this our annual Friends Day. The rest of the year, we'll live well, love much and laugh often -- in other words, we'll be happy. And we have to be mindful that happiness isn't based on possessions, power, or prestige. It's all about relationships with the people we like and love and respect.

Money might talk, but chocolate ice cream sings ...

Thank you, Craig Latham! Many hugs, my friend.
CJ

Back Links

2011-11-08T11:09:00.000-05:00

For the past several weeks, I've been busy working on rebuilding my website. I've had the same website URL for twelve years, and it has served me well, even though it recently survived a near catastrophe.

Two years ago, a German web designer by the name of Cedrik contacted me. He told me he was learning flash design and looking for an American website, one that was in need of sprucing up, to learn flash design on. Someone gave him my name and email address. He took one look at my website and told me, "Katy (this is how he pronounced Cathy), your website is so old! But, you have many, many back links -- I don't know how you have so many back links because your website is very bad!" Then he said if I would allow him to work on it, redesign it in flash, it would be a website I would be proud of.

I asked him how much this would cost, since my pockets weren't very deep. His answer was ... "Katy, this will be free, because I will be learning. I want to be good flash designer in America." I decided "free" worked, but only because Cedrik was treating it like a project to learn from, and because he insisted that it must be free. His only stipulation was, that I was to tell no one it was free because if he got business in the States because of it, he would charge them a fee. That again seemed to make sense and I agreed.

We used Skype to communicate. Surprisingly, Cedrik had a reasonable grasp of English, but I knew only a smattering of German. During the redesign, we butted heads a lot, mostly over things I felt were necessary to keep in the website, like my AdSense ads, for instance. I was receiving about $100/month in income from the ads. Cedrik adamantly refused to put ads on the new website. I couldn't seem to make him understand, that was $1200 a year he was simply throwing away. After arguing about it for a week, I begrudgingly went along because after all, he was not charging me.

Cedrik then said my link pages were gone, as well. That point I argued vehemently. It had taken me eleven years to build my link pages. He was so angry that he disappeared for a week, so I also had to concede that issue. He just didn't understand. I talked it over with Robert and we decided those were all things I could add again later, once the website was finished.

The day finally arrived when the flashy flash website went public -- it truly was a work of art. Within a couple of months, the website had even won two awards for its design. I was thrilled for Cedrik. He had made his mark in America. Then the proverbial crap hit the fan. I did a couple of new school visits, and when I went into my website manager, I found I was unable to add the schools or any corrections to my website.

I contacted Cedrik, who told me he would change my website to the new html 5, which would allow me to make changes myself. He also talked about adding another page to the website, one I had asked him to add for a poet friend's work. Weeks passed, and then months, and I was unable to contact him. I had more school visits I needed to add to update my references and I was unable to access my website manager.

When I finally talked with Cedrik, he informed me that he was now too busy to change it to html 5. However, if I would like to retain him to build me a new website, one that was in html 5, he would put me on the waiting list -- but he would charge me for the new one. I asked why he hadn't told me this flash website would be something I could never make changes to. I reminded him that he promised he would change it to html 5. Nothing I said made a difference. I had no choice but to trash everything and start over ...

I am actively looking for children's writers, authors, schools, librarians, teachers, literally anyone with a valuable link or resource to exchange links with me. If you're interested, please contact me, either through an email or a comment on this blog. Thank you so much!

CJ's Barking Spiders Poetry Website

... oh, and do yourself a favor. If a web designer named Cedrik, from CJ Design, contacts you ... don't walk away. RUN.

Book News!

2011-11-05T08:32:00.000-04:00

News! (a little shamless plug)

"Barking Spiders 2", (October 2011) was nominated for the 2011 Cybils Children's Book Award in Poetry!

Finalists to be announced January 1, 2012, the winner February 14, 2012.

Barking Spiders 2 at Amazon.com

Reviews:

Fun for your child and you:
"In this follow up to her popular first book, Barking Spiders and other Such Stuff, CJ cultivates and enriches the innocent spirit within us all. As you read to a child, a parent is transported in heart and feelings to the simpler and more innocent time of youth. The two hearts bridge the gap of age and meet in the middle, where heart and soul are eternally young." ~Magic Man
__________________

"We all know, the mind of a child is something we'll never fully understand. However, CJ Heck has written three books that prove she is the master of a child's illogical, logic, a child's innocence, their unfiltered honesty and boundless love.

Barking Spiders, Barking Spiders 2, and Me Too! Pre-school Poetry all sit on my bookshelf waiting for me to read to my grandchildren. If a child has thought about it, CJ has written about it. No matter how many times I read CJ's poetry, I am amazed at how well it correlates to watching the antics of my children and grandchildren.

The good news is that us grown-ups enjoy CJ's writing as much as the children do. Enjoy the laughter, wonder and joy of a child. Read CJ Heck." ~Russell Daily

Rules

2011-11-04T08:39:00.000-04:00

I remember one of the hardest things about being a child was learning the rules of growing up. To a kid, things were always black or white, good or bad, and right or wrong. The way I learned best was by listening to and minding my parents, yes, but I also I learned by testing the very rules they imposed, and then finding out that there were consequences. I spent a lot of time thinking about rules in the "naughty chair" ...

From a child's vantage point, grownups had it easy. They could stay up as late as they wanted. They didn't have to go to school every day and sit in a classroom. They could do anything they wanted to do and, most important, they held the key to just about everything in a kid's life, too -- what they should eat and when; what they should wear; where they could go; when to come inside; when to take a bath; when to go to bed; when they should get up; when to pick up toys or clean their room; even what they could watch on TV.

Growing up couldn't come fast enough. I could hardly wait not to have any more rules ...

Rules
by CJ Heck
(from the book, "Barking Spiders 2")

Parents sure have lots of rules,
things to do and not do.
I’ll be glad when I get big
and growing up is gone through.

I won’t need a dentist
or a barber for my hair,
and I’ll go buy a chocolate cake
that I won’t have to share.

Maybe, I’ll stay up all night,
eat junk and watch TV.
If I want, I’ll sleep all day.
No more rules for me!

“How will you get up for work?
You might get fired”, Mom said.
“You won’t make any money
by sleeping late in bed.”

Why would I need money?
Who needs money anyway?
Rules are bad. When I grow up
I’ll do fun things all day.

"How will you pay your rent?
How will you buy a car?
How would you buy your grownup clothes?
(you’ll be bigger than you are) .

You’ll have to buy the food you eat.
You’ll have to have a phone.
How will you pay your heating bill,
‘cause surely you’ll buy a home?"

I hadn’t thought of all of that.
I can’t do that stuff.
It doesn’t sound like fun at all
and I don’t know enough.

Mom said as I get bigger,
the rules get bigger, too,
but when we start at my age,
growing up is fun to do.

She said, "People grow like houses,
step by step, and brick by brick.
That’s the way we all grow up
and having rules is part of it."

Isn't it funny, how we look back now and long for the days of childish innocence and gentle rules ...

Happy Friday everyone!

Publishers, a Rant

2011-11-03T06:49:00.000-04:00

Publishers, a Rant ...
by CJ Heck

As writers, we all know the importance of, and the hunger for, getting our work published by reputable publishers. We pour our hearts into the writing; we polish, edit, and then edit some more and, when we're finally satisfied, we at last turn it into the finished product -- our final copy. That's a daunting task in itself!

After the manuscript is done, we spend more time, gas, and money going to the book store for our annual copy of the appropriate "Writer’s Digest" book for our genre. Once home, we spend days reading through all of the publishers, studying, trying to find EXACTLY what they're looking for: fiction, non-fiction, poetry: (rhyming or non-rhyming), memoirs, essays, short story collections, screenplays, et al.

That done, we narrow that list to publishers who will accept submissions without the need to have an agent first. By the way, I’ve noticed this list shrinking with each new edition of "Writer’s Market", no matter what the genre.

We study this shortened list to see whether they are accepting manuscript submissions in precisely what we write, within the genre they accept, i.e., children, juvenile, young adult, romance, fantasy, science fiction, western, erotica, religion, spiritual, or new age.

Out of that group, we then have to discover those who accept manuscripts NOW. Some only accept manuscripts during a specified reading period (between May 1 and July 1, for instance).

The list is further narrowed down. You have to find those that do not require “exclusive” submissions. Exclusive submission means we cannot submit elsewhere, until we've heard back from them, either yea or nay. It has been my experience that publishers can take anywhere from three months to, well, forever to notify you. So, you can see how an exclusive submission can inhibit your progress. You can't send it to a second, until you hear back from the first ... and fewer and fewer are even notifying you at all, yes or no. Some even put a caveat in their "Writers Digest" listing, stating that if you haven’t heard from them within a specified length of time, to consider your manuscript rejected.

The final list we come up with is:

*Publishers who accept your genre.
*Publishers who accept what you write in that genre.
*Publishers accepting now.
*Publishers that accept multiple submissions.
*Publishers that don’t require an agent’s involvement.

Our job now is to study each publisher in the pared down final list and carefully follow their submission guidelines. We have to follow the instructions exactly. After all of our hard work and time spent, we don’t want our precious manuscript ending up in the wastebasket because we missed some critical command.

We make sure our manuscript is double-spaced, add the extra space between paragraphs, do the Title Page precisely how they want it, paginate, follow the rule of staples vs. paper clips, write a summary, include a short bio, our publishing credits, and the ever-important self-addressed stamped envelope (SASE) so they can notify us, and finally, we make sure to sign our brief cover letter and double-check that it's addressed to the editor that was specified in the publisher's listing. At last, our submission is perfect ... oh, and we're sure to only send a copy, not the original manuscript. With hope and pride, we take it to the post office and pray they don't lose it in the mail.

Now comes the hard part. ("How can it be harder than what we’ve already been through?" you ask). It is. With fingers crossed and our breath held, we wait ... and wait ... and wait. Six months later, the day arrives. In the mailbox, there's a letter from a publisher. HUH? What's this? A form letter?

Dear Writer:
Thank you for your manuscript submission to (publishing company). While we think your manuscript, __(your title handwritten in)__ was well-written; has merit; is interesting (one is checked or underlined), it does not fit our current list at this time.

We wish you luck submitting your work elsewhere.
Sincerely,
(name), (title)

Is it just me, or do all writers feel a lot more than rejected by a rejection letter? We put a hell of a lot of work, prep time, waiting time, not to mention, a lot of money into our submissions.

I realize publishers are busy, and yes, they get hundreds of submissions every month, but I would think if they gave us a “heads up” as to what they ARE looking for and put it in the last sentence of a rejection letter, it would save them time -- less rejection letters to send out -- and less money in postage. It stands to reason, there would also be less manila envelopes of submissions in the slush pile on the floor pushed up against a wall gathering dust and waiting to be waded through by an already overworked, underpaid staff.

What is it they ARE looking for? What MIGHT fit into their present needs? Maybe we already have something really good that's perfect for their next published book ... why is it that publishers don’t add one more itsy-bitsy sentence to the bottom of a rejection letter? They could so easily save us so much aggravation, by telling us what it is they ARE looking for that WOULD fit their current list.

I'm done ranting now. Thanks for reading ...

***Note: I am both published and self-published. Both were difficult. My four books are available through Amazon.com, my website, and in most bookstores. You may have to ask for them, but they can sure get them for you.

"Barking Spiders and Other Such Stuff, Poetry for Children", 2000
"Barking Spiders 2", the sequel, 2011
"Me Too! Preschool Poetry", 2011
A Collection of Short Stories: "Bits and Pieces from a Writer's Soul", 2011

Website: Barking Spiders Poetry

My website has poetry from each of the three children's books, two short stories from "Bits and Pieces", a bookstore, information for writers and authors, publishing tips, school visit information for schools and how to invite me, articles on children and childhood, life, family, a huge collection of tongue twisters, silly poems to finish for children, a guest children's poet - Rusty Daily, and his poetry, another guest writer - Bob Cosmar, and some of my favorite quotations about children and writing.

Please visit often, because I'm always adding new material.
Hugs to you,
CJ

Thoughts on Living

2011-10-26T14:00:00.000-04:00

When I Finally Close My Eyes
by CJ Heck

When I close my eyes
for the last time,
I want to have lived,
really lived.
I want to know
I've tasted life,
relishing the good
and spitting
the bad back out,
knowing at least
I tried it.
When I'm done here,
I won't have to wonder
if someone caught
the kiss I threw,
I'll know.

I'll smile more

and hug more

so I won't leave here
with my heart as empty
as my pockets
have always been.

My heart is open
as wide as Texas
and I'll live each day
as if it were the last.
I want to know,
without a doubt,
that I've left something
of me behind,
something good,
not regret
for never making a difference.
When I close my eyes
for the very last time,
I would like someone
to remember, I was here.

Role of a Poet

2011-10-25T06:05:00.000-04:00

“The role of a writer is not to say what we can all say,
but what we are unable to say.” ~Anais Nin

The Role of a Poet
CJ Heck

To say what others cannot is, truly, the mark of greatness. But have all the noble poems been written by classical masters and the gifted poets of today?

Are there meaningful works still left to pen, not merely big words from our swollen egos spilling their contents at the whim of a moment, nor with the simplistic meanderings of joy, or grief, or love?

To answer my own question, I say write on, dear poets! Allow not your words to decay unwritten in the brilliant minds of today, where they’ll lie barren and unread, only to wither and crack and parch as clay in the desert. I do believe there are jewels left to be written.

But if we must write, it should be for the future, for the common man who will gain most from these words he cannot write. We have an obligation to write in a way that he may glean what he can from writings of poetic merit, not stumble through obscure words which are, to him, as bird droppings on a splintered windowsill, left to die in obscurity gathering nothing but dust.

If we must write, let us write for those who are unable, so the future might find our words alive and fertile, their tilled soil begun as thoughts and feelings first seeded in keen minds, then sown into black and white, rich and green and lush, to live on in future hearts and minds even as we crumble, ashes to ashes, and blow away, dust to dust.

May we always write not to say what we can all say, but what we are unable to say -- not for the now, but for forever.

Happy Tuesday!

New Website ... again

2011-10-15T10:05:00.000-04:00

Hello Everyone --

It's time to unveil the new Barking Spiders Poetry Website ... again. Please take a few minutes and rediscover Barking Spiders Poetry. You will find that the original book, "Barking Spiders (and Other Such Stuff), now has a sequel! After eleven years, "Barking Spiders 2" is finally published and available on Amazon. There is also a new book for preschool children: "Me Too! Preschool Poetry", and my first collection of short stories (20 of them) is now a book, "Bits and Pieces from a Writer's Soul".

If you have any suggestions to make the Barking Spiders Poetry website more user or child-friendly, or if you would just like to see something added to make it more interesting or helpful for grownups -- or fun for children -- please email me with your ideas -- they are all welcomed! If it's "good to go", please tell teachers, librarians and schools about Barking Spiders Poetry, and tell all your friends, too.

Just one more thing, when you're looking for your child's next good books, or a book for a gift, there's even a bookstore on the new website with links to where you can buy them. Barking Spiders 2 is only available on Amazon.com at the moment. I had some problems with the publisher, but they are ironed out now, and my personal copies should be in my hands by October 24, should you want to buy through me for an autographed copy and bookmark.

So, head on over to the new Barking Spiders Poetry website, read some poems from the new books, and rediscover what it feels like to be a child again ...

Hugs to all,

CJ Heck

Barking Spiders Poetry Website:

http://www.barkingspiderspoetry.com

Shmily

2011-10-08T16:52:00.000-04:00

I came across this wonderful story years ago and, just this morning, I came across it again. For you ...

Shmily

My grandparents were married for over half a century, and they had their own special game they played, beginning on the day they first fell in love.

The object of their game was for each to write the word "shmily" in a surprise place for the other to find. They took turns leaving "shmily" all around the house and, as soon as one of them discovered it, it was then the other's turn to hide it once more.

They dragged "shmily" with their fingers through the sugar and flour containers to await whoever was preparing the next meal. they wrote it in the dew on the windows overlooking the patio, where grandma always fed us warm, homemade pudding. "Shmily" was written in the steam left on the mirror, after a hot shower, where it would reappear time and again after each bath. At one point, grandma even unrolled an entire roll of toilet paper to leave "shmily" on the very last sheet for grandpa to find.

There was no end to the places "shmily" would pop up. Little notes with "shmily" scribbled on them were found on the dashboard in the car, on car seats, or taped to the steering wheel. The notes were stuffed inside shoes, in bureau drawers, and left under pillows on the bed. "Shmily" was written in the dust on the mantel and traced in the ashes of the fireplace. This mysterious word was as much a part of my grandparents' house as was the furniture.

It took me a long time before I was able to fully appreciate my grandparents' game. Skepticism long kept me from believing in true love, one that is pure and enduring; however, I never doubted my grandparents' relationship. They had love down pat. But it was more than their flirtatious little game -- it was a way of life. Their relationship was based on devotion and passionate affection, which not everyone is lucky enough to experience.

Grandma and grandpa held hands every chance they got. They stole kisses as they bumped into each other in their tiny kitchen. They finished each other's sentences and shared the daily crossword puzzle. My grandma once whispered to me about how cute my grandpa was, how handsome he had grown to be. She claimed that she really knew "how to pick 'em." Before every meal, they bowed their heads and gave thanks, marveling at their blessings: a wonderful family, good fortune, and of course, each other.

But there was a dark cloud in my grandparents' life: my grandmother had breast cancer. The disease had first appeared ten years earlier. As always, grandpa was with her every step of the way. He comforted her in their yellow room, painted that way so she could always be surrounded by sunshine, even when she was too sick to go outside. Now the cancer was again attacking her body. With the help of a cane, and grandpa's steady hand, they went to church every morning.

Grandma grew steadily weaker, until finally, she could not leave the house anymore. For awhile, grandpa would go to church alone, praying to God to watch over his wife. Then one day, what we all dreaded finally happened. Grandma passed away.

"Shmily". It was scrawled in yellow on the pink ribbons of my grandma's funeral bouquet. As the crowd thinned and the last mourners turned to leave, my aunts, uncles, cousins and other family members came forward and gathered around my grandma one last time.

Grandpa stepped up to grandma's casket and, taking a shaky breath, he began to sing to her. Through his tears and grief the song came, a deep and throaty lullaby. Shaking with my own sorrow, I will never forget that moment. For I knew that, although I couldn't begin to fathom the depth of their love, I had been privileged to witness its unmatched beauty:

S-h-m-i-l-y: "See How Much I Love You."