Sunsets and Heirloom Tomatoes
It has been a month of beginnings, walks, boat rides, long afternoons spent editing stories, writing poems, and reading new writers. Ah, summer. With an expanse of time, it is possible to make pesto, pick heirloom tomatoes, and still watch the rain drench the garden and slick the road. This afternoon I walked to the farmer’s market in the rain, listened to clarinet and accordion players under a white tent while I browsed tables laden with zucchini, curly kale, fennel, and blueberries.
Editing fiction is new for me though I try to use my poet’s ear to hear the sound of the words. I think of the wisdom of Stephen Dobyns: Best Words, Best Order.
I ask myself: what do my characters want? How will my words advance the story? What can I do to break stance in order and style? It is daunting to tell a story in a new way. Although the ideas for stories flow easily, the mechanics are still less familiar to me. Poetry was my first writing language.
A writing friend is battling cancer, and she recently wrote of savoring every moment. A story is a moment and each of us lives stories. Poetry speaks of possibility. Imagination can dignify the ordinary. In the end, all any of us have are moments that strung together make days, weeks, months, and years. In writing, we lengthen our memory by offering these observations to the world; the taste of that first ripe tomato of summer, the electric smell of the air in August, and the sweet chatter of friends on a summer evening sitting on the porch, listening to the cicadas and tree frogs while waiting for the first stars. May all who are fighting a challenging diagnosis find strength and beauty in our “mutilated world” as Adam Zagajewski so aptly called it–“…the gentle light that strays and vanishes/and returns.”
Literary Imaginings by Lisa C. Taylor 