I wrote about being outside, playing in the fields that were behind our then apartment. I remember writing about looking up at the sky, examining a leaf, and my dad shouting down to me that the Tigers had just won the World Series (actually, they’d won it about two years earlier). I remember writing that I was unimpressed, as I actually didn’t like baseball too much. From there, I’m pretty sure I added a crazy story about being lost in the fields and coming across a group of gnomes or something like that. There wasn’t much of a plot or good characterization to the story—being eight, I think I was just spilling words onto a page—but I remember having fun as I put it together. I handed it in, delighted with my efforts and somewhat proud of what I had produced.

What did my third-grade teacher write back on my paper?

“This is too fiction.”

Even then, I knew she was batshit insane. How can fiction be too fictitious!? Suffice it to say, I never looked toward her again as an arbiter of good storytelling.

But I got the writing bug, and I’d jot down small stories, only a few lines here and there, when I wasn’t busy at school, reading at home, or playing NES. I truly enjoyed it, but I think the teacher’s admonition stayed with me—I didn’t share my writings. The only time I did was when my family moved to Mexico, and I wrote about being sad at the idea of leaving my best friend at the time. I showed it to my mom and dad, who seemed genuinely impressed by my literary skills, but didn’t take the not-so-veiled hint that I didn’t want to move to Mexico.

By the time I landed back in Saline schools in eighth grade, I was still writing. This time, I was missing Mexico and wrote my heart out about it—mostly in the form of sappy poems and short stories about my friends there. In my English class, I had a student teacher from the University of Michigan take a shine to my writings—he’d read them aloud in class, prefacing it that I wished to remain anonymous. I remember one time he brought in an English-major friend of his—when she asked who in the class loved to write, my student teacher gestured in my direction, giving me an encouraging smile that faded when I didn’t budge to raise my hand. I hated school, I hated Saline, and I was not going to tell my classmates that I was the one who’d written the poems and stories. I was afraid that, once they found out I had written them, praise would turn into ridicule and I’d be more alienated than I already felt. Thanks, Mr. Nice Student Teacher, I know you were only trying to encourage my interests, but not in that environment. No way, no how.

The pattern continued. In my senior year, my English teacher loved my writing and would ask to, again, read aloud what I had written. I still wished to remain anonymous, which frustrated the hell out of her, but she had to respect my wishes. I remember a couple of times my classmates pointing gleefully to a guy who was known as a writer, telling him he’d written a good story and slapping his back. But he’d just shake his head with a look that said, “That’s not me, but I wish it were.” I’d just sit there and watch, not really caring that he got the accolades; the person who was giving out the grades knew it was me, and that’s all that really mattered at that point.

My teacher pulled her trump card, though, by awarding me the English award that year—I had to be at the ceremony as I was on the highest honor roll list and was receiving a scholarship from a local source. In her intro to the award, my teacher lavished praise, complimented my writing, encouraged me to keep writing, and knew that I would find publishing success. The entire intro, I was idly wondering who it was, not truly paying attention. Then my name was spoken. I remember being stunned as my parents turned to me, bursting with pride. I stumbled up to the stage, burning with something halfway between pride and shame—as nice as it was, I didn’t want this. I never wanted to be exposed to my classmates. The times I had been, even accidentally, were always followed by ridicule in some way or another. Luckily it was the end of the year—I didn’t have to suffer too much.

In college, I continued to write, and I continued to not share for a while. I forced myself to, though, by taking creative writing classes and trying to push past my comfort zone. In my freshman year, I tried to publish one of my novels. I submitted poems and short stories, always under a pseudonym, to magazines and other formats. I even started a website where I posted my own stuff and accepted submissions (and people actually took my submission guidelines seriously!). I was having fun with the written letter, and I was having fun interacting with people who didn’t care who I was—I apparently wrote well, and that was that.

Then, along with grad school, the real world hit. There wasn’t time for creative writing anymore. And it’s been like that for a long while. In the meantime, I’ve felt a growing hesitancy about my creative writing, and sometimes I still feel like that eight-year-old girl whose writing was first sniffed at by a Saline teacher—but this time the girl didn’t continue writing, at least not creatively.

Well, I'm halfway there ...

The blog and my extensive reading have been a way for me to remain in the world of writing and books—I say that the blog writing keeps me on my toes, and I say that the reading I do is to explore the ways in which I would like to write. Both things are true. I’ve also had some writing recently published under my real name—it’s not fiction, but having the courage to send something out into the wider world was a big step for me. I also write for a living (well, mostly). But I’m missing the last piece of the puzzle—actually sitting down to write, be it a short story or a novel.

So I’m making myself do it. How? By taking a fiction writing class that was a Christmas gift from IP. And it starts this week.

Um. Gulp.

It’s time to jump, and it’s time to stop being afraid of what happens when I put pen to paper. It’s going to be rough for a bit—after all, I’m rusty, and the words may come out stilted and awkward at first. But maybe, just maybe, after some work and feedback, I’ll begin to feel more confident in my abilities. And then maybe, just maybe, I’ll put together something that I’m proud of and want to show to the rest of world—or make the noble effort to show it to the rest of the world, since getting published is no easy task.

Whatever the case, getting myself to write is the first step. And I’m taking it.

Wish me luck.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Yay! And the crowd goes wild!

For a blog that’s a little over six years old, I kind of feel like 1,000 posts is a little on the low end, but what the hell. I don’t always feel like writing, but the blog has been a good friend to me ever since I decided to publicly chronicle my life without trying hard to get publicity; I tend not to comment on other blogs a lot (with the exception of a few favorites now and then), so I don’t get a lot of traffic my way. I do notice, however, via my stats, the stalwarts who click through to every new post, so I wanted to say that I really do appreciate your presence even if you’re quiet, just like me (companionable silence is cool).

So what are the highlights from Sonnet87? Just a few numbers for you:

• 18,473: The number of views the blog has had since I started using WordPress.com Stats.
• 11,597: The number of spam comments that Akismet has caught.
• 2,312: Days between my first post and this current post.
• 1,509: The number of comments at Sonnet87.
• 1,000: The number of posts Sonnet87 currently houses (publicly; there are a few posts in draft form and a few that are private that only I can see).
• 697: The number of hits the most popular entry, L.A. Fitness: Destroying Communities One Gym at a Time, has.
• 382: The number of hits I received on my blog’s busiest day—Friday, September 18, 2008, when I blogged the post The Atheist Bride and Her Mother: Joy Unparalleled. It was linked to by FriendlyAtheist.com, which prompted some visits and also some discussions about our situation at FriendlyAtheist.com. Rest assured, Friendly Atheist: we had our god-free ceremony!
• 368: The number of posts my most-used category, Lacking a Muse—Generalities, has.
• 314: The number of times people have searched the most popular term, “sonnet 87.”
• 166: The number of books currently listed throughout all five years of the book list.
• 28: The number of categories I employ to classify my posts.

The blog continues, slogging on through the Michigan years, now the D.C. years; the long distance relationship years, now the marriage years; the running years, now the weight lifting/running years. Who knows what this blog will see next? We’ll see what the future holds.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

I think kids today just don’t know how to analyze. They look for the quick meaning, the quick fix. There’s no in-depth analysis, there’s no commitment or attempt to understand. Where’s the poetry? Where’s the analysis?

I’m sorry. Cranky. But seriously, I am appalled.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Exercising Smarter: At the tail end of 2009, I started the New Rules of Lifting for Women (or NRoL4W as it’s affectionately known). I’d seen it recommended by various people in various places, but the place where it stuck was The Nest: Brie at The Fit Bride blog is very body positive and healthy in her fitness discussions. So I picked up the book, read through it, found it made more than enough sense, and started at it. So far I love the workouts (even the goddamn, blasted, cursed body weight matrix which I have to do tonight) and have seen some muscle gain. I’m doing less well on the nutrition aspect, though; Christmas, plus a trip to Michigan, plus a husband who loves to cook, plus a wife who’s learning all her mother’s recipes, and I find myself needing to revamp how I eat throughout the day. I use the Lose It app on the iPhone to keep track of my meals, though, so hopefully I’ll see some fat loss and more muscle gain. I’ve been lifting for years now, but I’d never done compound moves—my upper body’s already built, and I do have some nice ab definition, but I never thought I was strong enough to do a push-up until this program made me do 10 in a row. And my legs? Much stronger already. In addition to NRoL4W, I’m still running longer runs on the side; I’m registered for Cherry Blossom 10 Miler this year, and while I toyed with the idea of giving up my registration, I’ve decided to do it. I really am still at the point where running 10 miles isn’t a big deal for me. I’m slower than I once was (and faster than I’ll be, that’s not unusual*), but I can still do it. Also in the cards are the St. Patrick’s Day 8K and the RunAmuck 10K runs—I’ll be running both with my Jingle All the Way 10K buddy, so that should be fun.

Writing: I feel as if I’ve been writing more on the blog, and I have started the short story that’s been fermenting in my head since January 2009. I would say I’m about halfway through, and need to get on the ball again with the story: it’s terrible and no good, but I have enjoyed writing it and I would really like to finish it, edit it, have IP look at it, edit it again, then maybe have a friend do another reading, edit it again, and then maybe submit it. I also have an idea for a novel, and I’ve purchased some books for background research. So far it hasn’t been bad as I’ve done more now than I did in 2008 and 2009 combined, but I need to do more. I will do more, dammit. I’ve also started to write really bad, really cringe-worthy sonnets for this website, just for fun. One about Ann Arbor and the University of Michigan will be debuting soon.

Reading: I was complaining the other day to IP that I’ve only read eight books this year. He shrugged at me and said, “So? I’ve only read five.” I then looked back into Sonnet 87′s archives to see how much further along I was at this time of year in the past and, to my surprise: I’m ahead by three to five books depending on the year. I’m about to finish my ninth book of the year which, when compared to other people isn’t stellar, but it’s been a pretty good year so far. I have at least four books on my Waiting To Be Read (Already Purchased, Got as Gifts, Borrowed from My Husband or Otherwise Accessible without the Use of Funds, But Not an Assurance That I Will Read These Before I Buy More Books) list; there are already books in my Amazon cart that I desperately want to buy (although I am terribly frustrated that Wolf Among Wolves, Hans Fallada’s newest translation, has been pushed back to May 25 instead of the March release that was on Melville House Publishing’s website). The best part is that I’ve yet to read a real stinker. That will probably change, and if it didn’t it would make for a very boring 2010 Book List Awards, but hell—reading is a fun and beautiful thing.

And finally, Searching for a New Job: I am searching for a new job. However, as I mentioned a few posts ago, I dropped that whole D.C. thing and decided to focus on my efforts on getting out West. IP has also started doing the same, and the idea of moving has become less than an if and more of a when. It may not happen this year, but we are putting in the time and effort to find jobs. I’ve only been able to apply to one job that matched my skills and their needs, but I keep on looking. I’ve set up my Google Reader to filter jobs ads from SimplyHired.com to me every day; I feel more on top of this than I ever did with my D.C. search. In this, I really feel the dedicated fire you need to make things happen. I’ve felt this about three things before, and here they are in chronological order: 1) losing 65lbs in college; b) making my long-distance relationship with IP work and III) getting myself out to D.C. to be with IP. With lots of work, lots of luck, and lots of hope, we can do it.

So that’s my progress in a nutshell. Here’s hoping the next couple of months see more improvement in all areas.

*$10 if you can tell me which song I paraphrased and the original line. WordNerdia-IPia family members not eligible for said $10.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Since it looks like hibernation is the order of the day, how about some random observations to tide us over, hmm?

• Soon you’ll be seeing the debut of a new feature on Sonnet 87: actual sonnets. I get all kinds of crazy sonnet searches ranging from zombie sonnets to Ann Arbor sonnets to sonnets 2010, so I figured why not? Using the searches as inspiration and varying between Spenserian, Shakespearean and Petrarchan, I will slowly but surely write the sonnets. However, since they will be creative works, I’ll be placing the blog under a Creative Commons license. Which one, I don’t know yet. Will my sonnets be good enough to steal? No, most likely not. Will they be funny? Hopefully so, and not in a painful way. Are they copyright worthy? Yeah, since it’s my work. I can’t help it if some kid wants searches for my non-existent analysis of Shakespeare’s Sonnet 87 for his or her college paper, but I wouldn’t want something into which I put some minimal creative effort used for someone else’s profit. Like I said, I doubt they’ll be good enough to steal, but I do want to cover my ass.
• Three nights ago, I had a dream that I was a groupie for Rob Thomas. Yep, you read that right, I was a groupie for the lead singer of matchbox twenty. While I do find him attractive, it’s less in a hubba-hubba kind of a way and more in a “Can my husband and I have coffee with you and your wife sometime? You two seem cool,” way. Although I don’t know if IP would go for that: he thinks Thomas is a whiny singer with random lyrics. I personally think Rob Thomas is an excellent lyricist and just gets better as time goes on. I’m starting to think of him as Paul Simon-y: willing to experiment different genres, maturing with his writing, and doing what he can to push himself creatively while a lot of other people are stuck in the pop rock world. And here I must add that I’ve been listening to Cradlesong non-stop during my commutes and workouts lately.
• For the second weekend in a row, a snowstorm has ruined our dresser-shopping expedition. Cue sad WordNerd. Because I’ll be traveling to visit Michigan next weekend (assuming Tuesday and Wednesday aren’t snowy clusterfucks themselves that ruin flight plans), IP and I won’t be able to go then, either. In the meantime, the old dresser has stopped shaving off pieces of my left middle finger, so at least there’s a ray of sunshine in this woeful tale of unattained bedroom furniture.
• I don’t care if President Obama used “Snowmaggedon” for this particular storm, or that many other people are, too—in the WordNerdia-IPia household, it’s Snowpocalypse 2010 or snOMG II. Iwisse. (Pssst. Iwisse means “truly” or “indeed” for all of you not in the Middle English know. Yes, it’s obsolete.) But the whole Snovechkin thing in reference to the Caps’ Alex Ovechkin? I love hockey, and I can see kind of what fans are going for, but: a clunker of a name, honestly.
• Apparently all liquor stores in MoCo are closed today. IP is doubly happy that he stopped off to get some Jack Daniels after an appointment because he finds the closed condition of the liquor stores to be “just cruel”.
• Is there anything cozier than baking some cookies, writing a post, and exchanging snarky comments with the husband? Methinks not.

That’s all your WordNerd has for now!

P.S.: This is Sonnet 87′s 900th post. Huzzah!

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

I am also trying to find books on the topic that I’m researching for the nascent novel idea floating around in my head. I plan to buy them used because I don’t expect to be blown away by them (because, as prevalent and interesting as this topic seems to be, no one seems to have written anything hugely notable on it). Perhaps I’m wrong—perhaps I’m going to find a stunning, unrecognized diamond-in-the-rough that makes me doubt my writing abilities. But I’ll still write it. I promise you. Most importantly, I promise myself.

I’ve finished my first book of 2010, too: I recently joined a book club and the first selection was something I got through in the course of two days. I won’t review it right away because I don’t want to give away anything that could identify me, but I was rather disappointed with the selection and fervently hope I can somehow influence future selections. The book was a fairly easy read—the author can write, no doubt, and there were times I found myself charmed, but for the most part I felt the method used to convey the story was weak and a bit lazy. I don’t feel an inclination to savage it, but I can’t ignore the real weaknesses. I hope that this group I’m joining can accept criticism as opposed to taking an Oprah approach to it (i.e., this book has no flaws unless you’re Jonathan Franzen or James Frey and you piss off Oprah Winfrey).

I love letting my inner critic loose and pointing out the strengths and flaws in any book, but I must admit I feel some trepidation about coming on too strongly for this group. I don’t want to be perceived as Queen English Major Bitch at my first meeting, you know? There are many things I could say about this book that were done right, but there are many more things that were done wrong. I’m trying to think of a way to point them out without insulting the person who chose the book or having the rest of the membership think I’m a literary snob. I don’t consider myself a literary snob by any means (I’ll truly give any book a try unless I’ve read the author before and I was horrified), but I know I come across as one in real life and on this blog. I love discussing books (IP will attest to that), and I love, love finding contradictions, underlying themes, connections to other works, hints at history, etc. I am mad for words and love that people can do so many things with them. But there are times when I am stunned into disbelief by how a particular combination of words can develop into a story that utterly dismays (or even disgusts) me.

I’m working with some bad preconceived notions, here: I’ve never been a part of a book club, but the tales I’ve heard make me think that book clubs tend not to argue or discuss books like you would in, say, a University of Michigan English classroom. I picture them as more lovey-dovey and focusing more on the strengths and making light of the weaknesses.  I also see them as bringing the author too much into the story, and y’all know how I feel about the intentional fallacy. And I admit I could be completely wrong: when we meet, the club might array itself into different factions that argue for or against the book’s merits. I could be entering a lively and fierce society that cackles at the thought of ripping apart even a good book in order to get down to its roots. I fervently hope that this is the case.

That said, I welcome the opportunity to read at least 12 books this year, and to expand my knowledge as a reader and writer by doing so. I firmly believe that reading informs your writing, be it to steer you in the right direction or make you aware of your own flaws when writing. I hope that I’m also stumbling across a diverse group of women who look at words as something to deconstruct and examine instead of fully trusting that they’re just conveying one meaning (and accept that meaning as truth). I hope that they can help me see words in a new light, and that I can contribute a bit to their own development as readers (and maybe even writers?).

All in all, I’m excited, even if I fear coming off like a literary snob and/or buffoon.

*John Lyly, a writer who I studied in Toronto and just never seems to get enough credit.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

We settled on the National Gallery of Art because a) it seems like it’s been closed since the last millennium and 2) there was an exhibit there I wanted to see. As with all museum visits (save Air and Space; if I never see Air and Space again it’ll be too soon), I was struck by the overwhelming beauty of the art. Not all of it, mind you (there is much that passes over my simple mind), but the West Building of the National Gallery of Art just seemed to wrap itself around me. There was such sheer beauty on the walls and on the pedestals that I know another trip is in order. Perhaps next we’ll sacrifice one of my new brothers-in-law at the altar of D.C. museums.

The one thing about visiting an art museum is how it fosters the desire to do something creative in me. I’ve long said I wanted to start writing the great Mexican-American novel, but I’m joking about 55% of the time. However, catch me after a visit to an art gallery and that desire increases substantially.  I can’t draw to save my life, but I’m fairly decent at telling a story; if I put thought and care into it, I am good with words. This blog notwithstanding (which is really just a stream of consciousness/complaint forum), believe me when I say I love to write and have been complimented on it in the past.  And I don’t know what holds me back from writing, honestly: I have an idea and I think I can make it work, but either a fear of failure or inertia keeps me from starting. I sometimes fear I suffer from a deep, disruptive case of ennui—very little these days grabs and holds my attention, and I am bored and intellectually stunted because of it. Do I need structure (such as in college and grad school) to retain interest? I’ve always said I wanted to be a lifelong learner but I am not holding true to that statement. Be it politics, current events, work, and sometimes even literature—I cannot get on the ball.

I know that sitting around bitching and moaning about not being able to write has been a recurring theme on this blog. IP has given me wonderful suggestions on how to break my block, be it in terms of writing, intellectual curiosity and work. I know I have the time to do a little bit of each every day: write some fiction or its beginnings, do some academic reading, apply to new jobs—sometimes, though, it all seems to require so much effort. I am infuriated and embarrassed to be admitting this, but it’s the truth. I’m so bored of being bored, but for some reason I’m afraid to not be bored. Gah.

I don’t want to waste more time, though. I know I need to get on the aforementioned ball. I would like to live my life knowing I tried to create something beautiful. It’s not about fame or trying to reach a huge audience. It’s about being happy with what I’ve done, knowing I let my creativity loose. Why I hold it in when I know it’s there seems like a crime against me.

I leave you with Jonathan Coulton’s “A Talk With George,” which has been popping up when I shuffle my music. I like to think the ghost of George Plimpton and my iPhone are trying to tell me something.

I need to start listening.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

I love you because you sell books, but this does not mean you need to update me when Oprah picks a new book for her club. I consider my literary exploration to be a precious one, and I refuse to base it on an entertainment figure. While our choices do coincide at times, I consider my literary curiosity strong, and I do not rely on the media to guide my reading. I’ll pick up what seems interesting, not what Oprah says is interesting. Thanks!

Love,

WordNerd WordNedia IPia

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

The part of Pet Sematary that still scares me deeply was the section in which Gage Creed dies (yes, spoilers). If I remember correctly, it happens after a section in which it seems everything will be well—sure, Church the cat  is creepy (snark alert: what cat isn’t?) and Louis Creed is having weird thoughts, but the family seems happy. Then we’re plunged into a chapter in which Gage is growing up after nearly being hit by a semi-truck; becomes a champion swimmer, is in even in the Olympics, and will still accomplish much more in his young life. And then you’re smacked with the reality—Louis wasn’t able to snatch Gage’s jacket in time and the semi-truck did hit him. What Louis was able to pick up, I remember vividly, was a baby cap full of blood. I remember putting the book down then, unable to continue, horrified. Partly it was because that King had so excellently characterized Gage, insomuch as one can characterize a babbling toddler; I could see him, I could hear him, and he was damn cute and full of life and I could picture him growing up to become an Olympic medalist. And then he was gone, his fate to be the vehicle for the evil of the Micmac burial ground about to happen.

The horror in Pet Sematary for me isn’t what’s past the deadfall, or what comes back from past the deadfall; it’s in the idea of death and, specifically, the death of a child. I’ve mentioned numerous times in this blog that IP and I are undecided about children, but I’ve never gone into why I’m undecided. Part of it is selfishness—do I have the energy to devote to a kid? Part of it is worry and insecurity—can I trust this world at all, what will society do to our kid, and how can we be good parents without over- or under-doing it? And finally, for me, part of it is real fear—what if I lose that child somehow? How would I ever cope with the ensuing grief? How would IP and I manage? And that’s why I don’t think I could ever read Pet Sematary in its entirety again—I don’t want to think about that right now, especially when IP and I will probably be making our decision sooner rather than later. I don’t want to spend a few more nights dreaming about toddlers and highways, blood-spattered clothing or tiny coffins.

I looked at the book again, now in the house, studying the cover, something I don’t remember doing before. I felt my stomach turn a bit when, past Church, I saw that you could make out Louis carrying Gage, the tiny feet limp, the head lolling back. I put the book down again, a little unnerved, trying not to imagine myself having to carry a dead child. I know that King is a master at pointing out the horror in the everyday, but this one was just a little too everyday for me. I know it happens all around the world to people (do we not see too many sad pictures like this from Iraq?), and I’ll confess that it’s one of my greatest fears that it’ll decide to settle on us the moment IP and I decide to have a kid.

I then inexplicably found myself flipping the book open, and I landed on Gage’s funeral. The grief was so visceral, so shaking, the I actually found myself tearing up at that point. Yes, laugh, Stephen King made me cry, haha—but I’ll admit it without shame. Since it’s a very real fear I have (and that I’d say most parents have), and since we’ve been discussing kids more and more, I felt affected. I felt sad.

And then the real kicker: after Gage is resurrected into a little hell beast that murders his neighbor and his mom (yeah, spoilers again, bite me), Louis is able to kill the monster inside his son’s body with a shot of morphine. Before he collapses, the book says that the real Gage emerges, his face unhappy and filled with pain, crying out “Daddy!” before falling face forward. The thought of putting my kid through pain and unhappiness, just to hold on a little longer, would be a temptation I could succumb to even if it’s unfair to a child and selfish of me. And no, I’m not talking about evil cemeteries; I’m talking about painful treatments, life-prolonging methods that are joyless, lifeless. But how unfair would it seem to have to let go so soon? And by soon I mean at any point in the child’s life (the rule should be that I go first). Oh, that got me. That totally got me.  A child would look to me for comfort and safety and mercy; ruled by own selfish desires, I would hope I could master myself enough to give what was needed.

Yes, I am totally over-analyzing Pet Sematary. But I’ll be damned if it doesn’t bring up one of my biggest fears in life. Of course it won’t be the deciding factor in whether or not IP and I will have kids—that would be a bit much—but it’s probably a book I would drop kick out of the house as soon as I got pregnant.  The novel would be something I’d be better off not thinking about at all once I’m at that point.

Damn you, Stephen King. Damn you.

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

• cute sonnet
• Sonnet about marines
• school kid sonnet
• grandmother sonnet
• sonnet champions
• sonnet to money
• I need a sonnet about running
• sonnets on dreams of becoming a photographer
• published sonnets about family
• sonnet about Mexicans
• sonnet about my father (twice!)
• hockey sonnet (thrice!)
• sonnet little brother
• sonnet shoes
• sonnet about annoying people
• cute sonnets
• bullying focused sonnets
• sonnet about lunch
• sonnets about dr pepper
• happy sonnet

You’d think with a title like mine I’d get a lot of these. I actually don’t—what I usually get are people from high schools, community colleges and universities trying to find an easy way to write a paper about Shakespeare’s Sonnet 87.  Slackers.

I almost feel like writing sonnets for all of the above. Perhaps I’ll give that to myself as a writing exercise! Bad poetry in 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . .

©2012 Sonnet 87. All Rights Reserved. Originally published by WordNerd for Sonnet87.com. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.