Nonsense! Or is it?

My four year old nephew is learning how much fun words can be. He likes to walk around rhyming and talking like Dr. Seuss and saying things like "chicken noodle head." And, while most of the adults (the real, true grownups) in his life are trying to get him to talk "sense," Aunt Maddie responds to his "nonsense" with things like "oogledy boogledy."

[Side note: this is a perfect example of why I'm a better aunt than a mother. Although, in my defense, I do take into consideration the noise level and the easy removal of batteries of the toys I buy for him and my niece. Of course, that doesn't mean I don't buy the siren screaming, whistling, yodeling, headache-inducing toy after all but at least I take it into consideration.]

Words are fun. I think adults who are not writers or avid readers forget that sometimes. I think we all forget that sometimes. We forget the joy of feeling a word flip flop around on our tongues or knock against our teeth or slither up our throats. Of course there's a time and a place for "nonsense" and "silliness." I just hope we can all find our way back there once in a while.  

Aunt Chicken Noodle Head signing off.

Playtime Isn't Over Yet

Last week's post about playing with your words got me thinking about how we often do that in private or in secret.  We rarely show anyone our rough drafts or unedited pieces because we're embarrassed at how "bad" they are.  But are they "bad" or are they really just open and revealing, messy and imperfect?

When we're kids, we're so proud of our crazy drawing of the purple cat with the orange beard!  And so what if the hand turkey we traced somehow looks like it has two thumbs?  It was fun.

Writing can still be like that.   Yes, we want to do our best to make the essay or novel, poem or story as perfect as possible.  After all, an agent or editor is not going to hang that rough draft up on the refrigerator the way Mom or Grandma might.   But confident polished pieces come from quiet play - roughhousing with words, building cities of scenes only to topple them, smashing plot cars into walls.

When I was a kid, I liked to play by myself.  I'd play with my dollhouse for hours.  When Mom would check on me, I'd stop playing and wait for her to leave before I continued.  It was my world, and I wanted to keep it that way.  But eventually, I looked around for someone to play with.  My sister was finally old enough to actually do something besides cry, so I shared my world of exciting ideas and story lines with her. (She might beg to differ on how "exciting" it all was.) 
 
It's the same with my writing now.  I play alone and I like it, but I also want to share.  When I'm ready.  And, hopefully, my work will be received just as well as all the crazy stuff I threw at my sister.  (She really was a good sport.  Just ask her about the magic shows...)