The sun settles behind the mountains
as we wind around another bend
of the valley road.
The SUV's dash flashes in dim neon
as it illuminates
its controls.
Music is on high
as my two best friends are caught
amidst the throes of laughter
stemming from their cacophonous
attempt at singing
together.
We have been driving for almost fourteen hours
and are mere minutes from our destination:
Vail.
Our final home of a millennium
as the greased dial grinds to "20"
Where better to be when Y2K hails?
I am in the front passenger seat.
I am looking out its window into nothingness.
I am crying.
I like to let my poems speak for themselves, therefore I’m not particularly keen on prefacing them with any sort of context such as this. However, I feel it necessary to break that wall now so that I’m clear on one thing: I’m not depressed. If you’ve read within this space before, you’re aware that I enjoy writing about mental health–particularly my experiences with it. This is one such occasion. As always, thanks for reading:
A thought is lurking
Inside me
I'm aware of its
Existence
But I've chosen to
Ignore it
Not so much ignore
As push it
Beyond other thoughts
Repressing
Defending myself
From its pain
This is unhealthy
I know this
What else shall I do
To forestall?
Away, away please
Go away
Past the clouds into
Deepest blue
I'm certain we will
Meet again
Until then, away
Away you.
My life in vintage colorsMemories of simpler timesSilver robots; red wagonsSilly neighbors; street paradesA life of unhinged laughterAmens before the altarReal Santa’s; make-believe friendsRabbit-like cars; in-car phonesWithin the Heights of RichmondOn a Terrace named HighlandDreams wake; reality sleepsThe imagined; magic reigns.
Author Stephen King is known to read at baseball games.
One of the reasons I began this blog is because I have a passion for writing, grammar, linguistics, and the hope to improve your own writing–however little or much that encompasses your life. Whether we like it or not, and fairly or unfairly, people will judge us based on our grammar and spelling in something as simple as an email. So, books, blogs, and that company memo aside, it’s best that we’re wary of our writing even during the most mundane task. And there’s no better way to do that than empowering ourselves with the greatest tool of all: vocabulary.
Recently, I was reading linguist David Crystal’s book The English Language and came across a passage about William Shakespeare’s estimated vocabulary versus the average person’s, but now I can’t find it, and am essentially rereading the book in search of it (that’s what I get for not bookmarking it–lesson learned). Therefore, instead I found some useful sites opining on the very subject, including this one, which estimates Shakespeare knew approximately 66,534 words; and this one, citing that the typical person has a spoken vocabulary of about 5,000, a written vocabulary of roughly 10,000, and that the average fourteen-year-old’s vocabulary decreased from 25,000 in 1950 to a mere 10,000 in 1999. Now, Shakespeare is more than the sum of his words, and you may not aspire to be him, but this comparison should at the very least point to the correlation between a good vocabulary and good writing.
OK, great–so, how do you get there? Well, you can either open up a dictionary daily (not a bad thing, albeit mundane–unless you’re a grammar geek such as myself), or you can read. And, no, your social media site of choice doesn’t count. I’m talking about something substantial, exhibiting many (new) words, and the way they coalesce with one another. You know: books. We live in a world where information is at our fingertips; one where we likely don’t go into any decision blindly, so why should we go into our daily lives of text messages, emails, and social media posts with the shades drawn? The only way one can truly improve their vocabulary is to interact with different words regularly, and there’s no better way to do so than reading a good book.
I frequently hear people say, “I don’t like to read.” And a 2014 study by the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics shows they’re not lying, as the average American spends only nineteen minutes a day reading, with Americans ages twenty-five to thirty-four (eight minutes) and teenagers (four) reading even less. Compare that to the three hours per day that the average American watches TV, and it’s no surprise there’s so much bad writing and grammar out there. As someone who, too, likes his particular TV shows, my take from this is that we’d do well to watch TV a little less, and read a little more. Personally, I like to read at least three books a month, but merely reading one will offer improvement. And that one book per month (approximately ten pages per day) could be enough to set one apart–especially in a professional setting–by improving one’s ability at written communications.
Don’t know what book to start with? No problem; my book club has gone through plenty of good reads over the past year and I’m happy to suggest a few of my favorites:
All are fiction, and while I also read plenty of non-fiction, these were strictly the best written books I’ve read in the past twelve months. Not only are they all great stories, but the breadth of language used, and the artful way they’re each composed, makes them the great novels they are. What’s more, each compelled me to have my dictionary app available at all times, though if you’re struggling to get into reading I’d start with a notepad and a pencil (and look up the words when you’re finished) so you don’t interrupt your enjoyment, because books are meant to be enjoyed. And that’s the point: to actively enjoy doing something, while passively improving your vocabulary, and ultimately your writing.
Want to test your vocabulary? Check out this cool vocabulary test.
Questions? Contact me offline, or in the comments below.
In the middle of nowhere,
That was a somewhere
In a different when,
Sat the sullenly grey,
Wooden-shingled house.
It sat in the middle of a field,
That was formerly a farm
In that other when,
Where the skies were gray,
Which forebode a storm.
In the middle of the house,
There sheltered a family
Who weren’t always a family.
When The Gray came,
A family they became.
Atop the cellar stairs,
There remained two barriers,
While the rest were barren.
And as the storm began,
To the cellar the family retreated.
When blue skies departed,
The Gray was imparted
Upon this part of a different when.
She came with the storms,
Which came with The Gray.
And as this storm now came,
The family knew She was coming.
Down the stairs they descended,
As the doom She impended
Trended downward from the sky.
She was like the storm,
Until in the window She took form;
And a tangible blue She became.
As She peered through the damp glass,
The family huddled amidst the cool stone.
theisswriter: typing things. for me. for you. 