*Honing One’s Craft

Hone (v). refine or perfect something over a period of time

My editor and writing consultant suggested that I start a blog to “hone my craft.” I figured she meant that I needed to sharpen my skills. You know learn creative ways to introduce content, like how to begin posts with definitions. Cause you know those definition introductions can be cute and engaging, but beginning a story this way could also be rather trite. I assumed this was the type of thing she wanted me to refine. Don’t judge. It’s the English teacher in me.

Similarly, a couple of writer friends suggested blogging as a way to sell my book. As it turns out, this is a lot more challenging than one can imagine. Especially because I’m not sure if I should do a hard sell, kwotedor an implicit sell. In a way, this too, includes honing one’s craft, as you have to cleverly use words to self-promote. And I’ve decided I don’t wanna necessarily be that blogger. Well, not all the time.

So I joined a couple of Blogging U classes.

Writing 201: Poetry helped me to hone my innovation. It lasted 14 days and I’d promised myself that I would participate each night and finish each challenge. Haikus, sonnets and acrostics got my left brain flowing. Do you know I even wrote a concrete poem shaped like a house that professed love for my toy poodle? Now, that’s some honing. These challenges helped though. I’ve even considered interspersing poetry throughout another book I’m writing. Equally important, Writing 201 introduced me to the blogging community at large and helped me to gain a bit of blogging confidence.

I figured that if I could do Writing 201, then surely Writing 101 would be just as breezy. I was wrong and I misread the directions. Instead of 14 days, this one lasted 21 days and occurred right at the end of my university’s semester. Still, I honed my niche: creative nonfiction. I practiced telling authentic stories without offending the other people who are involved. This is no easy feat. And I’m not entirely sure I’ve done well with this self-imposed task. But it’s something that I have to do well because I’ve only tipped the iceberg describing the people who have impacted my life, both negatively and positively. Again, all of this helped me wiggle a little farther into the blogging community.

Ultimately, I’m grateful that my editor suggested a blog to hone my craft. I’ve not only learned how to improve my writing, but I’ve also become a part of a group of supportive bloggers who seem to genuinely have one another’s best interests at heart.

*This was written as a part of the Creative Blogger nomination from Marquessa.

The Future: A Sonnet (ABBA ABBA CDC CDC)

What does the future hold somebody asked?
The question is common and queried much.
‘Tis joyful to predict the future’s touch
Perhaps, but no one knows forthcoming tasks.

It’s fun to guess prospective worlds unmasked,
Dreaming of experiences and such.
Imagining things not yet in our clutch.
I will share why this is useless at last.

One can only live in one time and space.
Our present day is all that we have now.
Future’s not here; the past can’t be replayed.

Tomorrow’s not promised, that’s what they say.
Promised tomorrow’s are not given thou.
So, be present for what happens today.

© 2015 kegarland

Ode to Dove


Oh Dove dark chocolate, I’m glad to have found thee.
Dr. Oz praises you; what more proof does one need?
You my dear Dove are made perfectly.

Each night after dinner, it’s never too late,
to settle down and engage in a girl’s ideal date.
To unwrap the red foil and read the message that awaits.

Dove, you’re so clever. You know just what to say
to make me feel special at the end of a day.
“To be fabulous and flawed,” you said that was okay.

I appreciate the words you’ve written just for me.
They go well with the silk chocolate making me healthy.
I lament you’re so small and our time seems fleeting.

Spending much more time is a dream I once cried.
But nothing last forever, that’s just a part of life.
That’s why I’ve decided to have at least five.

I shudder at the finality of this last bite,
carefully place the bag back in my drawer for the night.
And smile knowing our next meeting will make the day right.

© 2015 kegarland

Prose as Poetry

If I didn’t have hands, then what would I do? I’d have no way to profess my love for you, except between these lines of poetic prose, which I would have to speak. My words would become verbose showers, raining down and around your very being. Expressions of love would become lyrical lingos, all because I didn’t have hands. If I didn’t have hands, then what would I do? Oral language would be even more essential. No more love notes throughout the day. Instead, I would await your arrival each evening. And then, precisely at five twenty nine, I would provide an outpour of poetics proving my heart’s desires. You would have to listen intently to the sound of my voice because I wouldn’t have hands. But luckily I do have hands my love. Hands to devote each keystroke towards promoting our love’s devotion. Hands to caress your soul with written sentiments. Hands to press each letter forming just the right words. If I didn’t have hands, then what would I do? How would you know I cared?

© 2015 kegarland


No mist, or cloud could describe the mass.
A mother’s love lost, replaced by fog.

Its thick, white shroud covered my heart
Posing as protection, blocking my view.

Some days more dependable than loves shut out
The cloak became a comfortable part of me.

This fog and I were once the best of friends.
But I’d rather it had been my mother’s love.

© 2015 kegarland