Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Trochaic

I love writing poetry, I really do. In some ways it's like a brainteaser; the words of the English language are like pieces of the puzzle, and if you select just the right ones, and put them in exactly the right place, they form something magical and inspiring.

The words roll off your tongue and between your lips with a rhythm that is as peaceful and lilting as the gurgle of a small brook in summer. The rhymes, if you've got them just right, are subtle enough that few consciously notice them; they're like the quiet twittering of birds and chirping of crickets at sunset under a full moon.

But eventually I had to come to terms with the fact that I've been writing too much poetry. The first hint that I'd had enough came yesterday when I wandered into my kitchen to fix my lunch. I started with two slices of bread and a layer of peanut butter.

Then, though I had several varieties of jellies and jams in my refrigerator, I - without pausing for thought - began sprinkling salt and pepper on my sandwich. This strange act was not the result of a subconscious desire for a spicier sandwich. Oh, no indeed.

It's just that blueberry, strawberry, and raspberry are all dactyls, but a peanut-butter-salt-and-pepper-sandwich is the ultimate in trochaic dining.

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