Check Your Rhythm

Sometimes you read a story and know something is “off,” but you can’t put your pencil on it. Chances are, the story’s rhythm or “music” is the problem. Most people are aware that rhythm is an inherent facet of poetry, especially classic, rhyming poetry. But if you went to the mall and asked random people if they thought stories have rhythm, the typical person would give you that lopsided, raised-eyebrow look that implies she thinks you’re nuts. 

“What do you mean, rhythm in a story? Like in a song? Foot-tapping rhythm with a beat?”

 “Any kind.” You shrug.

“Well . . . no. There’s poems and songs. That stuff has rhythm. Stories, not so much. No. Stories don’t have rhythm. They’re just plain old talking like people talk."

The fact is, plain old talking does have rhythm, at least when thoughts flow freely. Even the occasional “uhm” or stumble is rhythmic. For example, read aloud the following two sentence excerpt from a YouTube interview between Kathleen Pooler and Susan Weidner. As you read, tap your fingers rhythmically, like a ticking clock or a metronome.

Kathleen: How was writing this story, uh, how did it differ from writing your memoirs?

Susan: Well, it was quite different because I was allowed to use my imagination.

Read these lines aloud again and tap your fingers rhythmically, like a ticking clock or a metronome as you read. Broken into even beats, Kathleen’s sentence sounds like this:

|How was |writing this |story, |uh, |how did it |differ from |writing your |memoirs? 

Susan’s words have a similar flow:

|Well, |it was quite |different be|cause I was |allowed to |use my |imagi|nation. 

Not only are these sentences rhythmic, but they’re streamlined, with no extra words. Contrast this with a sentence from an early draft of written story.

Nobody could refute the certainty of the arrival of furious storms every winter that lashed at houses built out of solid rock that was hewn out of the very bedrock we all lived on . . . 

My head spins and my tongue tangles when I try to read that sentence aloud. I’m reminded of riding on an unpaved mountain road. If this sentence occurred on the first page, I would set this story aside immediately. My sense of things is that if this sentence were actually spoken, it would sound more like this:

Nobody could refute the certain arrival of furious storms every winter. They lashed out at our solid stone houses built from the bedrock we lived on. 

 That revision still isn’t going to gain fame. I’d consider the underlying thought and smooth it even more:

Everyone knew we had killer storms every winter that seemed like they’d wash our solid stone houses off the bedrock we lived on. 

Even that sentence may need more work within the context of the larger story.

Tips for giving your stories rhythm 

• Trim extra words. 


• Clear out the dead would. 


• Question every use of “that.”


•  Eliminate the word “very” and related intensifiers in favor of precise language.


• Use scrap paper and a pen to write the simplest possible version of what you are trying to say in a complicated sentence or passage. Use that to simplify your draft.


• Read sentence and stories aloud! Notice where your tongue stumbles and follow its lead as you edit.


• Read them aloud to a group. You’ll notice where your tongue stumbles, but you may not notice that what your spoken words don’t match what’s on the page. Again, follow the lead of your spoken words. That’s what you really mean, and what sounds best.

Write now: read through the draft of a new story or an older one you haven't seen for awhile and find sentences with awkward rhythm. Use the tips above to smooth them out.

The Power of Song

Today I rode along with my husband to a distant dental office so we could continue on to do some shopping in that part of town after his appointment. Although I had not paid the least bit of attention to the background music, “The One that You Love” by Air Supply suddenly punched its way into my awareness as I sat reading in the waiting room.

For a few bars I sat stock still, listening with every fiber of my being, memory fragments flashing to the fore. I recalled a certain red suit I haven’t thought of for years and the open-toe slides I wore with it. I was transported back to our newly finished family room in Richland, a room I have not entered for twenty-six years. Rather strangely, no specific events or activities came to mind, but a flood of feelings hit me.

Following a hunch, I pawed through my purse and found a small sheet of paper and pen. I pegged the song as a 1982 hit (when I got home, I discovered it was actually 1981). I allowed the music to transport me back to that room on a bright May day, wearing that favorite suit and shoes. After soaking in the sound for a minute, I began jotting down the feelings and attitudes that came to mind.

Rather surprisingly, the first word that popped out of my pen was “foxy.” I don’t recall ever feeling foxy back then, but maybe it was just convenient to ignore that feeling. Mostly I felt wide open to ideas and opportunity, eager to learn and grow, and generally satisfied with the way life was unfolding and the progress my children were making.

But it wasn’t all sunshine and light. I also recalled feeling more than a little like I was acting from a script more than from self. I wasn’t exactly sure who self was yet, but hoped I was learning. I wasn’t sure I knew enough. And so on.

Of course as I brought these feelings to awareness and savored their nuances, certain events and experiences did speed across my mind.  I could have jotted those down, but should I decide to write in more depth later, I’ll remember them easily enough. The greater challenge would be to capture my mindset of that era, to get back into the character of me in that moment.

Fortunately my young teenage sons were seriously into Abba, Air Supply and Blondie, and I enjoyed them equally as much, so that music works like a charm, opening wide a portal to the past to revitalize the truth of those times and allow me to write of it with passion and depth.

Write now: pull out a favorite tune from forty or fifty years ago, or your teenage years (YouTube is full of music videos from bygone eras). Listen to it with pen and paper in hand. Play the song through one time while you relax with your eyes shut and allow the music to wash over you and send you back to that period in your life. Then play it again and note the feelings and memories that bubble to the surface. Use these notes to enrich a story about some event that comes to mind.

Happy St. Patrick's Day

I’m proud to have Irish ancestry on my mother’s side of the family. One branch left as recently as the Potato Famine, the other left earlier. I know quite a lot about the more recent immigrants. They were coal miners, arriving first in Braidwood, Illinois then moving down to New Mexico where the family dug in.

Maybe it’s that Irish blood in my veins, or maybe not, but Celtic music is among my favorite, and I feel most at home on earth in summer, surrounded by green. Perhaps those roots explain the dreamer part of me.

Three years ago my husband and I spent ten glorious days rambling wild Irish roads in the southwest corner of the Emerald Isle. For reasons of economy we reserved a subcompact car, with a trunk so small that it wouldn’t hold both suitcases and carry-on luggage, and the choice was serendipitous. Many of those roads are paved over cart paths, with lanes only inches wider than that mini-car and stone walls tight beside. Hubby is a veteran left side driver, but our nerves were taut as the natives careened along at twice our pace.

I was able to verify that Ireland really is as green as the pictures, and unexpectedly sprinkled with jewels. Especially in older parts of towns, houses are vividly painted in all colors of the rainbow, perhaps to offset the frequent grayness of the sky that provides the mists and rains to keep the isle emerald. I couldn’t tangibly verify the spirits that lent mystique to the misty Cliffs of Moher, but I felt their presence before hearing the legends.

It was a long way, but we did get to Tipperary, and we kissed the Blarney stone to boot. We stayed in the countryside rather than exploring cities. We saw sheep, sheep and more sheep, and almost as many ancient ruins of castles, churches and cottages. Some were old when Columbus sailed. We got tipsy on mead and ate with knives and fingers at a medieval banquet in Bunratty Castle. We saw seashore, rivers, and plants with leaves that made me feel leprechaun-sized. We discovered that Ireland has mountains! We visited a couple of “living museums” with villages and farms demonstrating the old ways, making it easier to envision the Spartan conditions my ancestors lived in.

We visited a famine museum that explained why they left. From the exhibits I learned that before the famine, the average male Irish peasant ate eleven pounds of potatoes per day. The women ate eight. They had a few wild berries, greens and fruit in season, and some buttermilk now and then, but their primary diet was potatoes. Historical studies show that those potato fed people were stronger, taller and healthier than their counterparts on the Continent who primarily ate wheat in the form of bread and gruel. Imagine that! My respect for the potato soared.

Yes, especially now that I’ve visited my Irish homeland, I’m proud to be at least part Irish, and drink a toast to St. Paddy.

Write now: about your roots. Where did your ancestors come from? Has your ethnic background influenced your life in any significant way? Did your family observe ethnic traditions? Do you continue to keep those?

Take Me Back To the Fifties (and Sixties)

One of the great things about a blog versus a print publication is the ability to include links. Today I came across a super link that’s guaranteed to bring back lots of memories for those of us who came of age in the fifties and sixties.

My odyssey began with link from Thelly Rheam in a post to the Life Story Writing YahooGroup. Thelly sent us to the When Life Was Black and White page, which features a flash video about black and white t.v. This site has buttons along the bottom that take you to lots of other memory trigger sites. The one that appealed to me the most linked to the Old Forty Fives page, which has lots of links of its own. Rather than describe it to you, I’ll simply urge you to surf on over.

As I write this The Big Bopper is on that website speakin’ about what he likes: “Chantilly Lace, a pretty face, and a pony tail, hanging down…” Suddenly I’m back in 1958 (verified by the Top 100 Songs of 1958 list on the site). I’m in my freshman year of high school, wearing a 100% wool sheath skirt (slacks were never an option for girls at our school in my day, not even on the snowiest days—but we could wear leotards to keep our legs warm), an orlon sweater and black flat shoes with no socks or hose (pantyhose and knee highs weren’t even a dream yet, and nylons were far too expensive to wear to school). I’m walking down the hall between the wings of classrooms during a break, heading to my locker to change books, and hating the stares and adolescent noises from the line of boys sitting on the window sills along the way. But I do keep my eye peeled for a glimpse of a certain sophomore fellow….

I think of fresh snowfalls in the mountains, and how much I loved the snow back when it meant sledding, snowball fights and ice skating, but not shoveling, and not freedom from school. In the mountains of New Mexico in the fifties and sixties there was no such thing as snow days. Snow was a fact of life. We put on extra mittens, head scarves, galoshes and tire chains and dealt with it. Thinking of blowing snow and winter winds, I remember my red corduroy car coat with the corded toggle button closing, my zippered three ring binder with the orange plaid cover design, and the piles of textbooks I piled atop it.

I think of the excitement of after school activities, whether that was drama club, foreign language club, orchestra or any of the other dozen things I was involved in. Then there was walking home from school, alone or with friends. This was way before iPods, Walkmen, or other personal entertainment devices (although I did get a pocket-size transistor radio for my birthday in 1959 that ran on a 9-volt battery), so I had half an hour to think without distraction if I walked the two miles alone.

Other songs bring back memories of parties, people, clothing, classes, daydreams and so much more. I nearly always had the radio on when I was alone in my room, studying, sewing or reading. I haven’t listened to it so much since, but the hit parade was a defining element of my life back then.

What about you? Did music shape your youth? What memories does it trigger for you? Find out more about music and demographic data of the times at Old Forty Fives.com, Take Me Back To the Fifties, and associated pages on this glorious site. That should get your fingers flying and ink flowing!

Write on,

Sharon Lippincott, aka Ritergal