When I (the author) was a senior in high school, back in 1987-1988, I took our school’s only creative writing class. Interestingly enough, I found myself in a class filled with athletes and cheerleaders. Given that I was in both theatre and advanced choir, this was not a group I typically found myself in the company of. I later found out that the creative writing class was rumored to be an “easy class.” This would have been perfect for the athletes, because they were focused on being number one in the state—some of our athletes even went on to play professionally. It could have been a John Hughes movie, since the class turned out to be difficult for anyone uncomfortable with expressing thoughts onto paper in a creative or vulnerable way.

Interestingly enough, our class being “easy” was news to our teacher, Mr. Willms, who took the art of creative writing very seriously. In fact, he took it so seriously that, when midterm grades arrived, he stood up and read the grades to the class to make this point— “D… D… F… C… D… F… F… C… A?… C… D… C…” and so on. Though he read the grades anomalously, everyone knew that the “A” was mine, and that I had ruined any chance of a bell-curve.

I had just started my journey with writing, and I was very excited to take the class, which had several lessons focusing on rhyming for “artistic” sake. I didn’t know at the time that I would be using the basics I learned in that class to create the writing style of my book series.

My Rhyming Style

As I was writing the first story in my Monkey Mind Tales® Anthology Series, I was trying to discover the voice I wanted to use. Originally, I wrote “The Wallerwood Toy Factory” without rhyme, and more in the vein of Stephen King, Rod Serling, and Ray Bradbury. I read the story during an open-mic night and received a positive response, but the crowd walked away horrified rather than enchanted. So, I re-imagined the story. I made it more whimsical. I then remembered my senior year creative writing class, and its focus on rhyme. I had loved doing it, so much so that I took classes at UCLA on subjects like “Early Elizabethan Romantic Poetry,” “Shakespeare” (four semesters), and musical theater (which I wrote a musical revolving around nuclear fallout and dancing zombies). Fast forward twenty years later, and I found myself writing a book of philosophy and social commentary using a whimsical, children’s fairytale format. At first, I planed to rhyme the entire book, and I rhymed over fifteen pages before realizing that I’d give myself an aneurysm if I continued. So, I compromised and scattered rhymes throughout the book instead.

Nothing Worse Than Bad Rhyme

My best friend of over thirty-five years has a son and daughter. They are grown now, but when they were young, he would read to them every night—often the same story. When I began writing my book series, he said that, as a parent who reads books to his children, “There is nothing worse than bad rhyme.” We laughed, but he was right. A “forced rhyme,” or a rhyme that’s “off beat” can derail a reader from an otherwise pleasant ride. In short, it’s noticeable—especially when having to read it repeatedly. Bad rhyme is memorable as well as off-putting.

Because of what my friend said, and already having a head full of bad-rhyme-examples from 1980’s pop songs, I made it my goal to make each rhyme as smooth as possible, which is one of the primary reasons why twenty-four short stories took thirteen years to complete.

Accolades

Despite the difficulty with perfecting the rhymes, and giving rhythm to the prose, the effect made reading my stories like going on a well-oiled amusement park ride. Reviewers applauded my writing style. One reviewer said, “Reedy is a champion of witty, rhyming musicality.” Another said that my “Distinctive rhyming patterns make these entries a treat to read. Lines slide in and out of rhythms with elegance; rhyming lines aren’t set apart, and they blend well with non-rhyming lines, reading like wandering into a field of wildflowers while on a already pleasant walk.” And the quote I liked most said, “The poetry’s almost perfect cadence and the author’s ease with transitions pleasantly surprised me.” I loved the fact that I surprised a reviewer.

The Editing Process: Doogles Tale

I can’t count how many lines of rhyme wound up on the “cutting room floor.” I spent hours, sometimes weeks, or even months trying to prefect a single section of rhyme—only to realize a year later that it was too close to another rhyme and had to be removed completely. Here is one of those rhymes. It’s from the story, “The Floralins Of The Dandaleen Forest.” It’s a story about chronic worry, and its effect on the brain and body. The poem revealed a new character, a Floralin, a tiny fairy-like creature. His name is Doogle. Note: this is from a rough draft.

The story of Doogle began long ago,

With an odd-looking plant that started to grow

Beside the base of an old knowledge tree,

With black blooming flowers untouched by a bee.

Believing the plant was a friend to the tree

And sensing no danger that he could foresee,

Doogle drank of its oil, but found out too late

The plant’s blackened florals weren’t merely ornate.

The oil reached his mind and caused it to spin

With thoughts never thought by a Floralin.

His thoughts became darkened and filled with regret,

Full of foreboding and fainthearted fret.

His past seemed regretful; his present seemed grey.

His future seemed dismal and filled with dismay.

He returned to his village to share all his fears,

But such thoughts can’t enter a Floralin’s ears.

This made him depressed, so he stayed in his bed.

But he never could sleep for the thoughts in his head.

The harmful emotions his thoughts would distill

Affected his body and made him quite ill.

His body turned grey from the skin to the bone.

And, as he got worse, his wings turned to stone.

Confused by how others lived happy and free,

Consumed by the dangerous world he could see,

He left for the hills where he built him a home

And lived in his home with his thoughts all alone.

The day then soon came while awake in his bed,

A horrible plan had emerged in his head.

To make sure all children lived safely and sound,

He’d give them the oil from the plant that he’d found.

They’d drink without knowing it worries their mind,

But thankfully one child might save them in time. 

She drank of the oil, yet set her mind free.

To lean how it’s done, read on and you’ll see. 

A Well-Oiled Machine

I worked hard to make reading my stores as enjoyable as possible, and with each book the rhymes and prose grew in structure, complexity, and detail. I couldn’t be prouder, and I am happy to announce that… as far as I can see… the series is free of “bad rhyme.”

Steve Michael Reedy