Geranium Pepper by Fresh, like the flower that gives it a big blowsy kick of nothing special, is sunny, cute, dumb. Like a Golden Retriever, it really, really wants to be your friend, whether you're a writer not interested enough to go on about the neither here nor there of it, or a poet who exactly nails how the flower (and this scent) are good for nothing other than being better than nothing. The Geranium When I put her out, once, by the garbage pail, She looked so limp and bedraggled, So foolish and trusting, like a sick poodle, Or a wizened aster in late September, I brought her back in again For a new routine-- Vitamins, impotence aids ater, and whatever Sustenance seemed sensible At the time: she'd lived So long on gin, bobbie pins, half-smoked cigars, dead beer, Her shriveled petals falling On the faded carpet, the stale Steak grease stuck to her fuzzy leaves. (Dried-out, she creaked like a tulip.) The things she endured!-- The dumb dames shrieking half the night Or the two of us, alone, both seedy, Me breathing booze at her, She leaning out of her pot toward the window. Near the end, she seemed almost to hear me-- And that was scary-- So when that snuffling cretin of a maid Threw her, pot and all, into the trash-can, I said nothing. But I sacked the presumptuous hag the next week, I was that lonely. --Theodore Roethke

Geranium Pepper by Fresh, like the flower that gives it a big blowsy kick of nothing special, is sunny, cute, dumb. Like a Golden Retriever, it really, really wants to be your friend, whether you're a writer not interested enough to go on about the neither here nor there of it, or a poet who exactly nails how the flower (and this scent) are good for nothing other than being better than nothing. The Geranium When I put her out, once, by the garbage pail, She looked so limp and bedraggled, So foolish and trusting, like a sick poodle, Or a wizened aster in late September, I brought her back in again For a new routine-- Vitamins, water, and whatever Sustenance seemed sensible At the time: she'd lived So long on gin, bobbie pins, check emails alf-smoked cigars, dead beer, Her shriveled petals falling On the faded carpet, the stale Steak grease stuck to her fuzzy leaves. (Dried-out, she creaked like a tulip.) The things she endured!-- The dumb dames shrieking half the night Or the two of us, alone, both seedy, Me breathing booze at her, She leaning out of her pot toward the window. Near the end, she seemed almost to hear me-- And that was scary-- So when that snuffling cretin of a maid Threw her, pot and all, into the trash-can, I said nothing. But I sacked the presumptuous hag the next week, I was that lonely. --Theodore Roethke

Barry here again. Today's subject is titles. The most mortgage lead lists mportant quality of a title is resonance: that is, "the ability to evoke or suggest images, memories, and emotions." Resonance matters because resonance makes things stick. Without it, a title produces no emotion -- it stands for nothing and is instantly (and rightly) forgotten. The resonant title, by contrast, beckons you, it insidiously hooks you, it provides the first step in a seduction that culminates in the pleasure of the book itself. There are two kinds of resonance: automatic, and acquired. They're not mutually exclusive. Let's examine both. Automatic resonance exists in a title that moves you before you've read, or even heard anything about, the book. The title taps into something that already exists in your mind: an experience, an archetype, a memory, a famous phrase or line of poetry. The title stirs that preexisting thing to life, and in doing so makes you feel you know something important and appealing about the underlying work. One way of checking whether a title has automatic resonance is to ask someone who has never heard of the book, "What do you think it's about?" If the person has a sense, a feeling, if the person can grasp the broad emotional contours of the story, the title has resonance. If you get a giant "huh?" in response, something is wrong. (If the title tells too much, you have a different problem -- more on which below.) Recently I heard of a book called "Cemetery of the Nameless.

Geranium Pepper by Fresh, like the flower that gives it a big blowsy kick of nothing special, is sunny, cute, dumb. Like a Golden Retriever, it really, really wants to be your friend, whether you're a writer not interested enough to go on about the neither here nor there of it, or a poet who exactly nails how the flower (and this scent) are good for nothing other than being better than nothing. The Geranium When I put her out, once, by the garbage pail, She looked so limp and bedraggled, manhunt login o foolish and trusting, like a sick poodle, Or a wizened aster in late September, I brought her back in again For a new routine-- Vitamins, water, and whatever Sustenance seemed sensible At the time: she'd lived So long on gin, bobbie pins, half-smoked cigars, dead beer, Her shriveled petals falling On the faded carpet, the stale Steak grease stuck to her fuzzy leaves. (Dried-out, she creaked like a tulip.) The things she endured!-- The dumb dames shrieking half the night Or the two of us, alone, both seedy, Me breathing booze at her, She leaning out of her pot toward the window. Near the end, she seemed almost to hear me-- And that was scary-- So when that snuffling cretin of a maid Threw her, pot and all, into the trash-can, I said nothing. But I sacked the presumptuous hag the next week, I was that lonely. --Theodore Roethke

Barry here again. Today's subject is titles. The most important quality of a title is resonance: that is, "the ability to evoke or suggest images, memories, and emotions." Resonance matters because resonance makes things stick. Without it, a title produces no emotion -- it stands for nothing and is instantly (and rightly) cosmetic surgery direct mail orgotten. The resonant title, by contrast, beckons you, it insidiously hooks you, it provides the first step in a seduction that culminates in the pleasure of the book itself. There are two kinds of resonance: automatic, and acquired. They're not mutually exclusive. Let's examine both. Automatic resonance exists in a title that moves you before you've read, or even heard anything about, the book. The title taps into something that already exists in your mind: an experience, an archetype, a memory, a famous phrase or line of poetry. The title stirs that preexisting thing to life, and in doing so makes you feel you know something important and appealing about the underlying work. One way of checking whether a title has automatic resonance is to ask someone who has never heard of the book, "What do you think it's about?" If the person has a sense, a feeling, if the person can grasp the broad emotional contours of the story, the title has resonance. If you get a giant "huh?" in response, something is wrong. (If the title tells too much, you have a different problem -- more on which below.) Recently I heard of a book called "Cemetery of the Nameless.

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