Hurry! Write it down before it’s gone. I am learning this the hard way when it comes to writing for this blog. One day last week my mind was a flowing river of inspiration, thoughts, and ideas; so much so that incoming news and emails would send me off into other directions. I had multiple pages open in two browsers, notes and links waiting in Notepad.
Since I started this blog, I have wanted to write a post on the many venues that a person can find inspiration. While I was writing about some current event for my other blog, This Caught My Attention, I received an email notification that an old friend of mine commented on a post from this blog. Continue reading
I created a page today for my first short fiction, The Long-Reaching Arms of Circumstance. (there is also a link in the header)
I wrote this story in 2008 for a Creative Writing class. The premise is real, but I filled it with fiction to try to understand what might have happened in the past. I created a persona for the main character, John, to enhance the story and make it logical. This story deals with suicide and it’s effects on people, even generations later.
This is the only story I have written, but I have spent many hours dreaming up stories in my head. I plotted this story out in my head first, so I knew where I was going, which made it much easier to write. I haven’t read it in several years and have worried about it’s historical accurateness. Please leave comments if you wish. I would love to read them.
I wrote this quickly a few years ago for a creative writing class. It made me laugh and still makes me smile when I read it. I got a “Short and Sweet” comment from my instructor.
Remember our tiny apartment by the river
where we spent my birthday
lying sideways on our bed
alternating between love and slumber.
Oh, how we laughed, while fully engaged
a passing freighter chose that particular moment
to blow it’s foghorn
abruptly breaking our momentum.
© Liza Bennett
All Rights Reserved
Comfort in the Familiar (2009)
The tips of her fingers brushed the spines of her books
standing guard upon sturdy shelving encircling the room.
The iron bed was spread with Battenberg lace
and the requisite matching dust ruffle.
Hearing rumbling outside her door,
she took a peek down the long hallway.
Surely something exciting must be happening,
as there was brightness where once darkness.
With hurried steps, she went to the shelf
opened the lid to the oak box holding the key.
Growing impatient, she clumsily unlocked
the shackle attached to her ankle.
Ignoring the disapproving stares of her people,
she tip-toed into the hallway.
Her fingers calmed her trembling lips as
gilded frames gave way to ebony and glass.
Her pounding heart deafened her ears,
she reached the end, or maybe the beginning.
She found her room decked out in modern design–
it was both shocking and intriguing.
Image By Anthony Zierhut
Shielding her eyes,
she raced back,
slammed the door shut,
clamped on the shackle,
returned the key,
before collapsing into the overstuffed chair.
© Liza Bennett
All Rights Reserved
“The path to our destination is not always a straight one. We go down the wrong road, we get lost, we turn back. Maybe it doesn’t matter which road we embark on. Maybe what matters is that we embark.” – Barbara Hall
I once saw a t-shirt in a catalog that had “I never metaphor I didn’t like.” printed on it. I got a big smile on my face–that was me. Metaphors are constantly flying around in my brain, waiting to find their way into a story, poem or blog post. The ironic part is that when I was in 7th grade English, I was baffled by metaphor and simile. I remember the day clearly. That puzzlement continued until I was in my early thirties, on the verge of a nervous breakdown–metaphor became very clear to me.
Anytime I share a blog post, I have to read the Captcha and enter what I see in the box. The other day I found myself leaning from side to side, moving forward at an angle, trying to figure out this one particular Captcha. Okay, that one looks an “o” but it could be an “a” with a serif font. Leaning forward to examine it closer doesn’t make it any clearer; neither does going at it from the side. The next one looked like a somewhat flighty “L” but it was just a lazy “J.”
I like it when they make the second “word” a real word, easily readable. After the uncertainty and confusion of the first word, it’s a relief to see that sometimes a word is what it says it is.
My sister and I, along with our mother, have this ‘thing’ about us. There is this calmness between us, as if we are in tune with each other. My mother likes to hum while she does household chores. I will usually join in, singing the next verse and we will finish the song together. One night while washing dishes, we sang parts of every Carole King song we could think of…she lost it when I played air shotgun during Smackwater Jack.
For many years, the three of us have occasionally carried on entire conversations with British accents–we’re from Michigan, so that’s a lot of Yankee to tame. Mom goes from the Queens English to really bad Cockney, reminiscent of the early parts of Pygmalion. My accent is all over the place, mainly London (which part, I do not know) and a little Manchester. My sister keeps her British headmistress pretty even.
My last post was sad, so I decided to post this little poem I wrote about missing holding my baby, now that he has grown.
Baby Andrew (2009)
Ten years you’ve been gone from me.
If I close my eyes, I can still hear your
gentle sighs as you sleep, contently
snuggled in tight against my chest.
My untamed fingertips can’t resist
touching your translucent cheek,
setting your tiny mouth to suckling.
Oh, to feel your slight weight again.
The door slams, ending my reverie.
Here you are, my sweet big boy,
wondering what’s for dinner.
© Liza Bennett
All Rights Reserved
I just finished a blog post about this poem, which I wrote a few years ago. Even though writing the poem released a lot of emotions, writing about it again felt too personal to post. I guess I’ll just post the poem and keep the rest tucked away in my journal.
“Nothing is miserable unless you think it so; and on the other hand, nothing brings happiness unless you are content with it.”
You can spend today worrying about tomorrow but when tomorrow comes, I think you will find it hasn’t changed anything. Worry is nothing more than a bad habit; it holds no value, instead just holds up your life. – Amanda Nichipor
Healing and transformation is a regular occurrence at Detroit Medical Centers Childrens Hospital. Coming from the hands of artists from Pewabic Pottery?
via Pottery and paintbrushes bring healing to hospitalized kids- Artserve Michigan.
“Art centers you,” said Serra. “When you’re sick or stressed it’s important to be centered. The program focuses less on the therapeutic movements of doing art and more on the creative process. It’s more art-making than art therapy.”
For Serra and the Healing Arts Team (volunteers, child life specialists, nursing staff, and artists) things are beginning to pay off. “We’re starting to hear from physicians who are impressed with the program,” said Serra. Recently, a physician stopped by to watch an artist work with a child. “The doctor was really moved to see the child doing what any other child would be doing,” said Serra.
I found I could say things with color and shapes that I couldn’t say any other way – things I had no words for. Georgia O’Keeffe