"A Blogger's Still Life"

 

         I had no direction in what I hoped to accomplish through my blog. After attending a workshop one Saturday, where a marketing expert advised up-and-coming authors to blog, I decided to give it a try. I knew that I wanted to prove to myself that I could maintain a nearly daily record of my writing skills. Sometimes, I spent part of a morning sifting through the yellowed pages of my old journals, hunting down my early attempts at poetry. I enjoyed meeting young Liz again and selecting different poems to post online. Some days, of course, I wrote new pieces, carefully culling words to record my life’s events. I rediscovered my love of creating poetry over this last year. 

         The easiest posts to write, of course, center upon favorite childhood memories. Recalling the adventures of little Lizzy has helped me to appreciate my parents all the more. I’ve had fun zeroing in on the minutia of my current life, too. I challenge myself to find a way to describe a speck of dust, mimic with words squirrel play, or capture in a phrase the phase of the moon. With some entries, I’ve created scenes played out among imaginary characters. I’ve enjoyed these dips into the lives that I mold with my words.

         I don’t recall when I began chronicles of my mother’s battle with Huntington’s Disease and our ever changing roles as her caregivers. I’ve felt driven to describe the slow deterioration that my mother endures. These blogs voice my concerns and frustrations with the impact of this disease upon all of us. After my mother’s gone, they will also give testimony to her courage, and the love and admiration all of us feel for her.

         My blog sometimes slips into an explanation of my writing process, which often bemuses and amuses me. Over the last few days, though, I’ve shared my personal adventures with my dental and medical problems. The compulsion to share the vulture of anxiety that perched upon my right shoulder as I sat at the keyboard overrode the need for privacy. I found myself wondering about other bloggers. How much do you decide to share with your readers? What slivers of yourself do you carve out of your soul and place on display for all to see?

         My blog, I often joke, keeps me sane as I’ve become more and more housebound by my mother’s disease. It provides me with daily entertainment. It forces me to examine who and what I am. I find myself often visualizing my events as a still life. An artistic rendition of reality filtered through my eyes, heart and soul.   

          

 Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"No Ideas"

         Yesterday, for the first time since I started my blog, I skipped making a post. Usually if I haven’t had time to write, I’ll find an old poem or even repost a previously shared poem. Yesterday, the thought crossed my mind, briefly, that I needed to either blog about something or select a poem. Obviously, I did neither. Instead, I grabbed a shovel and a garden spade, headed out into the front yard, and began pulling (actually—digging) weeds.

         

The torrential rains from a few days ago left our skies clear and cerulean. A cool breeze fingered my hair as I knelt upon the damp earth while the background of birdsong provided the rhythm to my chore. You won’t hear me complaining about the clover that clumps in large patches in my lawn. I won’t whimper or whine about the dandelions that hit mid-calf and have shot roots three to six inches deep. Instead, I relished the mud that caked my hands and packed under my short nails. When I dug out a weed’s root and found the soil wet, relief flooded through me. These weeds mean the end of our long drought. At least for now, we’ve cycled into a weather pattern of cooler fronts carrying rain. Gray clouds boil across the sky, dump and inch or two of rain, and move on to another location.

          Once I removed the bush-sized weeds, David mowed. To anyone passing by, our lawn looks a lovely green. Most of the grass recovered from the scorching of the summer, and the mowed smaller weeds camouflage most of the damage the drought inflicted.

         So today, I have no new ideas for a blog post. In my mind, I’m kneeling in gratitude among the weeds, thankful in the knowledge that our Mother’s receiving the nourishment she needs to sow.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Brainstorming List”

            Several years ago, my well of topic ideas dried up. Practically overnight, I found myself floundering for something—anything—to write about. In desperation, I sent out an impassioned plea to my friends and family on Facebook to PM me suggestions for possible blog posts. The more people responded, the more inspired I grew. I grabbed a new spiral notebook and listed topic after topic. Whenever I find myself thirsty for something different, I turn to this list.

            Every time I buy a new spiral for my drafting and crafting, I devote the first page to that brainstorming list. Most of the time, life presents me with plenty of material. Occasionally, I peruse the list, select one item, write about the subject, and cross it off my list.

            This week my substituting work landed me with classes that need a “warm body” in the room. The students, attached to Chromebooks, ask me for a bathroom pass and leave me to my own devices. Out of boredom, I tugged out my trusty spiral the other day and skimmed my list for inspiration. “Dirty Clothes” caught my eye. The next thing I knew, I crafted a fun poem for my blog. Since I’ve been on the same campus with a similar job all week, I’ve returned to my list daily. I’ve entertained myself by writing on ten different topics using a combination of poetry and personal narratives.

             I feel accomplished and satisfied each time I scratch words off the list.

            In the very back of my mind, a little nagging worry chirps, “What if you use the all?”

            I smile. I’ll do like I did so many years ago and ask friends and family to help me with a brainstorming list!

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Brain Dead"

            Yesterday’s writing products included two personal reflections, which I whipped out easily once I focused on my topics, and two poems. I labored long and hard over the poems, with the delivery of each taking much longer than the laid-back nature of my prose musings. My unexpected block of time stemmed from taking a substitute assignment with high school students who labored over their personal narratives. We mirrored each other, faces scrunched in concentration as fingers tapped quickly, hesitated, and then flew across our keyboards. My role as guide-on-the-side left me with blocks of time to both think and write. In my teaching days, I would have shared all of my pieces with my students to model my drafting processes and discuss improvements to the end results. As a substitute, I only share if the classroom teacher left instructions to work with the class. One student yesterday queried about my writing, and I explained that I wrote a blog. She nodded her head absentmindedly, shifted her Chromebook for me to see her assignment and offer my feedback. I always hope that my modeling writing (and all of the messy processes that go with it) sends the message that writing continues throughout a person’s life. It doesn’t end with school.

            I entered today’s campus with the knowledge that writing wouldn’t be an option with first grade students. Imagine my delight when I found a student teacher in the room, ready to take over the class! I did a happy dance because of this unexpected treat of another block of time to write as I observe instead of teach.

            I hauled my favorite pen and current spiral from my tote. I flipped through yesterday’s lists, cross-outs and scribbles. I smugly stretched side to side, flexed my fingers, and poised my ball-point over the blank page. And nothing came. I inhaled, exhaled, shot my eyes around the room for inspiration (elementary school teachers cover their walls with brilliance and imagination). Nothing.

            I changed over to a computer, loaded Word onto the screen and fixated upon the pulsing cursor on a blank screen and only two words came to me “brain dead.” Ha! That’s all I needed!

Copyright 2019 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

               

“Blocked”

         I grabbed my spiral notebook yesterday with the intention of writing something spectacular. The blank page pulsed with emptiness. After a few minutes, I wrote the word “Blocked” across the top, believing that by labeling my affliction, I would begin the process of overcoming it.

         No other words followed. I left pen angled across the page, hoping that seeing the two paired together on the coffee table would trigger some inner well of creativity, and words would flow forth effortlessly.

         Nothing happened.

         Not a single word.

         I don’t know why my ideas and thoughts ram against this invisible wall. In my mind, I see them ebbing and flowing. I stand on a precipice, watching my words undulate in silent waves. They never reach the shore.

         So this morning, instead of taking pen and paper in hand, I pull up Word. The curser’s insistent blink-blink-blink-blink challenges me. I type the single word, “Blocked” again, centered perfectly on the page.

         And words push through the water’s rolling surface.

         Not perfect.

         But there.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman