"The Subtle Sign of Sadness"

A few days ago, the library branch I use notified me that my card needed renewing. An annual ritual marked each spring that arrives with Live Oak pollen, Mountain Laurel blooms, and dancing dandelions. I left the message with its bold RED number in my emails, knowing it would nag me relentlessly until I checked this task off my list. 

Entering the library,  I sniffed the scent of books like a hound hungry for meat. For some unacknowledged reason, I’d pulled away from reading over the past few months. Fingers trailing along titles, I realized I’d never finished the final book of a trilogy. My usual goal of reading a favorite author, a new-to-me writer, and a non-fiction piece had died with our frozen winter months. The time of year that usually binds me inside with a book in hand had escaped without a single volume sitting on my bedside. 

Driving home, I thought about how WORDS, my solace and haven, have slipped into  thick and silent shadows. 

People frequently ask, “How are you doing?”

“Fine. I’m fine. How about you?” I reply politely. My thoughts scripted by what I think they want to hear. 

However, I’m not fine. 

WORDS have left me.

MY WORDS.

OTHERS’ WORDS.

My sadness, so subtle that I didn’t notice its presence, silences my day. 

     

Copyright 2026 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

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"Background Noise"

  

            Sometimes, when I sit down to write, I’ve no idea what words will appear on the page. My diligence to my craft means I put pen to paper every day (or in this case fingers to keyboard) and simply write. Many of my journal entries recount mundane trivialities of a simple life, some dip into a distant past while others slip into a hopeful future. My thoughts may focus on something currently in the news, but it’s just as likely for me to focus on the fact that it’s Friday—again.

            Then those days come where I shove aside all of the ideas that pulse in the forefront of my attention and spend time concentrating on sighs, the impatient pant of the dog laying at my feet, the distant drone of the dryer as it whubs—background noise that lets me transcend the ordinary.

            Then I hear the words whispering to my subconscious. Soft. Seductive. Evasive. A whiff of perfume that lingers in an empty room. And I hold my breath, fearful that the slightest movement would frighten my words into flight. Send them scurrying back and deeper into darkness.

            So I hunker down on my haunches, hand held outstretched with palm open in supplication. I practice patience. Wait motionlessly, head cocked to the side so I can perceive the words surrounded by heartbeats.

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

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"Close Enough"

          Writing sometimes surprises me. I’ll stumble upon a topic one day, mull it over for a few hours or a few days; and when I finally get the words out onto the page, delight fills me. I celebrate when the right phrase paints the picture that’s in my mind. I mentally pat myself on my back and do a victory lap whenever the spirit of a poem holds true from beginning to ending. Occasionally, I’ll revisit an older piece of prose, or a poem written long ago, and feel satisfaction that this creation grew from within me.

         Then comes a block. The cursor keeps its metronome beat. It pulses in recrimination because I’ve summoned it to the page and left it hanging. The swirling, whirling words within me can’t find form or substance. An emotion vaporizes before I can make it solid. A thought teases me in a seductive lap dance then leaves me wanting. (That would work better  if I were a man!)

         Frustration, hesitation and perspiration often accompany the writer into the creative process. So when the sunlight contrasting with shadow plays across my vision, I long to create just the right description. I hunger for perfection as I grope for each phrase. My goal, however, to produce writing almost daily means I accept the concept of “close enough.” I embrace that as I learn my craft and fine tune my abilities; discrepancies will abound between that unflawed poem and my final draft.

         The art of writing teaches important lessons. I’ve learned to welcome imperfections in other aspects of my life. Each day, in essence, is a rough draft. As I fill the pages of my life, I don’t mind false starts, revisions or rewrites. I’m even happy when sometimes I don’t—quite—get—it—right. Close enough, but not perfect.  

 Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Words"

Write for the sake of writing—
the practice and patience of putting
wordafterwordafterwordafterword
Was that the basis of our relationship?
Practice and patience and
wordafterwordafterwordafterword?
When you were with her, did you talk so endlessly?
Did you espouse and spout
wordafterwordafterwordafterword?
Was she expected to believe all you said?
To bob her head like an obedient dog?
So she now writes for the sake of writing—
the practice and patience of putting
wordafterwordafterwordafterword?

Copyright 1985 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"First Draft"

     

words

scratched out  
circled   
jotted to the side    
in the margins    
illusive thoughts    
vanishing    
into mists    
never taking form   
mistakes    
creating   
transforming      
white noise   
into harmony    

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Summer Plans”

 

Responsibility drags me from comforting quilts out into the sodden world.    

My shoes, rain soaked by puddles, encase my feet in cold and damp.    

The air conditioner chills my bones.    

My attention drifts to the large wall clock and fixates on the second had tick-tick-tick-ticking away. 

I escape.  

I nurture thoughts from deep within and retell yesterday’s tale with intuitive creativity.        

My first draft practically perfect.    

My thoughts stir up summer’s lazy mornings and conjure long, hot days filled with writing.   

Two months to drench myself under a waterfall of words.     

 

Copyright 2015 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Careless Words"

Careless words cast without thought   

bristle under my skin   

leave me empty   

Careless words sucker punch me   

demean my life   

belittle my dreams    

Careless words stated as fact  

insult my views 

binding me in heartache  

Careless words spoken to wound

choke and repress 

make me mourn     

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman