"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

The perfect song for my mood today:

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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

"Too Many Words"

My mind swirls    

words jumble and jive    

to a silent rhythm    

bebopbebopbebopbebopbebop   

ramming together   

My thoughts inseparable    

a tangled mess of “what if”    

knotted    

I tug at one end    

unravel    

into chaos and clutter    

cosmic dust bouncing     

here-and-there    

random    

like Sheldon Cooper on coffee    

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

        

"Mush Brain"

Mush brain plagues my life tonight
Muddled thoughts flitter left and right
No awesome philosophies
Just jumbled and meshed harmonies
Flights of fancy tether down
Tremendous insights run aground
Imagination is rust
Creativity dries to dust
Mush brain plagues my life tonight
Leaves me hopelessly without sight

Copyright 2011 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

               

“In My Skin”

            I disconnected over the last few weeks—from myself. I slipped into a survival mode of busy, busy, busy, busy that allowed me to step aside from thinking, but that also meant I sidestepped writing. I didn’t realize until yesterday that I skipped several days in a row in journaling. Ideas for my blog flitted into my view, but my attention never focused upon these thoughts long enough to do more than jot down a key word or phrase within the spiral where I often brainstorm. I didn’t even go online and pull out an old poem or personal narrative to nudge my blog along.

            I used the holidays and the clean up afterwards to keep my sadness away. There were places to go and people to see, and I avoided allowing myself time to be alone. I decided to go back to work, filled out an application to substitute teach in my old comfort zone, and actually attended the orientation this week. Yesterday, I found myself with another round of house keeping, today I will fill my hours with grocery shopping for the Celebration of Life we host for Mom on Saturday.

            I don’t doubt my motivations. If I sit before a blank page, I realize the great void my mother’s death has created in my life. I realize that I must rediscover who I am separate from wife, mother, sister, or daughter. For so many years, I defined myself by the care I gave for others. Now I must discern my role for this newest path of life. I have to determine my next steps and learn how to move around again in my skin.

“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

"Mush Brain"

Mush brain plagues me tonight   

Muddled thoughts flitter left and right   

No awesome philosophies     

Just jumbled harmonies   

Flights of fancy tether down   

Tremendous insights run aground    

Imagination is rust   

Creativity dries to dust   

Mush brain plagues me tonight

Leaves me hopelessly without sight 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 



http://bethmann15.blogspot.com/2010/11/my-pen-is-going-on-holiday.html





“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

“Writer’s Block”

        Facing a blank page usually doesn’t deter me. I simply begin one of my various writing techniques that forces words upon the page. Right now, though, I have nothing . . no, no—I have the beginning of an idea that flits out of my overtired brain before I can even latch onto the memory or focus my inner eye upon the images. My fingers, flying across the keyboard at hundreds of words per minute when I’m in the “zone,” falter tonight. I fumble with misspelled words, stumble within a sentence, tumble into chaos instead of clarity.

             I keep thinking WTF.

            My obsessive-compulsive nature cannot let me ignore my blog for a day. At least not yet. When I first started Swing in a Tree, I planned on blogging once a week, maybe a little more as the mood dictated. Somehow, that shapeless plan morphed into a personal quest. After the first week of daily entries, I thought, “This isn’t so hard.” Later on, I used my blog as an excuse to go through my old journals and consolidate all my poetry into one place. After years and years of writing verse, I’ve finally typed up almost everything into a nice little manuscript. I’ve relied on these earlier pieces on the days when Life (with a capital L) bites into my writing time.

            Blogging, though, took on a life of its own after I passed thirty entries. Then began the challenge. Could I write something every day for another month? Could I manage to pull something out when I went out of town? Was it possible to even get ahead on entries? Stockpile them into a cache somewhere? How long could I write on a daily basis?

        And so I find myself sitting this evening, listening to my mother’s breathing over the baby monitor. I have Koi sprawled so close to my feet that if I move, he’ll growl in grumpiness. Bridget commandeers the bed (specifically my pillows). MASH  bleeds into Everybody Loves Raymond, and I draw a blank. For the first time in seven months, I have absolutely nothing, nada, naught, nil, zero, zilch . . .

         I make myself face the blank page. Quality? No way. But that’s okay. My obsessiveness winks at imperfection because the goal isn’t having the best ever poem or the most clever prose. It is to practice my skill, my talent, my passion every day.

          

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman