"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

"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

“Reading Habits”

            Whenever my book stack on my nightstand dwindles to two books, anxiety creeps into my day. In the past, I’d peruse local stores for paperbacks from any author. I use these less expensive choices to try writers unknown to me. We have The Book Rack, too. A small store snuggled into an ancient strip mall down by Randolph AFB. This shop sells and trades. I always have enough credit that often I pay a few dollars for half-a-dozen books. Binge reading all of the books by an author is one of the advantages of shopping in small shop because they specialize in carrying all of the writings from as many authors as possible. We have, too, a small public library. After the pandemic, I plan on volunteering there since I won’t be working any more.

            My son, our designated shopper, problem solved the issue of grabbing books for me. Whenever he enters our local HEB, he snaps a quick photo of their books and sends the picture to me. I’ve read several new novelists and returned to a few old favorites over the last few months. I delighted in The Andromeda Evolution, based on Michael Crichton’s notes and given life by Daniel H. Wilson. Paul also brought home The Guardians by John Grisham, an old favorite.

            One day an unexpected package arrived from a friend in Atlanta. She sent two books that she thought I’d enjoy. I chuckled in amusement over one title, as I had already read it. She definitely knows what I like to read. I am reading the other novel right now by a new-to-me author, Andrew Mayne. Yesterday, two more books arrived: Too Much and Never Enough-How My Family Created the World’s Most Dangerous Man, by Mary L. Trump, PhD. and the ever hilarious latest Janet Evanovich adventure with Stephanie Plum.

            Unlike many readers, I read only one piece at a time. I have friends and relatives reading multiple novels, biographies, and non-fiction tomes simultaneously. The thought of juggling multiple works throws me back to my college years where reading for pleasure almost met its death!  I linger over passages and marvel at unexpected nuances of characters. Sometimes, the writer in me steps back in awe at the perfection of one single word. In my mind, I believe reading one piece at a time gives homage to that author’s craft.

 

Copyright 2020 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Harper Lee and Me”

hour after hour, day after day, year after year    
the cadence of her words     
rose and fell in my classroom  

in Jean Louise’s coveralls  

walking in someone else’s skin   
I meandered through Maycomb’s streets  
treasuring two soap dolls, a broken watch and chain, a pair of 
    good-luck pennies
I led my students  
into that courtroom  
and stood in respect  

and I wept     

every single time  

hour after hour, day after day, year after year  
the cadence of her words  
rose and fell in my classroom  

“What would Atticus do?”  

wove into my discussions  
became a refrain   
became ingrained into who I am as a daughter, as a wife, as a 
                mother  
defined my humanity—   
my Gestalt 
I am a part of all I have met   

and so I wept   

every single time  

hour after hour, day after day, year after year  

the cadence of her words  
rose and fell in my life   

until I became the writer

with a draft of a novel in my desk 
and another tucked upon a closet shelf     
the lives I created guided by conscience      
renderings of myself in stark black and white  
so I understand a watchman  
and crossing time to set things right  

and I wept  

once again  

Copyright 2015 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman