Inspiration is for amateurs. The rest of us just show up and get to work.
- Chuck Close
Let's reserve this space for creativity.
On How I Became A Writer...
A loose timeline of me (as a writer)... which doubles as a tribute to really great elementary, middle, and high school teachers. Thank you and you matter.
I started writing, seriously, in third grade. That’s the first I remember. Really. I wrote poems that were used to teach college students how to be better future teachers (if there is such a thing as a better future teacher). One poem I wrote started or ended with “I am a dreamer...” I won awards for my DARE essay. I scored higher in writing than reading on standardized tests, which was different, my teacher mentioned to me, she had never seen a student do that before. But I never found it odd. They say if you want to become a better writer, you must read. But I say, some of it must be innate talent. Some of it has to come from the heart. Because reading was too hard for me for a long while, especially while writing. It felt like too much noise. Too much pressure to perform like the greats. I have always been a better writer than reader, it’s true. So read, if you want to. Or write. Or find a combination of both, I recommend a combination, if I dare to recommend anything...
My Yellow House White Bear Problem
A mundane excerpt, taken from a memoir I drafted– “Concentrating so intently throughout every palpable second in the courtroom, thoughts and preoccupations vanish from my consciousness. It’s as if, somehow, I do not think of the yellow house, a yellow house, like the one you are envisioning now. I feel fully present and fully empty at the same time. My mind never so focused – my heart never so caught.”
Do you know what I mean here, about the yellow house? In an introduction to psychology course I took in college, my professor asked us to think of anything other than a yellow house. Of course, the house is the first image that pops into my mind, your mind, our minds. A yellow house, mine with green window shutters, in an idyllic small town with a “hate has no room here” flag out front. That’s the image we're supposed to be avoiding.
I stitched this piece in two days...
...while processing the effects of inappropriate men in positions of power. I talked to my good friends about a new-to-me term, "medical gaslighting," and how I experienced it. The labeling of it, told to me in a careful but true conversation, didn't roll off of a healthcare professional's tongue with ease or comfort. The professional, like I, recognized the gravity of the outcomes. I am still processing these outcomes. I am still healing these wounds.
Metaphors and allusions and images of water (thus the sailboat) mean a lot to me - they conjure up resiliency and core power and bravery.
Oftentimes in life, I've felt thrown into the deep end without a skillset to survive. But here I am.
For so long, I've felt unable to stand in even the most calm and shallow of waters, unable even to recognize that my feet touch the ground. But look at me now, I'm alive and well. Thank you, community, for helping me learn how to float when I need to and fight currents when necessary.
I've asked a lot of myself over the years and berated myself, too. In one iteration of the memoir I wrote, I talk about life rafts, the people and practices that saved me while drowning in an ocean of trouble. Simple things like yoga, and poetry, and people like Hannah and my "car angel" and other friends and a good counselor.
I'm aware we're not supposed to bleed on the internet, and few will have the patience or time to read this post. Our algorithms are wonky, y'all. But I want to let you know, if you're still reading this, you aren't alone. And, as the poet John Roedel wrote, when [we're] caught between a rock and a hard place, let [us] be water, let [us] be water, let [us] be water.
With all my love,
Liz