Emotion and Ink…

To begin, I’m inspired to write by the things that stay with me and some that haunt me.

There’s a conversation I keep replaying, a memory that suddenly resurfaces after years of silence. Then, something I witness makes me laugh, makes absolutely no sense or makes me downright angry. People inspire me, those in my circle and others, in general. Some, not always in ways they would appreciate knowing about.

I write because I notice things.

I notice what people say, but probably more importantly, what they don’t say. I notice contradictions, small acts of kindness, ridiculous behavior, old wounds, unexpected humor, and those ordinary moments that seem insignificant until, somehow, they aren’t.

Writing gives me a place to put all of it.

I’ve written a book that remains unpublished, and I created a website around much of what inspired it. But publication was never the thing that made me a writer. Writing did.

There is something wonderfully permanent about taking a thought that exists only in your head and giving it words. I find it cathartic to channel my emotions through ink for, once it’s written, it has weight. It can make someone laugh, remember, reconsider, or occasionally become annoyed with you. I’m perfectly comfortable with all four.

So, what inspires me to write?

Life does. People do. Memory does. The absurdity, and occasional insanity, of human nature certainly does. But, perhaps more than anything, I write because there is always something I’m not quite finished saying.

From the Writer’s Workshop: What inspires you to write?

Signature

Faded photo, fresh creativity…

While on an intense purging binge recently, I found an old charcoal sketch dating way back to my high school years. Previously, I had shared it with friends, then promptly packed it away. Memories came flooding back about the strictness of the art classes I suffered through. The anxiety to follow the teacher’s lesson plan and produce perfect results always impacted my desire to express myself outside the artistic box. While sitting in the midst of a pile of items, trying to decide what would stay or go, I opened my high school art case. As I rummaged through the paint-stained wooden case, my inspiration suddenly grabbed hold of me and I found my charcoal sticks and a collection of brushes and paints. The smell of linseed oil and streaks of yellow and blue oil paint inside the case reminded me that I was wrong to think that any expression of art required absolute neatness or perfect precision. These many, many, years later, I’ve come to realize that raw emotion matters so much more.

At this point in time, my focus is on my imagination which encourages me to delve into textures, bordering on the abstract, with a mixture of thick colors, on a brush which hits the canvas like a conductor leading an orchestra. Whether painting or sketching, in all the time that’s passed, art allows me to process complex feelings without using words, as I do each time I write here on my website. Creating something new helps to minimize my daily stress and any mistakes now feel like beautiful new opportunities rather than failures.

That one old sketch was an important reminder on how creating, anything, should be done without regimentation or fear.

From the Writer’s Workshop: Write a post in exactly twelve (12) lines. Tell us about someone in your family who has artistic ability. Share an old photo and let it inspire a blog post.



Signature

Footsteps…

Childhood has a strange way of preserving feelings long after it erases the details. The reason fades, faces blur. Yet, a hallway, a shadow, and a particular sound of footsteps can remain sharp for decades. Human memory apparently is run by an archivist who throws away the paperwork and keeps the ghosts.

As a child, I shudder still when I recall the endlessly stretching hallway where we lived, a tunnel of dim light and held breath. I thought I was small enough to disappear behind a half-open door, pressed against the wall as footsteps echoed closer. Each creak of the floorboards felt like a warning and I watched his shadow arrive before he did. The apartment seemed to hold its breath with me. I don’t remember why I was hiding anymore, only the feeling of the cold knot in my stomach, the silence between heartbeats and the certainty that being found would change something forever.

From the Writer’s Workshop: Talk about a time you hid from someone.

Signature