Writing Group Exercise

(Written during my Solace writing group)

My little girls have long torsos; banana curls and ribbons and dresses. They skip around the house as a princess, sometimes a dragon slayer, but always a heroine of some sort. It’s as if they’ve reached the land of milk and honey, where adventures are only but a second away, and harm is locked in a cage with no key. I often envy their bliss and their sense of accomplishment from an afternoon’s play. If only I could conquer as much as they do in a four hour time slot. The blue violets in the back yard are no mere flowers, but majestic tools used to woo fairies and princes into our courts. Seashells become evidence of mermaids nearby, and the corn flower blue chips are the pet unicorn’s favorite snack! I wish I could hypnotize myself into the fantastic worlds they reside in, and have the confidence to save the day time-after-time. I long for simple days made perfect when an ounce of imagination and a small dose of magic. I could be a princess, but I’m too aware of how I might fall short of ruling over a people should I one day become queen. I’d fly on a unicorn, but I’m not sure I’d know where to tell him to go. Too many lollipops give me cavities, and that seashell would only bring to surface memories of that summer a few years ago I’d much rather forget. What I’d give to walk out the back door and see the world untainted by a frozen reality. My little girls, with their long torsos and banana curls – I envy them.

When the Stage is a Piece of Paper

I'm taking a creative-writing poetry class, and of course most of our time is spent reading and analyzing poetry, specifically modern American poetry. Our assignment over the weekend was to examine a book called 100 Notes on Violence by Julie Carr. Paperback, and full of 100 poems (notes) concerning, as obviously stated, violence. I read the pages and cringed at its content; I squirmed in my discomfort as the words took me into the minds of the criminal, the accused, the innocent and the victim. Often her poems ended abruptly, as if she couldn't bear the weight of finishing her sentence, so I had to in order to conclude what was implied. I didn't want to finish her thoughts; I didn't want to take myself into the dark places the pages were directing me to. Every "note" left its mark on my mind, and dare I even say, my soul!

I watch TV shows full of violence, and barely bat an eye. Spencer Reid (from Criminal Minds) was my biggest crush until replaced with a real-life Spencer. Mr. Reid spoke to me of serial killers, molestations, and rapes sparing no gruesome detail. I watched unashamed. And once the show was over, I went to bed unaffected.

Though news programs, tv shows and movies deal with the same content as the poems I read for class, why do my eyes so quickly want to shoot away from my page as if tortured by its thoughts?

Words on a page require a reader, not a passive listener or watchman. One must take action to read and comprehend the ideas and notions. Words are merely words until given a voice by its reader. If I write "snow" on a paper, it lies in waiting until someone comes to breathe life into it - and suddenly it's given emotion, life, a story, a face. Snow - this evokes joy from memories of sledding; dread, from ideas of prolonged Winters; certain people flood my mind in correlation with these white and magical flakes. Words on a page draw its reader in a deep way that impacts the thoughts and mind of the one who allows the letters to run through their head making connections along the way.

A piece of paper becomes a stage drawing the most unsuspecting passer-by, for one cannot pronounce the words in their mind without making a relationship with the page. "Snow" - its said with your own voice, in your own mind. My writing becomes your reading, my thoughts run through your head. What a powerful tool we hold in our hands as we write, and what a magnificent stage we form in the minds of those who glance upon our words.