Sadness In The Bones

August 1, 2017 / Lisa / 2 Comments

I recently discovered Hafsa’s blog ‘Safe Place’ and I’m so glad I did. What beautiful, lyrical words. But most importantly, it’s honest writing. And because of its honesty, because of its ability to touch emotion, many readers will breathe out a sigh of relief and say ‘finally, someone put it into words’. Bravo, Hafsa.

Here is her recent post, ‘Raw’.

There’s a certain kind of sadness that can make home out of my bones. There’s a certain kind of silence that can enslave my entire existence. A deeply embedded sense of loss that takes hold of every flicker of hope and blows it out. There’s a certain type of darkness that then envelopes my being. […]

via Raw — Safe Place

Firewood and Words

July 22, 2017 / Lisa / 15 Comments

Stacking firewood is challenging. I look for the right piece, the right shape, so that the whole stack is locked in tight. I get offended by the wood when I can’t make the pieces fit.

I’ll add a few pieces, then pause and stand back, studying the pile. I’ll see one that could be turned a different direction. Or one that would lock in better if placed elsewhere. I’ll swap direction, turning a piece on its end so the fatter part balances the whole.

See the light? Still looking for just the right pieces.

Then I’ll go back to the pile and rummage, looking for a piece that’s the right angle, the right shape.

In the winter, when snow is heavy, I’ll haul in pieces that I stacked in the hot summer sun. I’ll see smoke coming from the chimney and know the stack came out okay in spite of my doubt that all the pieces don’t fit just right.

No smoke yet

Editing is challenging. I look for the right word, the right sound, so that the whole paragraph is locked in tight. I get offended by the story when I can’t make the words fit.

I’ll add a few words, then pause and stand back, studying the paragraph. I’ll see a phrase that could be turned a different direction. Or one that would lock in better if placed elsewhere. I’ll swap direction, turning a sentence on its end so the beginning balances the whole. Then I’ll go back to the story and daydream, looking for a theme that’s the right angle, the right shape.

In the winter, when snow is heavy, I’ll read the book that I worked on in the hot summer sun. I’ll see words and know the story came out okay in spite of my doubt that all the words don’t fit just right.

And so goes this hot sunny day. Stacking firewood and sweating and daydreaming, and then cooling off in the shade with words.

Endings, In Stories And Life

July 1, 2017July 1, 2017 / Lisa / 5 Comments

The ending of a story is as important as the beginning. Maybe in some ways, more so. The beginning hooks you and draws you in. But the ending is that big sigh of relief, or satisfaction, or sadness. Questions answered and threads tied so you can move on. Sometimes the end is a stop, sometimes a pause before the next linked story.

Sometimes you find an ending with no known beginning

So when there’s no ending, we’re left suspended. No closure. And those are the stories that haunt you. Which is why short stories have such appeal for many; they don’t have a neat conclusion.

But typically, we want those final words.

I’ve said this before but will repeat here. One of the hardest things for me during my years on the fire department was having no ending. You’d be so, so intimately involved with a person at this horrible moment in their life, and then they’d be gone. Whisked off to a medic unit, to a hospital, to the morgue. You’d never find out if the family managed to move on, to put pieces together, to get their lives back, to heal. You’re haunted by those who entered your life so briefly. Some were in your blood-soaked hands as their story ended.

Then there are friends. This afternoon I was reminiscing about a time, way back in the 1980s, when I hurt someone. To this day I don’t know how, or what, I did, only that it was awful enough that they took many years to reach the point where they felt they could have contact with me again. There was no ending to that story. I wasn’t able to apologize or explain, or justify, or help heal, since I didn’t know what I did.

In spite of no ending though, we’ve managed a new beginning over the last couple years, for which I’m thankful.

And yet I’m haunted still by that time. I was very naive back then. Well, heck, I was naive until my thirties when my husband showed up. As an example, there was that time in the 1990s, at a Duran Duran concert, when a man tried to sell me hash and I thought he meant corned beef.

That naive young woman (being photo-bombed by her mother)

I like to hope that this person now knows whatever I did, it was unintentional. But I’ll never know because there was no ending.

In writing, I always know the last line of a story before I begin. I may not know the characters or the story arc yet, but I know how it will end. Writing becomes a discovery of the path leading to those final words.

In real life, those final words are rarely so clear, or the path so easy to walk.

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