writing

Creativity in Driftwood

/ Lisa / Leave a comment

Last week my husband and I took a vacation to the Oregon coast. We like to go there during low tides or after storms to look for agates and rocks of all sorts. We hadn’t been in a long time and we both were very in need of a break. Plus, this was our dog’s first road trip to the ocean.

On one of our walks we saw a young man building a structure out of driftwood. He was busy digging a large hole in front of the structure, tossing out sand and oblivious to our passing.

We see people doing things like this with driftwood, typically building a simple pile of sticks for kids to play in, or to sit in while they have a small fire. But the things this young man built were different. For one thing, there were several of them along the beach. For another, they were complicated. Good sized, intricate, wood woven into arcs and organic shapes, and clearly more like artwork than just playing around building a camp.

On top of that, we noticed other things as we walked in the vicinity. Closer to the waves there was a simple circle of stones, already getting covered in sand. There was a slender piece of driftwood upright in the sand, decorated. I took a photo, which is below, but you can’t really see the details. There were feathers, shells, pieces of beach grass, and stones decorating the wood. I felt uncomfortable after I took the photo, as if I’d gone into someone’s church during service and started snapping pictures.

My husband spotted a ring of sand. It may have been a hole originally, like the one we saw the young man digging. But the tides and waves left only a hint of what had been, and left patterns of movement in the sand that showed what change looked like. It was like a subtle reminder that nothing remains constant.

I’ve been thinking about those structures since we got back. Why was the young man building so many? Why did he build them at all? Did he see them as transitory art, or were they just something to do with the things he found on the beach? Did he want people to use them? Did he sit back later and watch the afternoon crowds and how they interacted with his creations? Or was he, too, transitory, and moved on without looking back?

That led to more questions. I wondered if people saw the creativity, or just saw camps. I wondered if people respected them, or destroyed them. Did kids play in them and dream adventures? Did homeless people sleep in them at night?

So many possibilities. So many stories.

I wonder if that young man knew he would make imaginations soar? I hope so.

Oh, and Corbie loved the beach. The picture below is him with the wind blowing his ears up. He was the most well-behaved dog we have ever traveled with and we made sure to pay attention to what sticks he played with.

A Quiet World

/ Lisa / 9 Comments

I’m in that fallow period between writing projects. Waiting for Otherkin to move through the publication process and waiting for a new story to come to me. It’s like the winter season, quiet and dormant, cozy and gestating.

In the meantime I’ve made a few discoveries relating to hearing.

Several years ago I lost hearing in one ear. Three little bones that should vibrate, calcified. Surgery replaced them with an implant that didn’t work. More recently, my ‘good’ ear has been getting worse. So I gave in, got a referral, and found out just how bad my hearing actually was.

I didn’t realize how much hearing was related to context. When face to face with someone, in a conversation, able to watch faces, you can anticipate what the words are going to be. But when you’re in a little room alone with headphones on and a specialist speaking random words with no context, it’s a completely different matter. I couldn’t figure out any of the words. After a series of interesting tests, I left with a graph that showed where normal hearing was, and where mine was, way, way, way down at the bottom. I also left with an appointment to come back and be fitted with hearing aids. When my husband saw the graph, his response was ‘Sh**, you can’t hear f**k all’. Succinct and true.

This past week has been the trial, and I’m not adjusting well. The hearing aids are extremely painful, there’s a loud echo to everything, an odd high-pitched regular beeping like a miniature car alarm in my head, and, of course, noise. Most of this will be adjusted at the next appointment.

In the meantime, I’m startled by noise. Birds! So many birds. The squeak of the floorboards. The sound of traffic. It took me way too long driving home to realize the odd breathing sound I heard was cars passing going the other direction. Conversations and clanking and voices of strangers. It all sounds so exaggerated.

It’s made me realize how quiet my world has been. How muffled. I can no longer hear my own heartbeat. I’m no longer cocooned. Which has made me realize I’m not sure I want to be in a noisy world.

Hearing aids are going to be fantastic at work and out in public where acoustics make it impossible to pick out individual voices. I can see other benefits, too, such as the fact that music will play directly into my hearing aids and no one will know.

I find myself using the pain though, as an excuse to take them out. To return to that quiet place with just my heartbeat. I might choose to only wear them at work.

There’s something to be said for quiet, for the ability to remove hearing and step away from the noise. I suppose that’s why people use ear plugs, putting something in, to find quiet, rather than taking something out to prevent sound.

Though I think my husband just said something. He hasn’t realized I took the hearing aids out. This might actually end up being fun. Either way, it will be an interesting learning curve.

Journaling

/ Lisa / 4 Comments

As some of you know, I used to journal but several years ago, I burned them in a giant bonfire. Why, you might ask? Because I was burning my mother’s diaries at the time, and I was horrified by the realization that someone I cared for might read mine and my words might break their heart.

Do I have regrets? Only one. That I didn’t give my sisters or my brother a chance to be part of that decision.

Anyway, since then I’ve never journaled. I love the idea of it but shy away from the reality.

Instead, I’ve found a way to keep a diary of sorts without the deep intimacy of one.

For some time now I’ve been jotting things down in a little brown book. Bits of advice and lessons on the craft of writing I come across. Quotes. Poems I find. Song lyrics. And wow, I had a thought the other day that made me laugh.

I kind of want to keep this non-journal a secret in the hopes that some day I can haunt those I love and watch them trying to figure out my diary.

There are things in this little book that I write down because it triggers a fantastic story idea. Or a poem that an amazing character can be built from. There’s writing advice I want to share with my son. There are snippets I want to remember to share with a poet friend, or something that makes me laugh that I really want to pass on.

Then there are words that make me cry. That reach down into my soul and breathe out ‘this is who you are’.

Which is which?

Well, I know, obviously. But it will be so much fun to haunt those loved ones as they read the non-journal and wonder if I was crazy, or depressed, or a closet witch.

That is, if they can read my handwriting. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with this little poem from the non-journal and you can wonder about why I might have chosen it. This is by Lauren Oliver.

“It’s amazing how words can do that, just shred your insides apart. Sticks and stones may break my bones but words can never hurt me – such bullshit.”