The Write Spot Blog by Marlene Cullen

Tag: Just write. Writing freely. The Write Spot Blog

  • Steady Going

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Steady Going

    By Christine Renaudin

    Two months into summer,
    three in retirement,
    one more kiss of the sun.

    I am starting to feel the change in ways that do not rub me wrong, like a shirt grown too tight,
    or a pair of new shoes    

    I am settling into a certain ease I didn’t know before, or I had forgotten.
    There is hardly any rushing through things unless absolutely necessary in case of an emergency.

    I walk the dog daily.

    Three months into summer,
    four in retirement,
    signs abound, changes beckon.


    I have trouble remembering what I did on a given day, and I resort to lists to keep track of the books I’ve read and places I’ve gone, so I can tell people when they are kind enough to ask.
    Morning and afternoon melt in one another.
    I glide along sweaty, in blissful abandon: losing sight of the shore no longer upsets me.
    I don’t even worry the oar, but trust the sail will hold the wind, and the wind will show me to my destination.

    Four months into retirement,
    five into what feels like,
    a whole other season,


    I cannot be bothered to wear purple, put on a bra, a mask, a face, pick an outfit, apply lipstick, or even darken an eyebrow.
    It’s too darn hot for the season, there are too many fires, time runs too fast to waste it on untruths.
    Voting is a disaster.

    Five months in,
    Halloween spooks
    the hell out of me.

    Detachment has set in. I couldn’t care less about those many things that used to matter so
    they dictated my every move and mood.


    I’d rather light a candle for the latest friend who passed and for the one who hopes to last a bit longer.

    I’d rather watch the flame settle into the night and pray.

    Christine Renaudin’s writing has been featured in various publications by The Sitting Room, several of The Write Spot’s Sparks, as well as in The Write Spot anthologies:  “Discoveries,” and “Musings and Ravings From a Pandemic Year,”  available at your local bookseller and on Amazon (print and as an e-reader).

    Christine lives, writes, and paints in Petaluma, CA. She is also a dancer. Her most recent performances in 2022 include Sunset in Spring (Fort Bragg), and The Show Show (San Francisco).

    An avid practitioner of Contact Improvisation, she facilitates the monthly West Marin Contact Improvisation Jam at The Dance Palace in Point Reyes Station. She loves to see these various practices interact and inform her art-making process.

  • Delicate as a Hummingbird’s Heart

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Delicate as a Hummingbird’s Heart

    By Noah Davis

    This past Saturday, the fire burning on the north side of the river jumped a ridge and lit another hillside of drought-stricken timber, sending a plume so high that the air turned red with the seared skin of Douglas fir and larch.

    At 5:30 that evening, in the diner booth across from my father and me, a young man and woman, both with shiny, smooth cheeks, sat drinking their waters in small swallows. He wore a collared, white button down with jeans and scrubbed cowboy boots. Her skirt was blue, like glacial streams, and her straight hair was the color of stacked wheat shafts when the sunlight isn’t choked with smoke. His bangs were still wet from the shower, comb marks straight as irrigation ditches. She ran her hands over her knees. He thumbed the crease of his collar. She had to lean in every time he spoke.

    Years ago, I’d have thought this was a quiet, brave thing, here in our burning world: two people making themselves lovely for each other. But now having realized that the world has ended so many times before, this young couple’s effort became that much more vulnerable. Something as delicate as a hummingbird’s heart.

    In the last week, a hundred million trees had perished before the girl leaned close to her mirror and blinked on mascara. In the last month, thirty skies had been choked to gray before the boy raised his hand to knock on her front door.

    Noah Davis’ poetry collection Of This River was selected for the 2019 Wheelbarrow Book Prize from Michigan State University’s Center for Poetry, and his poems and prose have appeared in The Sun, Southern Humanities Review, Best New Poets, Orion, The Year’s Best Sports Writing, and River Teeth among others. 

    Davis earned an MFA from Indiana University and now lives with his wife, Nikea, in Missoula, Montana. 

    Originally posted on River Teeth April 4, 2022

    #justwrite #iamawriter #iamwriting #iamapoet

  • The Smell of Old, Ancient Time

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    The Smell of Old, Ancient Time

    By Mary E. O’Brien

    Old smells like perfume

    That’s past its life cycle

    The scent you get when you are

    Hoping for exquisite but discover stale.

     

    Old is stale sheets that have absorbed

    The fevers and worries

    And peaceful slumbers of

    The maximum number of humans.


     Old time has absorbed into its pores

    A thousand smiles, given in vain

    To cheer or to greet,

    Unreturned.


     Old time is a black satin circle,

    Etched with circular lines that contain,

    Miraculously, violins piercing the sorry soul

    Or wandering heart.


     Old, ancient time is beige sand

    Cradling the bones of saints and gladiators

    Clinging to crevices to keep their shame and secrets in the grave

    Which we all have a right to.


     Old, ancient time smells like a baby’s hair.

    The very start of time carries the

    Baby’s suckling breath

    Carries the breath of a babe from dawn to dusk of mankind.

    Mary E. O’Brien is a Retired Trophy Wife (RTW) from the Pacific Northwest. She has volunteered for the Court Appointed Special Advocate program, founded local therapeutic hospital humor programs, and supported various other non-profits and do-goodery.  

    Enjoying the artistry of music, the music of words, the words of healing, and the healing of art, Mary is spending her pandemic hibernation immersing herself in art journaling, watercolor and writing.  

    She lives in Idaho with her tolerant husband near her comedic grandchildren, and is loved by an elderly, sugared golden retriever. 

    #amwriting #justwrite #iamawriter

  • Traditions

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Traditions

    Rebecca Olivia Jones

    Grandma used flashing colorful lights and handfuls of tinsel like a grotesque costume on her Christmas tree. I loved its tacky design. I watched it before I fell asleep on the couch the night before our Boxing Day. My brother chose to sleep on the floor to be nearer the presents waiting under and all around the tree. Grandma was very democratic in her gift giving to all her younger grandchildren. Five of us were one year apart; Pam 10, Becky 9, Patrick 8, Byron 7, and Danny 6. We each received a large box filled with a bunch of recycled smaller boxes. Grandma would even re-use Tampax boxes for the smallest gifts.

    Pam and I were thrilled to receive, for example, a doll, a rhinestone necklace, fuzzy slippers and a box of shortbread. The boys received a Tonka truck, a baseball, a shirt and a bag of sour gummie treats. We played for hours sitting on the living room rug, the Christmas tree like a glamorous babysitter. Grandma always made rhubarb pie and pumpkin pie and her favorite—mincemeat pie, which I still don’t get. Who ever thought of baking a raisin and meat pie and then calling it mincemeat? My favorite treat was her fruit cocktail cake. She made it with canned fruit, butter, sugar and condensed milk. No wonder I have a sweet tooth! I no longer  touch any of that but it was manna as a child.

    Mommy insisted that we dress for Christmas dinner. We were like her trophies—aren’t my children beautiful? My Christmas dress was always itchy at the waist and I always spilled cake on the velveteen.  My poor little brother was costumed in a mini suit, his shirt tail hanging out from wrestling with his cousins.

    As the years passed and our elders died, the traditions changed and now, we have no family traditions. There are no elders to honor or to whom to feel obligated and my brother and my daughter live far away. Gone are the shoulds and the pressure to perform as hostess or appropriate guest; to cook a huge banquet; to clean hundreds of plates, glasses, a gravy tureen (for heaven’s sake,) or polish great-grandma’s silverware. All that kind of tradition for Christmas is no longer a necessity. I live with a man who grew up Jewish and he could care less about a Christmas tree or a Hanukkah menorah.

    My needs are simple. I consider every day and every meal a celebration—grateful to be alive, to be safe, to be comfortable. I create my own rituals around daily spiritual practices, taking time to write, read and cook with my partner. My writing workshops are my church and temple. The garden is my Eden. At Christmas, for a sense of continuum for being raised in a Protestant family, I send presents to my grandchildren, string little lights in the bedroom for a cheery mood, hang a few old favorite ornaments that signify peace, love and hope and attend a Christmas Eve service to sing Christmas carols. I even set up a small menorah to honor my partner’s people and the traditions that have led us to who we have become together.

    Rebecca Olivia Jones is a playwright, singer, dancer, composer, choreographer, director, always a poet, in 2021, Rebecca collected her poetry and lyrics, accompanied by beautiful photography into a memoir, “Beachsight,” available on blurb.com. Rebecca has a B.A. in Creative Writing from New College of California. Also, a mother, grandmother, sister, and a seeker, she lives in San Rafael with her long-time boyfriend and their cat; teaching singing lessons via zoom; enjoying hiking, gardening, cooking, reading, and writing. She is an advocate for the Alzheimer’s Association.

    #amwriting #iamawriter #creative writing

  • Get past ego to connect

    “I think American society alienates us from ourselves, and we have a great need to reconnect. Human beings yearn to connect and to tell our stories before we die.

    Sometimes we want to write, but when we get down to it, there’s resistance, because the ego gets scared.” — Natalie Goldberg in an interview with Genie Zeiger, “Keep The Hand Moving,” The Sun November 2003.

    Ideas on how to get past ego and Just Write

    The Inner Critic Tar Pit of Doom and Despair

    Is “Go Big or Go Home” Right for You?

    Rachel Macy Stafford: Live Love Now

    #amwriting #creativewriting #justwrite #freewrites

  • Eureka Moment . . . Prompt #620

    Write about a time when something became crystal clear.

    A time when you had an epiphany or a realization.

    #amwriting #justwrite #creativewriting #memoir

  • Eye Feast

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Eye Feast

    By Julie Wilder-Sherman

    How I love the ritual of the famliest day of the year. My favorite month and favorite day. So much planning. So much work. So much expense. All of it welcomed enthusiastically by me.

    The long folding table is taken out of the garage, locked into balance and steadiness, then cleaned. The fall-themed table cloth scattered with a pattern of dark green, yellow and brown leaves on a tan background with acorns and pinecones around the edges is spread out on the long table. Napkin rings, the only time I use them, encase the small thick linen face towels of red and yellow, placed in the center of each plate which sits upon gold-colored chargers I bought on sale at Kohl’s. 

    The gravy boat and fancy dishes not used in a year are removed from the cupboards, washed carefully and dried by hand. Wine glasses received at our wedding more than 30 years ago are lifted from the china shelf, now mismatched with pieces gone still make an impressive display.

    The center of the table is dotted with small live sunflowers in short vases, making sure they are low enough for family to see each other across the table. Tiny amber-colored lights weave in and out among the vases traveling down the center of the table. At dusk, when we sit, the lights give off a magical glow around the flickering maroon taper candles nestled into the gold candlestick holders.

    All that remains is the food.  Let’s eat.

    Julie Wilder-Sherman began reading books at an early age, encouraged by her mother who would allow her to take books to bed when she was as young as two years old. Raised in a family of readers, writers, performers, musicians, and political activists, Julie followed her dream of singing professionally and met her husband, bassist Jeff Sherman, while singing on The Love Boat. Together they enjoy cooking, eating, reading, and traveling to all corners of the world. Julie remains politically active and helps to manage the Petaluma Postcard Pod supporting democratic candidates, issues, and policies. 

    #amwriting #justwrite #creativewriting @iamawriter

  • Illinois Autumn Sunset

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.


    Illinois Autumn Sunset 

    by Deb Fenwick

    Sitting on the back porch after dinner during an autumn sunset requires fleece. Maybe a light blanket. A cup of tea is also a good idea. Don’t underestimate the importance of warmth. 

    Watching pink clouds stretch and yawn as they disappear below rooftops makes you appreciate them more. Don’t get distracted by utility poles that puncture the view. Instead, shift your gaze upward. Tilt your head a little higher to see if you can find an empty patch of sky. Inhale deeply when you do.

    Talking occasionally with your love, leave blank spaces in conversations. Pause and leave room to ponder. Don’t fall into the trap of thinking you know every story he has to tell. Don’t anticipate his response. Listen for what’s new as the birch leaves fall. Also, listen for the silence. 

    Gazing out at the garden that’s about to go to sleep, look at everything you have to harvest on your little plot of land. Don’t fixate on the blighted apples or moth-bitten kale. Instead, plan to gather what you can and shift your attention to the maple tree with its burning crown of glory. Vow to remember its beauty when you’re waist-deep into December. 

    Breathing in cool dusk while watching the sky sometimes requires searching for the moon. It’s there, even if you can’t see it. Don’t get fooled by thick clouds or a hidden new moon. Have faith in what you can’t see. Watch nightbirds soar into darkness. They know. And flocks of geese navigating by starlight know, as well. It’s time to leave the golden Illinois prairie. 

    Turn off the porch light and lock the door. You’ll be kept warm when winter comes. 

    Deb Fenwick is a Chicago-born writer who currently lives in Oak Park, Illinois. After spending many years working as an arts educator, school program specialist, youth advocate, and public school administrator, she now finds herself with ample time to read books by her heroes and write every story that was patiently waiting to be told. 

    #amwriting #justwrite #writingfreely #freewrites

  • Make a list . . . important and trivial . . . Prompt #617

    Make a list of issues, important and trivial, in your life right now.

    What frustrated you in the past week?

    What made you laugh or cry?

    What made you lose your temper?

    What was the worst thing that happened?

    The best?

    The most disturbing and weird?

    Choose one item from your list and write about it. Write whatever comes to mind.

    If another person was involved, write what you would really like to say to that person.

    Then . . . after you write . . .

    Tell the same story from the other person’s point of view. Don’t judge. Just write.

    #amwriting #justwrite #writingprompts

  • Memory of a ‘giorno dei morti’ in Italy

    Memorable writing that sparks imagination. Lean in. Hear the writer’s voice on the page.

    Memory of a ‘giorno dei morti’ in Italy

    by Simona Carini

    What I remember most about that day is the cold wind. It was blowing strongly, and yet it could not push away the heavy low clouds and wipe the sky clear, so it was dark in the early afternoon. The cypresses lining the gravel path from the cemetery’s heavy iron gate to the chapel swayed as if wailing unconsolably. A group of people had walked the narrow road from the village to the cemetery in a procession led by the priest, Don Gabriele, imposing in his black cassock, which swirled around his legs at the mercy of the biting wind.

    A child then, I was terrified not of the cemetery, which I had been visiting regularly with my father since an early age, but of the elements: the wind could topple trees or tombstones, make pots and vases tumble from columbaria, and if it stopped, the low clouds would weep torrents of rain on us. I had accompanied my aunt Lucia to the ceremony. She was rapt in devoted prayer, while I observed the other villagers and wondered why nobody looked concerned.

    The prayer came to the closing “Amen” and all we could hear was the wind. I thought the shared part was over and I could walk with my aunt to our family’s vault and the stories it held and told, stories I never got tired of hearing. But in a gloomy, bass voice, Don Gabriele started singing over the wind:

    “Dies irae, dies illa …”

    I froze.

    “He’s conjuring up ghosts,” I thought.

    I wanted to run away but could not move. I knew we were honoring the dead and it would have been disrespectful to leave the ceremony, but why did it have to be so scary?

    Never again did I go with Aunt Lucia to the cemetery on November 2nd and in my mind on the Day of the Dead the sky is always blotted out by a mass of pewter clouds, the wind blows hard, and God is angry.

    Born in Perugia, Italy, Simona Carini writes poetry and nonfiction and has been published in various venues, in print and online, including Intima – A Journal of Narrative Medicine, Italian Americana, Sheila-Na-Gig online, Star 82 Review, the Journal of Humanistic Mathematics, the American Journal of Nursing. She lives in Northern California with her husband and works as a data scientist at an academic research institution.