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I’ve written a book that remains unpublished, and I created a website around much of what inspired it.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?

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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.



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A doorway’s warning…

Those who I’m close to often comment on my rather sharp sense of humor but I tend to use that as a doorway, not a weapon, mind you. I have a tendency to share stories which carry a great deal of emotional weight. My preference is to avoid being entertaining, choosing instead to focus on revealing something underneath. Let’s just call it my “warning label”.

For starters, I’ll attempt to make you laugh before I make you think. I will ask uncomfortable questions because comfortable answers rarely change anyone. Loyalty comes easily but trust does not. If I care about you, I will challenge you, defend you, and occasionally disappear to recharge before returning as if no time had passed. It might be difficult for some to believe, but I collect more moments than possessions, truths more than approval. Take a chance if you will and mistake my quiet for weakness if you must. Trust me, I will survive such a misunderstanding.

Fair warning to any and all interested parties, I am not everyone’s cup of tea as I’m much too curious to stay shallow. I’m much too damn stubborn to pretend and may “accidentally” expose your blind spots while wrestling with my own.

Beyond the doorway, with my warning label pushed to the side, I never tire of peeling people back to who they really are, not to judge them, more to understand them. Everyone has a version of themselves they share with strangers, another they show their friends, and one they carry when no one is looking. That’s the person who garners my interest. Polished stories rarely teach me (or anyone else) anything. It’s those cracks that let the light through. Every conversation is another chance to discover why someone became who they are…including me.

I never get tired of finding meaning where other people overlook it. A forgotten photograph, an old scar. A joke with perfect timing, a quiet act of kindness that nobody applauds. Life hides its best lessons in ordinary places and I’ve been fortunate in life to discover so many. In some ways, this has made me slower to judge, quicker to listen, and endlessly curious about what lies beneath the surface of others.

I’ve stopped trying to be easily understood. Some people need everything wrapped neatly, labeled clearly, and delivered without any commotion. I am not built that way as I ask questions which make people uncomfortable. I’ve learned that growth rarely happens inside comfortable conversations. I manage to laugh often, sometimes at the absolute absurdity of life and others, sometimes at myself. Once in a while, my sarcastic humor has carried me through places that tears alone could not.

Acquaintances? I don’t collect them, I collect stories. I remember the details people think no one notices. Screw popularity, I value honesty over that, truth over approval. I’ve earned the criticism from people who mistake honesty for hardness and independence for arrogance. Hell, they’re all entitled to their opinions as I am entitled to keep becoming the person I was meant to be. I’ve spent too much of my life explaining my intentions to those people committed to misunderstanding them. These days, I let my character do the talking as it has a better vocabulary than my defenses ever did.

If this requires a warning label, let it read: Proceed with honesty and caution. I do.

From the Writer’s Workshop: If each person had a warning label, what would yours say? What’s something you never seem to get tired of doing?

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