Creative Outlet

Creative Outlet

“I do not have writer’s block.”

“Then why are you sitting there, struggling, looking like you’re trying to bleed on paper through the pores in your forehead?”

“Use your imagination,” I snarled, nearly knocking the chair over as I pushed away from the desk to refill my coffee mug. “Maybe I’m just singularly lacking in creativity.” I sighed, deflating my lungs to match my spirit.

“I think you need an adventure. Come on, change your clothes and let’s go for a nature walk.”

A little voice in my head whined, “Don’t wanna. You can’t make me.” Instead of giving it a voice, I downed the coffee – it was lukewarm, anyway, as the coffeemaker had shut off automatically an hour earlier. “Fine.” I put the mug on the counter and went to pull on some clean clothes.

“Don’t forget water. It’s hot out there.”

Hot enough to cook my brain. I filled the CamelBak with ice and water and slung the straps over my shoulders. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

As I trudged the well-worn path into the woods, the only sounds were birdsong and the sound of tiny twigs snapping under my hiking boots. I didn’t think. I’d been thinking all morning. Might as well give my dysfunctional brain a rest instead of trying to beat it into submission. My legs and back muscles cried, “Freedom!”

A mile in, a sense of contentment washed over me. I was curious: did I have the resourcefulness to survive in the quiet wilderness, alone? I daydreamed about a rustic log cabin, nestled into a clearing in the woods. Would Amazon drop firewood and food in the front yard? I wondered. Maybe Amazon drone deliveries would prove useful, after all.

My restless energy, given an outlet, finally, gave way to myriad story ideas. As the sunlight’s rays grew golden and faint, I walked back home, contented. Calm. Ready to write. I could hear the sound of laughter from my annoyingly persistent Muse.

“Hush, you,” I whispered to the wind.


This story brought to you with inspiration from Creative Copy Challenge #674 | Writing Prompts – Creative Copy Challenge (wordpress.com) and the words Struggle, Adventure, Nature, Curiosity, Creativity, Freedom, Resourcefulness, Imagination, Outlet, Contentment.

Unchoice: Don’t Ask Women for Trust

Unchoice: Don’t Ask Women for Trust

Unchoice

 

Their fingers linked
intertwined,
driving past the angry mob
choking back the anguished scream
with pale-faced silence.

Failing.
Kidneys, womb – a hostile place
Her life, his? Theirs?
Two more at home. Unchoice.
Lover, husband, father by her side
the knife slips in, twists
it is done.

A human cross.
Still merciless, without compassion –
waving lurid, bilious, bloody images.
“Our child,” she whispers.
A sudden squeal of brakes
Reined emotion loosed
on well-meaning ignorance.

Tears fall, fists fly,
understanding too much, too little, too late.
Torn, ripped to tiny shreds –
fingers, toes, umbilicus
floating towards the grate.


I wrote the poem, Unchoice, to honor a woman I knew, a devout Christian, who was very much opposed to abortion. She had a loving husband and two beautiful daughters. She was also suffering from kidney disease, and had been warned that another pregnancy could well prove fatal. Despite their precautions, she got pregnant. And despite all the warnings, she tried – really tried – to carry that child to term. But it became quite clear that her “choice” really wasn’t a “choice” at all: The fetus couldn’t live. She could either continue with the pregnancy and they would both die, leaving a widower and two children alone to grieve the loss of wife and mother, or she could have an abortion and live. She could stick around to help provide for her family, to raise her daughters to be good women, and to love and support the husband she’d vowed to love and support. Had it been her alone, she’d have risked death and carried that child inside her on faith and a prayer and (in the opinion of her doctors) foolishness. But she dared not risk it – for her loved ones’ sakes. The day she had the abortion, there was a protest in town – a mile-long “human cross” of protesters carrying lurid, full-color signs with grisly photos of aborted fetuses. She saw the pictures and it was just too much, right then. Her husband pulled over and had words with one of the protesters (no violence, just angry words). When the man understood what this couple had just been through, and how hurtful all this was to them, he threw down his sign and went home. Sometimes, people just don’t think. They get so caught up in their cause, they just don’t think.

Another friend of mine, a young woman at the time, had a late-term abortion; she was about six months along when she first learned she was pregnant. I had seen her nearly every day of that six months, and wouldn’t have guessed, so don’t scoff – it’s quite possible. She wasn’t “showing.” The doctor performing the ultrasound that confirmed the pregnancy couldn’t get the fetus to move, but it wasn’t dead, either. There’s a good chance something was horribly wrong with this pregnancy, but that’s not why she chose to end it. She chose to end it because the father wasn’t involved and she wasn’t ready to take care of herself let alone a child, though she was mature enough to recognize that she didn’t have the maturity, the financial stability, or the driving desire to be a mother at that point in her life. Her parents didn’t particularly want to start over and raise their grandchild, and it would have been unfair to ask it of them. She thought I’d judge her harshly; the fact is, I thought her decision to terminate the pregnancy was wiser than the decision to bring an unwanted child into the world would have been. The moral struggle wasn’t mine, and I’m quite thankful I’ve never been faced with it. I don’t judge my friend.

When I was in law school, I researched and wrote a draft of a paper on “Baby Doe.” I learned about some horrific genetic “oopses” in nature; I think I know my limits. I do believe that quality of life – the baby’s, the mother’s, the father’s, the siblings’ – matters, no matter that some people would have us all believe otherwise. Once upon a time, there wouldn’t have been a “choice.” Some of these children would simply have died in utero, or shortly after birth. But we have gotten very good at prolonging “life.” Too good, I think. There are things that can break a person, a marriage, and a family. The only people who should have a say in whether such a pregnancy is carried to term are the mother and her chosen advisors – husband, doctors, and, perhaps, clergy.

To have an abortion or to give birth is, and should be, a choice – and terminating a pregnancy is rarely an easy one. But it should be the woman’s choice, and hers alone. Do I believe it’s the ending of a life? Yes. Do I believe it’s the mother’s right to end that life while it is growing inside her, wholly dependent upon her body, up to the point where it can live outside the womb without “heroic medical intervention”? Yes. It’s my right to slice off my arm if I choose to do so, though there are very few circumstances under which I’d think it was a good, “right” thing to do. Each woman has to struggle with her own moral and religious beliefs, the “physical, emotional, and mental healthiness” of her own choices, and come to her own conclusion – to do what’s right for her. Just as no one should coerce or force a woman to have an abortion, no one should coerce or force a woman to remain pregnant. I have no respect for those who cannot understand that and seek to force their own beliefs down someone else’s throat by threatening, bullying, or coercion.

The doctors who perform abortions don’t do it because they love to perform abortions – they do it because they’re compassionate enough to want to ensure safe, healthy abortions for women who’ve chosen to end their pregnancies. They do it because it’s not their place to judge, but to treat and to heal, others.

No one who would physically attack a woman, a doctor, or healthcare workers, or who would bomb an abortion clinic can credibly say to me “I’m pro-LIFE.” They’re just making very different choices about which lives are worth protecting.


Today’s Supreme Court Ruling, overturning Roe v. Wade, robs women of bodily autonomy and is tantamount to choosing a clump of cells that may or may not become a person over women, mothers, living children, and families. No child should be unwanted; no woman should be forced to become or remain pregnant against her will. But that is exactly where we are, now, in this country. It is a dark day.

And make no mistake: They are coming for your rights, too.

 

Click to read full Supreme Court opinion overturning Roe v. Wade (PDF).

It is good that some corporations seem to understand the economic impact of today’s ruling and the importance of this issue, but it is not enough to say, “We’ll pay the costs of travel to states where abortion is legal” if these same companies are contributing to the regressive Republican Party or its candidates. Given half the chance, Republicans will make such travel, itself, illegal. Don’t say “trust us.” That’s proven to be a hollow promise. Women have little reason to trust anyone, today.

That Time Arnold Palmer Saved the World from Alien Zucchini

That Time Arnold Palmer Saved the World from Alien Zucchini

…and Didn’t Even Realize It!

I was 19. My parents left the country for ten days – and left me in charge of the house, the kitchen, and two zucchini plants. My mother’s instructions went something like this: “Don’t burn down the house, don’t fall in love while we’re gone, and check on the zucchini every couple of days. It looks like a few are almost ripe, and it’d be a shame to let them go to waste and rot out there in the garden. It shouldn’t be much trouble; there are just the two of them.”

I didn’t burn down the house.

And I did check on those zucchini plants. I dutifully plucked the dark, green summer squash and tucked them into in the fridge until there was no room for anything else. And still they continued to be fruitful and multiply. I began to envision them as the first wave of alien zucchini pods, little infiltrators poised to take over planet Earth from my kitchen. I supposed it was my patriotic duty to eat them, but I wasn’t terribly fond of zucchini. I wasn’t even sure how to cook them. My mother had always shooed me out of the kitchen, saying, “Go on, it’s just easier to do it myself.” I opened the refrigerator door and gave those zucchini the evil eye. They were unmoved and unintimidated.

I began to tear through the cookbooks.

And there, in a cookbook my mother put together in 1976, called Mrs. Cratchit’s Kitchen, was a recipe for zucchini bread, contributed by none other than the famous golf pro, Arnold Palmer. Armed with a grater, a large bowl, and a wooden spoon, I read Palmer’s blueprint for defeating the alien zucchini army:

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By the time I was done, I had vanquished the foe and stocked up on enough loaves of zucchini bread to feed my girlfriends and all their boyfriends for a week. I could hardly lift my right arm; it ached and throbbed and hung limply at my side – worn out from stirring so many batches of the thick, heavy batter.

I refused to make zucchini bread again until after I had a Cuisinart food processor.

I had to draw my own Purple Heart. In crayon.

Next up, another grand, culinary adventure: Calamari Marinara with Couscous. Or, Chewy Rubber Bands with Lumps of Damp Concrete.

I eventually learned my way around the kitchen, and still make Arnold Palmer’s zucchini bread – I only wish he knew how grateful I was not to be squashed by the insidious squash.

Epilogue

I’ll be honest: I’m no sports fan. In fact, I think the “any interest whatsoever in sports” gene skipped me and doubled in my daughter. But Arnold Palmer is special. For my daughter’s first birthday, I wrote to nearly 160 celebrities in various fields: actors, politicians, royalty, sports figures, pioneers in medicine, musicians, artists, writers, and others. I asked them to help me make her first birthday memorable, since it was a big milestone in her life, but the odds were good she wouldn’t remember a minute of it. And just as Arnold Palmer had come through with a recipe to save the world from evil zucchini, he came through for me:

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Thank you, Arnold Palmer.


This was originally posted on my older blog, “It’s All a Matter of Perspective.” As with most technology, it’s all a matter of time before those posts fade into the sunset, to be salvaged here or lost to the Wayback Machine.

Don’t Worry, It’ll Heal

Don’t Worry, It’ll Heal

In Third Grade, I reduced the class bully to tears by telling him he’d broken my finger back in First Grade. Except that he hadn’t. Not really.

I’m “double jointed.” No, that doesn’t mean I can roll two joints with one hand or be in two seedy dives at once. It means I have loose, overly flexible ligaments. In grade school, I could bend my index fingers backwards almost 90 degrees at the middle joint. Like this:

Only…more. Anyway, back in First Grade, Wes had grabbed my finger and pulled it backwards, towards my wrist, making me howl in pain. He and his friends thought it hilarious. I decided, then and there, that boys were mean. By Third Grade, we were all in for a lesson.

Wes saw my funny, flexible finger one day. He’d forgotten all about me and all about tormenting me in First Grade. I hadn’t forgotten – the memory of that wrenching pain and humiliation was still fresh in my mind. “How do you do that?” he asked, staring at my rubbery finger with a mixture of horror and fascination.

“Well, it’s not like I do it on purpose, Wesley,” I said, mustering a tone that was both dejected and scornful. “You remember back in First Grade, when you grabbed my finger and bent it backwards? You broke it, Wes.”

“I did?”

“Yes. And it never healed right. My family couldn’t afford the doctor’s bills, so my dad set it with an old pencil and some duct tape, but it healed crooked. See?” I held it up in front of Wesley’s nose.

He stared at my finger. He looked at me. He looked back at my finger. “I’m so sorry!” he wailed. And suddenly, there were big tears spilling down Wesley’s cheeks. Oh my G-d… Suddenly I knew what it was to bully the class bully, and I did not like it. You’d think I would enjoy the satisfaction of revenge, after all this time – making Wes cry right there in the middle of class, in front of his friends, making him suffer some of the guilt for some of the pain he’d caused me in First Grade, but I was the one who felt the full burden of guilt that day.

“Oh, forget it, Wes. My finger’s fine.” I showed him what I could do with the other nine fingers:

Wes sniffled. “Wow. Cool.” He called some of his friends over. This was just gross enough that the boys found it fascinating. I was no longer an icky girl. I had talents they could respect and admire.

“I’m sorry, Wes.”

“For what?”

“For lying. For making you think you broke my finger.”

“Oh. Yeah, that was pretty mean,” he said, smiling. Like he wished he’d thought of it first. “I’m sorry I bent your finger backwards in First Grade.”

“Okay. I forgive you.”

 


True story. First posted many, many years ago on Vox, I had to hunt down the backup copy for a friend whose daughter is sporting a cast after a boy pushed her on the monkey bars and broke her finger. NOT that I’m suggesting she share this with her daughter and give the sweet girl any evil ideas…

The REAL Holly and the Danger Noodle

The REAL Holly and the Danger Noodle

I look forward to May! Every Sunday in May, my friend Marian Allen turns me into a character—yes, even more of a character than I really am!—and my alter ego’s story unfolds on the planet Llannonn, where she—er, we—are Assistant Head Librarian in a Public Living Library.

This year, May 1 happens to also be a Sunday, and Marian reminded me that 2022 is a bonus year—five whole Sundays! I’m excited.

See Holly and the Danger Noodle #StoryADayMay! My reward, perhaps, for being calm enough to breathe, snap this photo, and post about it last week. I wrote:

Stay alert while walking in the park! (Especially national, state, or local preserves.) I almost stepped on this copperhead yesterday.
I’m quite proud of myself. While I’m not afraid of non-venomous snakes, I can’t identify them quickly in the wild and my first impulse is to shriek, “Kill it, kill it, kill it!” while running like my tail feathers are on fire.
I was pretty sure those markings spelled “danger noodle.” But I just stepped back a step, grabbed my phone, snapped a pic, told myself to BREATHE, warned walkers coming up behind me, and the snake turned back to the woods.
No authors or wildlife were harmed in the making of this photo…

 

Now you see the real Holly and the real “danger noodle” that inspired the wonderful story by Marian Allen – a much better one than might have been written, had I not noticed the copperhead and stepped on it, or had I panicked while taking it’s picture and faceplanted on the poor thing. I’d say it was all worth it, to have the experience immortalized on two planets!