Thanks to April’s Platform Challenge (by Robert Lee Brewer) — which pushed me and 100’s of other aspiring-to-experienced writers of all stripes into cyber space in search of personal meaning and intentional connection — I pause gratefully to consider creating a posting schedule.
I spend my time planning prompts and agendas for writing groups; and writing about life through nature’s lens. And presto! there’s my proposed plan. Weekend posts – personal reflections; mid-week posts – more ‘writerly’ notes.
Because I cannot resist being corny, I’ll call the weekend posts “Sunday Sarahnades”; the mid-week ones, “Wednesday Working Words.” Like me, this blog is a work in progress. Expect change — hope for growth!
Bryce Canyon is an epic poem, a fantasy novel forever unfolding, creative non-fiction and personal narrative in uncountable variations. Hiking the canyon is a writer’s paradise: at every turn, a prompt. You can’t walk ten feet without inhaling a panoramic sweep of towering red hoodoos or savoring the silver light glinting off smooth twists of drift trees. Iron red layers erupt with evergreen, juxtaposed against white monoliths. Contrast, change, challenge.
Each step a measured descent from rim to canyon floor, a descent into the detailed particulars of evolution and scale. Each rock measured by time we cannot begin to fathom, though we attempt by placing our human companions before a tower of stone for visual contrast. Each sprawling-rooted tree eking its survival amid sliding stone, the stone itself shape-shifting with time. Hoodoos rising like monuments to imagination, only to crumble imperceptibly to boulder, to graveled dunes of multi colored sand. Continue reading
[Written to a prompt I offered in a Women Writing for (a) Change circle, and originally suggested in WHAT IF? by Anne Bernays and Pamela Painter: “write 26 sentences, each starting with the next consecutive letter of the alphabet; include one 100-word sentence”] .
Always written, Been driven to write. Create. Delve. Explore. Fanatic, even, about writing things down, writing into things, writing things out, writing myself into greater clarity. Greater clarity: yes, that’s the core of it all. How to connect with the who and why, to unravel the mystery and put it back together in some semblance of coherence. I love words, actually. Juxtaposing sound, meaning, rhythm; playing with words and their placement on the page; listening to the meaning beneath the obvious. Knowing that it’s a safe place and free, breaking out of the known into new territory or retracing steps of history, it’s beautiful and challenging and joyful and hard. Like anything worth doing in life. Mother would have loved that observation, as she often said ‘life is real and earnest.’ Not that there wasn’t some truth to her grim take on reality. Only that it lacked originality, optimism. Personal passion. Quixotic leanings that are more resonant with me. Resonance – another aspect of writing that I love, the AHA! and YES! that come from reading another’s work, especially published authors whose words either reflect or clarify my own inmost experience or perhaps reveal something new to me, or show or teach me something completely unexpected which might be scary or fascinating by nonetheless wakes me up and sharpens my senses, sometimes even to the extent of encouraging me to try something out of the ordinary myself, something that pushes me into new internal or external territory; or just to try something for the sheer joy and sound of it. Sound. That’s a lot of what writing is for me. Undulating rhythms, staccato notes, pregnant pauses, trills and flow. Variety. Whimsy. Xylophone epiphanies. You get the picture. Zealot that I am, I love words.