Let's Write Together For 15 Minutes
My mind's swirling, and I need a release. I'm setting a timer for 15 minutes, then writing what comes to mind. Care to do the same? I'd love to see your 15-min "dump" in the comments. Ready? Set? Go.
All too often, I psych myself out of writing because I worry that I don’t have time to perfect what I have to say or to process all the thoughts before I put ‘em down or…blah blah blah. And you know what? Screw it.
Today, I’m surrounded by about 75 post-its of things I NEED TO DO YESTERDAY. I’m also trying to keep up with all the news while limiting my exposure to too much stress. The world feels (more than) a bit impossible right now, yet let’s be real. I have a roof over my head, running water, decent health, and so much love in my corner.
Still, these days, my heart’s being tested. Many of my loved ones are hurting in ways I can’t begin to describe, and I want to drop everything and be with them and care for them and change their circumstances…but I can’t. It truly breaks my spirit.
Heartbreak is a word I’m deeply familiar with, and for as much of it as I’ve had in my own life, I try hard to feel grateful for all it’s taught me. Without all the challenges and low points and uncertainty I’ve experienced, I don’t think I’d have ended up as resourced or resilient as I am today. And so, I must tip my hat to the shit shows I’ve endured, since each and every one has given me perspective and made me unquestionably stronger.
And yet, when I see my dear ones navigating their own low points, I find myself working extra hard to avoid “fixing” or taking on their pain. I am often so frustratingly porous. As such, with everything going on in our world right now, things can easily feel hopeless.
And yet.
I’m determined to stay positive.
I’m determined to find joy and humor and connection in the darkness.
I’m determined to keep going…no matter what…because every difficult time eventually ends.
When I think of every low point I’ve ever known — like when my kids have been sick or injured, or when loved ones have died, or when relationships have ended, or when the future has seemed terrifyingly scary and unclear — two things have always happened:
1) I’ve questioned whether I can, in fact, handle things
2) And then, I keep going.
The magic elixir to move from Step 1 to Step 2? It is hope, plain and simple.
And so, I’m writing my way toward hope right now. I’m reminding myself that time marches on. Attitudes change. Circumstances improve.
Together, we can — and we will — persevere.
PROMPT: Now it’s your turn: Write for 15 minutes, and don’t worry about grammar or spelling or whether or not things “flow”. Just get your feelings out. If you want to write for 15 minutes and then do a quick cleanup, feel free…but just remember: this is a no-judgement zone.
I'm reading a Jodi Picoult novel right now and she has two sentences I just love:
"His voice is wrapped in batting so soft I can barely hear it. It is a broken bone of desperation and it won’t set."
and
"I should dive in and start swimming, but I’m already sinking here on dry land."
I just read them this evening and thought, "I want to practice writing metaphors like that." Then I came across your substack prompt. Thank you so much!
This was just what I needed. These are fairly awful, but here is my unedited 15 minutes of trying to imitate her metaphors:
a splinter of pain shoved so deep it's a tattoo
a sand dune of hope with the answer hidden deep inside
i should reach out to him but i'm only an image on a canvas
i should stay, but i'm at the starting line and the gun has gone off
i should warn her, but i'm already on a plane to somewhere else
a pendulum of enduring pain that swings on, heedless of time
a cool hand of solace that heals a fever
an unclenched hand of friendship that caresses my heart
a ragged wound of loneliness that won't heal
The spooky, eerie feeling started in my gut and spread to the rest of my body. It was 1994, a cold, dark January night. The images on the screen in the classroom came from documentary footage: people boarding trains, packed in with barely any room to move. Piles of and piles of what, upon a closer zoomed in look were human bodies, so so thin, from the starvation. A gigantic pile of shoes. The helpless, terrified looks on the faces of people with yellow stars of David being rounded up by officers with Nazi symbols. These were unedited, uncut, unwatered-down scenes of what actually happened, and what would have happened to me if I had been alive and living in Europe at the time. The Holocaust was familiar, I knew the basics, and understood that there were people in the world who believed Jewish people should not exist. The class was a graduate level survey of the Holocaust, and I was given special permission to join. Later in the semester we watched Schindler’s list, which, after watching so much documentary footage seemed like a caricature, nowhere nearly as explicit or graphic. That feeling of being so spooked was ignited by the sick realization that time and distance was the only thing preventing me from experiencing that. Several days ago that feeling returned for the first time since that night in 1994, only this time it was worse. Seeing people marching and attending rallies for the extermination of all Jews, seeing children being taught that Jewish people do not deserve to live, that they (we) are the reason for all evil in the world. Watching these images on the news and my computer in THE YEAR 2023. No matter how religious, no matter how informed, Jewish people all over the world, at this moment, are feeling the weight of all of this hatred. It’s creepy. I get chills when I see police presence at synagogues, knowing that this is necessary even in the well educated, liberal leaning bubble I live in. Look at how quickly dumb ideas spread: like stolen elections. It doesn’t take much for people to latch on to an idea or concept and then believe in it. If we didn’t learn in the 1940s, and we still can’t figure it out, what are we doing wrong?