Writing War

By Becca Noy

"All we are saying is give peace a chance" by John Lennon and Paul Mccartney

How can we know peace if we don’t know war? What does the word “war” mean to one who has never lived it? How can we really grasp the violence and emotions of war when we are safe in our homes? How can we comprehend the death and the injured?

On the news they give us updates. They give us death tolls. They give us numbers and part truths, but how can we really even begin to imagine 56, 125, 262 dead in World War II? No don’t imagine it, it’s a fact! 56, 125, 262 dead, how can we fathom that?

As a child the updates of the Gulf War meant nothing to me. It had nothing to do with me. All I knew was that my cartoons weren’t on. That is how that war affected me; I missed my cartoons. People were being killed and I just wanted my cartoons on.

In high school history learning about the wars, it was just the facts of history. I studied it, learnt the numbers and passed the classes.

But now, right now, we are at war. We are fighting against terrorism, but I’m still sitting here at home. I can’t see the death, can’t hear the gun shots, and can’t smell the carnage. How can I know war?

Let me tell you why the pen is mightier than the sword.

Through written words I have come to a greater understanding as to why we are at war. Through written words I have learnt the horrors of war. I will never know war for what it exactly is, unless (and let’s hope it doesn’t) come to my backyard (literally). And through written words I have learnt that physical violence is not the way to fight... that we will never achieve peace with guns.

The sword may kill the enemy but the pen can help people understand. The pen is what we should be fighting for peace with.

With the pen we can not only record the numbers and facts, with the pen we can write war. Truly write it, like Wilfred Owen, Herbert Read and Archibald MacLeish. If words can transport us to fantastical worlds, if words can take us to King Arthur’s Round Table then why couldn’t they take us to war? If with Hemingways writing we can taste and feel the texture of food in our mouths then why wouldn’t we be able to hear the guns of war?

The Last Laugh by Wilfred Owen

'Oh! Jesus Christ! I'm hit,' he said; and died.
Whether he vainly cursed or prayed indeed,
The Bullets chirped-In vain, vain, vain!
Machine-guns chuckled,-Tut-tut! Tut-tut!
And the Big Gun guffawed.

Another sighed,-'O Mother, -Mother, - Dad!'
Then smiled at nothing, childlike, being dead.
And the lofty Shrapnel-cloud
Leisurely gestured,-Fool!
And the splinters spat, and tittered.

'My Love!' one moaned. Love-languid seemed his mood,
Till slowly lowered, his whole faced kissed the mud.
And the Bayonets' long teeth grinned;
Rabbles of Shells hooted and groaned;
And the Gas hissed.


I may not ever hold a gun for my country but with my pen and the power of words I can fight my own battle against terrorism and for peace. Writers can make a difference not just today but in the times to come.

They say,
We leave you our deaths,
Give them their meaning,
Give them an end to the war and a true peace,
Give them a victory that ends the war and a peace afterwards,
Give them their meaning.

We were young, they say.
We have died.
Remember us.

From The Young Dead Soldiers by Archibald MacLeish.

(This article is also published in www.RITRO.com, a Web Community.)


[TOP]

Mighty Writers

By Becca Noy

In my very first creative writing class at university we, the students, were asked to tell the class our strengths and weaknesses in writing. I told the class that I just like writing, that I didn’t think I was very good at poetry and my punctuation and grammar at times were very poor. One student in the class said he wrote humorous sci-fi, that was his strength and he didn’t write anything else. Another said they only wrote poetry and couldn’t write prose. There were others who also said they were not good at punctuation. Some said things like dialogue or describing setting as their strengths or weaknesses.

Throughout the four years that I studied writing at university, I was constantly being challenged by the other writing students and the teachers to try new things or to practice my weaknesses. The more we challenged each other the more we all realized there were no limits to what any of us could write.

In my second year I was challenged to write poetry as a major assessment for one of my writing classes. And I challenged my friend to write something other than sci-fi. We both got A’s for both our pieces. We were both amazed and came to the decision that the only thing that was holding our writing back was ourselves. I now write poems all the time and prefer to write them than anything else. I consider poetry one of my great writing strengths now, even though in the beginning I named it as a weakness.

This year I decided to do a course called Writing for the Stage. I had never even thought about writing plays to be performed on stage before and had no idea how you go about starting one. I ended up with a 5000 word one act play which besides a few minor edits is pretty much ready for publishing. I don’t know if I will ever write a play again but I do know that I can.

I have now finished university and have come to the conclusion that the only weakness a writer can have is believing they can’t write something. Or even if a writer sticks only to what they believe are their strengths. If you write only what you think you are good at then you may never realize that you can actually write many other things quite well too. If I had not been pushed to try writing new things while I studied at university, I would still only be writing prose and nothing else.

Writers should continuously be challenging themselves to find new strengths, to hone what they consider to be their strengths and to practice their weaknesses so that they too can become strengths. There are no limits to anyone’s writing skills. So go out there and explore the world and just write. Don’t worry about whether you are good at writing one way or another; just write straight from the heart. Just write and the words will show you the way.

(This article is also published in www.RITRO.com. Becca Noy is Managing Editor of RITRO.com, a Web Community. Thanks Sunshine!)


[TOP]

Writing Prompts: Old Photos

By Wendi Friend

Next time you're sitting at odds with your muse, try setting down your pen and picking up a photo album. What may seem like a "lack of productivity" may actually produce a large range of benefit. Writers often try to overcome writer's block by writing something, when actually, what we need to do is rest our creative brains, feed them, and allow them to rejuvenate. Sifting through old photos will not only occupy the writer during down time, but may also stimulate memories, characteristics, story lines and raw emotion, with which to return to writing.

One way to use old photos while writing is to pick one photo at random and begin your writing with the sentence, "I remember when...." Knowing that you're simply strolling down memory lane for your own benefit rather than trying to create something profound for publication, you'll be more apt to be honest with yourself and less concerned with your choice of words. Writing for and from personal experience, any number of things might appear before your pen runs out of ink, or your mind of ideas. Often times, we'll uncover some sort of emotional blanket that has kept our creativity well covered. By exploring that emotion, we can then transfer it into a character or an article, or have it removed from the course as an obstacle. In this way, old photos can help us uncover the emotion that has been buried beneath the inner editor's logic.

Old photos can also provide fascinating characters for our story line. For example, let's say that you need a male character in his sixties who is quiet, but intelligent, dependable yet unpredictable and is comfortably nestled into a certain financial status. Maybe grandpa fits the bill! Maybe you have a picture of Uncle George that spawns the energy to write about an obnoxious character who smokes cigars and tells stupid jokes. We can never tell Grandma to her face how terrible her hairdo was last Thanksgiving, but we sure can slap that hairdo on a character and let other characters make fun of it for us. Using people in photos to enhance characters in fiction is a great way to keep the pen moving.

Reminising over old photos of family members and ancestors is also a remarkable mental trigger. Words fail me in attempts to describe the effects caused by stepping into the past and learning from our elders, but a thought process is stimulated in great force just the same. My favorite old photograph, as a child, was that of my great grandmother Olinger with her almond shaped eyes. She comforted me from her position in that picture. Her eyes told stories, which I could then transfer to paper with my own words and thoughts. Though the old photo was void of color and torn on the edges, to me, it was priceless. Faces trapped in time.

One of my personal uses of photos is to look at old photos of myself. By looking at where I've been and combining it with where I am, I have a better sense of self and direction. Sometimes, I'm blocked creatively because I'm dealing with a personal spiritual issue, having lost touch with myself. The only way to get back in touch with creativity, at that point, is to get back in touch with myself. Old photos is a great way to get that done. Old photos don't always have to come out of your personal collection in order to stimulate writing. Try picking up one of those seven year old magazines collecting dust on your bookshelf. Due to the dating, you'll probably not find an article of current interest. However, by sifting through the photos, some image could stimulate a "then and now" or a "what ever happened to" kind of article or story. Seeing a picture of a flower in a gardening magazine might stimulate some creative masterpiece about nature. You just never know what ideas are waiting to happen.

Also, for a neat twist on old photos, try having your photograph done in "old west" style! There's nothing like seeing yourself in a fancy lace gown with a wide-rimmed, flower-covered hat! Make yourself the character!

When you suffer from writer's brain freeze, try resting your eyes from words and letting it absorb images. It changes the whole perspective. Believe it or not, there really are some pictures that are worth a thousand words.

(Wendi Friend is a freelance writer, published author and Editor-In-Chief of RITRO.com. Her kind contribution and generous support is much appreciated. This article was previously published at RITRO.com's Writing department.)


[TOP]

Life's Disorderly Orderly Patterns - Nature's Mystery

By Teresa Pullara Brandt

It’s easy to fall into patterns – patterns of seeing, moving, thinking. Recently, I’ve begun to muse about patterns as I drive the familiar route to my workplace. The thought occurs that the route itself is a pattern, composed of right and left turns, stops and starts, curves and corners.

I notice a telephone wire overhead with about fifty birds perched on it, similar to birds on wires everywhere, at any time. Well, the little birds all look alike, especially in silhouette against the morning light. They appear to be black, but really they could be any color–it’s not possible to tell in this light. But here’s the interesting thing: they are spaced perhaps eight inches apart, from each other. I note almost no variation in the distance between any two birds, except for the most anti-social mavericks, who are either way at the ends, or who have elected to perch on another wire altogether.

How do they manage to alight in such perfect formation? And why? Now, I begin to notice these little creatures everywhere I go, always evenly-spaced on the wires. I especially note the exhilaration I feel when I see them on several lines in parallel. They take on the image of a musical staff, perhaps an illuminated manuscript–exquisite in their ordered pattern, even preternatural.

But are patterns not imprinted on nature in all its forms? After all, the shape of a fir tree, the orbit of the planets, the symmetry of a starfish – all would make Pythagoras or Plato proud. But these patterns are shaped by the laws of physics and the possibilities of biology. In the birds, there seems to be intention, calculation – surely these soldier-like queues are not built into their genes.
I wonder. Do I see pattern where none exists, perhaps imposing my human sense of order on a flock of naive creatures who simply land near their flock-mates? If not, then they should be arranged haphazardly. I ponder a bit more and try to imagine the possibilities. Are there marks on the telephone wires, and do the birds aim for these? I reject the idea for its silly lack of evidence, and the even sillier assumption that the birds could, or would for that matter, choose to perch on preset marks. Does one bird check the distance to his neighbor, and say, “Excuse me, but you are only seven inches away, please move over...” Perhaps he could chirp or tweet this request, but why?

Day by day, as I make my mundane drive, I content myself admiring the beauty of the birds’ arrangement, at the same time, continue marveling at the mystery of their orderly spatial pattern.

Then one day, fortune gives me a glimpse of the true nature of my small subjects of study. I spot a flock of them as they approach a telephone wire. They come gliding through the air like a single organism, so graceful, wings aflutter as they alight – not in sequence, but here and there, erratically along the wire, more and more birds crowding in. I watch transfixed as one little fellow lands between two others. Immediately, the other two jostle to the sides, leaving about eight inches of space. These landing and jostling occur over and over as more birds fill the line.

Miraculously, when they have all found their places, each diminutive creature has its personal space of eight inches either way. So this is how it is done! As realization dawns, and in my quest for complete enlightenment, I thought: now I must know why it is done. To what purpose it is eight inches of space? No sooner does the thought arise – as the whole flock takes flight - that the answer flashes before me. Of course! Eight inches is just enough to spread a pair of wings and get a good flapping started in preparation for takeoff. Why did I not see that before?

As my lovely ‘winged studies’ disappear from view, I have just a hint of the sense of letdown, something that comes from solving a mystery, yet, fascinated that the satisfaction of learning the solution is coupled with this slight disappointment – now, the mystery is no longer there, lost forever in the prosaic reality of a “logical explanation.”

But, there is more to it. I see that now. I think about knowledge, a human idea, valued for its rippling expanses of practical uses, and for its own sake. To know more of nature diminishes its mystery, in a sense. But is mystery born of ignorance a thing to be prized? No, the direct experience of the birds, to me, feels even more wonderful now, as I observe them in their patterns.

I am full-circle back to patterns, but now I know this one is not a construct of my overactive human imagination. These birds, these small fellow travelers who share our world, are participating in the sublime unwilled order that exists everywhere. They know nothing of geometry, yet here they are, perfectly spaced on a line, or on the wing in V-shaped formation as perfect as the Blue Angels. These are patterns that arise not from calculated action, but from the nature of life itself in our universe. I can only stand in awe of this mystery – never lost, ever present - reflected brilliantly in this tiniest facet of being, these little birds.

(Teresa Brandt is a physician, and a concert pianist when not practicing her medical profession. I'm graciously thankful to her for sharing with us her thoughts.)


[TOP]

A Writer's Life

By Carlene Reed

I sit at my desk, which is piled high with papers, coke cans and an overflowing ashtray. I am searching for a rough draft of my latest story, which I am sure I put there. Obviously, I didn't because I can't find it. A blank page stares at me from my computer. I was supposed to type something, but my brain is too frazzled to remember what it was.

I move on to the living room, which has now been taken hostage by the clean clothes, I still need to fold. I move aside some long forgotten coffee cups and search a stack of papers on the coffee table. I don't find what I am looking for, but did find other orphaned projects that I still need to get to. I believe that a hurricane has veered off course and visited my house. I make a mental note to call the news station and inquire about hurricanes in the area.

I go to the kitchen to get some more coffee. It's two in the afternoon, but coffee is good anytime. I search for a clean coffee cup and find none. I go back to the coffee table to grab one to wash. Coffee in hand, I search another stack of papers and unfinished projects on the counter. I find many interesting things, but not what I am looking for. I hope the kids really didn't need that paper signed for school. One look at the kitchen, reminds me to call the news station.

Finally, I give up and decide to go lounge by the pool. Once I get outside, I notice another casualty of my writing life three-fourths the yard. It looks like a bad imitation of the Jungle Book. I put down my coffee and find my lawnmower hiding behind a bush. It doesn't want to start, but reluctantly, it does. I haven't seen the sun in days and I for got how hot it can get. Sweat rolls from my body and mosquitoes dive bomb me from nearby weeds as I trudge the mower through the thick grass.

A great writing idea comes to me while the mower vibrates my hands. I try to push it away because I need to get something else done. It won't go away, it keeps calling me. I shut off the mower and walk over to the pool, where algae have taken up residence. It looks like a big can of green paint and needs some water in the worst way. Where have I left my water hose? The story idea keeps nagging me so I walk the patch of newly mowed grass back to my deck. I retrieve my coffee and head into the house.

Heading back to my desk I spot a stray paper on the floor. There it is!!! I swoop down on it and take it to my desk. It's new home is now on top of the stack of other unfinished manuscripts. I can't work on it now because I have a new idea I have to write down. The dog looks forlornly at me. I think he is hungry, but he can wait a minute while I write up this exciting new idea.

I look at my watch and realize the kids will be home soon. I am not sure if they remember my name, but I think they know I still live here. Someday, I will get all of this stuff done and spend time with them. Although, I don't think that will be anytime soon. For now, I will just keep typing and hope for the best.

(Carlene Reed is the author of "Coffee Table Tales" published by PageFree Publishing. She's also an editor and a photographer.)


[TOP]