Larry L. Franklin's Blog, page 18

Each day is a little better.

Mnemosyne: A Love Affair with Memory

For those who are interested, I just completed my two week checkup from back surgery and I am progressing nicely.  Still can’t lift anything, but I’ve been given the okay to begin walking more each day.  In four weeks I should be back to my normal self.  I have written a couple of blogs, and feel the need to continue writing.  Take care and have a great day.

Larry L Franklin

 

There’s no rosin on my bow.

Mnemosyne: A Love Affair with Memory

I ran across this brief essay that I had written at the time of the 9-11-2001 tragedy.  This came at a time when I was heavy into psychotherapy for childhood sexual abuse.  Reliving my experiences caused me to make a comparison between the misery of 9-11-2001 and childhood sexual abuse.  I sorry if I offend anyone involved in the New York City tragedy, but if I’m afraid to write something that is uncomfortable, I shouldn’t write at all.

***

So metronomic, like the orderly flow of a Mozart symphony.  A masterpiece of design; an act of evil.  At 8:48 a.m., on september 11, 2001, the opening movement:  a Boeing 767 fully loaded with fuel, crashed into the north face of I World Trade Center.  An explosion, clouds of smoke, and flames blew upward as tremors rattled the structure.  Fifteen minutes later, the second movement:  a Boeing 757 was eaten by II World Trade Center in one giant bite, only to be regurgited through a projectile vomit of flames and debris.  Civilians ran for cover and rescue workers ran inside and people jumped from the 80th floor.  They fell like apples.  The south tower suffered a breakdown and dropped to the ground.

At 9:40 a.m., the third movement:  a Boeing 757 struck the western part of the Pentagon.  And finally, the fourth:  a Boeing 757 that through the heroic efforts of a group of passengers, averted its target and was forced to crash in an unpopulated field outside Pittsburgh.

People in agony:  their faces in contorted expressions never experienced before. Some estimates show hundreds dead and 6,000 missing or presumed dead.  Every image, every sound, was seen from New York to the Philippines to Kuwait.  No one could deny the magnitude of misery that sprung from nowhere and pulled a hunk from our side.  We were injured.  Over the next few weeks, the major news outlets deluged us with stories about victims, survivors, heroes, and men sitting at Elmer’s coffee shop in midwestern-Illinois discussing how this will effect the price of beans.

Now we have the threat of Anthrax and worry how our bodies may be eaten alive, leaving only a remnant of rubble, a pile of powder, or a slab of slime.  A fog of depression covers the horizon and lingers as America struggles for ways to live with a new epidemic called misery.

CNN, ABC, CBS, NBC, and the Fox news service explore each threat, some imaginary, some not.  How do we protect ourselves?  Will we live?  Will we die?  And if we die, will it hurt?  Our politicians are scared.  I read the other day that the governor of New York said he wasn’t going to be tested for Anthrax but he and his staff were taking Cipro.  Now that’s kind of like receiving rape counseling before you’r been raped.

As America struggles with this new phenomena called misery, me and my fellow abuse victims meet in coffee shops and whisper our concerns, “I don’t want to sound cold,”  I whispered, “but why are people so vocal about what’s been going on?”

“I don’t know,” my friend replied.  ”It’s like they’ve never experienced misery before.  Maybe they don’t know how to deal with it.”

“We can’t say anything,” I said.  ”People will think that we’re sick, bitter, or just don’t care  And that’ not the case.  I do care.  Still, I’m bitter.  But, mainly, I just don’t understand.”

Why would Americans be more upset about our recent misery than other atrocities that have and continue to occur?  That seems to the question.  Lets take a look at the numbers.  According to the findings of the Third National Incidence Study of Child Abuse and Neglect (NIS-3), 1,553,800 children in the United States were abused or neglected under the Harm Standard in 1993.  The Harm Standard is relatively stringent in that it requires that an act or omission result in demonstrable harm in order to classified as abuse or neglect. Broken down, the figures for 1993 include 217,700 sexually abused children, 338,900 physically neglected children, 212,800 emotionally neglected children and 381,700 physically abused children.

***

It all seemed real, as most dreams do.  I ws playing second violin and sitting in the back row just in front of the timpani.  It was an evening concert; penguin-like man, and women draped in black filled the stage.  I felt the tightness of an undersized colalar and the warmth of spots that beamed brightness from ceiling heights.  The first oboe sound an A. Each musician entered the fray, searching for the matching pitch, playing an occasional scale, arpeggio or other pleasing note.

A tapping sound, then silence.  From the wings, the conductor and guest violinist walked across the stage and took their positions.  A downbeat, and we were into the allegro movement.  The soloist was on tonight.  Each phrase was clean and powerful and enhanced by the near perfect acoustics of the hall.

I moved my bow in long slow strokes, taking advantage of the brisk tempo.  I watched the audience from the corner of my eye.  Each face told it all.  The passion;l the attentiveness; the tears; it was all there.  I couldn’t help but wonder how it would fee to be heard by so many.  Oh how I’ve yearned for such a moment.  Atn then, as if directed by God, the soloist turned and looked m;y way.  It’s you turn, he seemed to say.

I sprung to my feel and pulled the bow across the strings while the fingers of my left hand pushed firmly against the board.  This was my chance.  But the strings stood still.  My eyes looked downward across the bridge and watched the bow hair brush past each string.  My right hand gripped hard and pushed the bow hair downward, harder and harder.  Still, no sound.  Just silence, followed by tears.  I want to be heard.  Oh God, I thought, there’s no rosin on my bow.

 

 

Tagged: Childhood sexual abuse, compassionate & compelling stories, creative mind, creative nonfiction, misery

Philip Seymour Hoffman — tell me your secrets.

Mnemosyne: A Love Affair with Memory

The recent death of Philip Seymour Hoffman brings admirers to their knees, and gives reason to reflect on his magic.  Hoffman was possibly the greatest actor of our generation.  Each time I’ve viewed one of his performances, I came away with a clearer vision of life.   His creativity was never in question, and the mastery of his craft was always on display.  Now, we are left with his work to examine, enjoy, and yes, even taste the power and sweetness of its nectar.

Mr. Hoffman, tell me your secrets, from where does your magic come?  Creativity and technique determine one’s artistry.  Of the two, creativity can seem elusive, leaving us to lurch for fire flies in the dark black night.  Other times, creativity seems to swallow us whole; oh, such a glorious feeling, as if we are falling in love.  Where did Hoffman find his magic?  Were they random thoughts, these bits of creativity, ideas that blossomed at will; possibly rare like a whip-poor-will’s call at morning’s first light?  Or were they biological, originating from a handful of neurons located in his brain?  Was his creativity there for the taking or did it sometimes appear in private moments or in the black of night when the soul longs to be fed.  And who can deny that Philip Seymour Hoffman was a hungry man.

Viewed from above, the human brain appears as the two halves of a walnut — two similar, convoluted, rounded halves connected in the center by a thick nerve cable composed of millions of fibers that cross-connect the two halves, which are called the left and the right hemispheres.  The left half of the brain controls the right side of the body, the right hemisphere controls the left  It could be said that we have two brains in one, each able to operate independently or together as one.

Charles J. Limb, twenty-first-century hearing specialist and surgeon at John Hopkins Medical Center, performs cochlear implants in patients to restore hearing and enable the deaf to appreciate music.  It was Limb’s profound interest in jazz that led him to explore where creativity originates in the human brain.  He longed to know how jazz saxophonist John Coltrane created such strong and striking streams of improvisation.  Secretly, Limb might have imagined himself, saxophone in hand, playing phrases that packed the beauty and power of Coltrane.  Maybe he was in a jazz club where couples huddled around a table for two; others came in groups just to hear some jazz; maybe a down-and-out man sat at the bar, drinking shots as the sultry sounds carried him away; and then there were the lesser musicians who came to examine the intricacies of each melodic line that erupted from the golden horn that night.

Limb and National Institutes of Health neurologist Allen R. Braun developed a method for studying the brains of highly skilled jazz musicians.  Musicians performed on a nonmagnetic keyboard that stretched out in a functional magnetic resonance imaging(MRI) machine that took pictures of their brains.  Limb and Braun then compared the neural activity during improvisation with what happened when playing a memorized piece.  The differences were stunning.

Creativity is a whole brain activity, engaging all aspects of your brain.  During improvisation, the prefrontal cortex of the brain undergoes an interesting shift in activity, in which a broad area called the lateral prefrontal region shuts down.  These areas are involved in conscious self-monitoring, self-inhibition, and evaluation of the rightness and wrongness of the actions you’re about to implement; all are impediments to creativity.  In the meantime, another area of the prefrontal cortex, the medial presorted, turns on  This is  the nest of creativity that’s involved in self-expression and autobiographical narrative.

Kay Redfield Jamison, author of “Touched With Fire:  Manic-Depression Illness and the Artistic Temperament,” writes about the connection between mental illness and the artistic mind.  While some might doubt whether a serious mental illness has creative advantages, Jamison makes a strong case through the study of numerous artist — poets, musicians, writers, painters — who suffered from depression.  Ancient Greeks believed in the link between creativity and madness.  The Renaissance thinkers held a slightly different view.  They believed that total madness prevented the artist from using his abilities, but that the sane melancholic could find a path for artistic achievement.  By the eighteenth century, balance and rational thought trumped the previously held beliefs that inspiration and emotions were the primary entrance to genius.  The late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries reflected a moderation of earlier views due in part to the influence of academic psychology and psychiatry.  Extreme madness lacked the sustained discipline and balance needed to reach great heights.  Still, melancholy associated with mental illness, combined with one’s talents, could produce extraordinary works.

As writers, we must find the gems of creativity that reside somewhere in the grayness of our brain, and then we must mine them.  Philip Seymour Hoffman did. Our of desperation, perhaps, or just plain curiosity, artists sometimes turn to drugs to find that special place that legend describes; a place without emotional boundaries where we seemingly float as if we experience ecstasy.  No inhibitions, no restrictions.  But we all know of the problems with prolonged drug use.  We might die.  Or we might exceed the “recommend” dosage and simply lose control of the mechanics needed to perform.

Is there another way to reach our creativity?  I believe there is; better or worst, you must decide.  But I promise, you won’t die.  Watch a young child’s reaction to music.  They dance around, bend and twist, laugh and giggle, and soak up the magic in the air.  They are creative.  Now fast forward to a later time when the aging process brings the restrictions, inhibitions, stiffness, and a concern for what others might say about our behavior.  Find the child within.

My path to creativity was not predetermined.  It came from my struggles as a survivor of childhood sexual abuse.  I was in a bad state of mind and turned to a therapist who literally saved my life.  Through her help, meditation, and self exploration, I began what I later believed to be a spiritual path.  My life changed, not instantaneously, but slow and steady. I learned to feel, to trust, and ultimately, to love; accompanied by an openness to see the previously unseen, and an ability to be nonjudgemental.  I found the “sweet part of the bat,” where I hit home runs whenever I choose.  Creativity is there for the taking.  Ask and you shall receive.

Now, the second part of the equation, technique, is simple but difficult.  The better command of our medium, the more success in communicating our creativity.  That’s why we write everyday, practice our instruments, and continually paint colors on our canvas. It”s such a marvelous rush when it all comes together; maybe a sentence or two, a phrase, chapter, or a longer work.  Take what you get and savor the taste.  Remember the process and how it felt.  Next time will be easier.

I’m certain that Philip Seymour Hoffman has other secrets to share.  Please feel free to comment.

***

Some of this was taken from my latest book, “Mnemosyne:  A Love Affair with Memory.”   In my defense, several pages, even a book, is needed to discuss such an important subject. But in a blog, we do what we can.

Tagged: creative mind, creative writing, meditation, Mental Illness, spiritual path

OMG. Hey, you’re still alive

Mnemosyne: A Love Affair with Memory

While pushing my newfound walker to the bathroom and looking into the mirror, I said, “OMG.”

“Hey,” my wife said, “you’re still alive.”

This will serve as a brief announcement.  I had two herniated disks repaired in my lower back.  Surgery was a success.  The pain from the herniated disks has disappeared.  Now I’m dealing with the pain and stiffness from the incision.  I should be back into writing form in a week.  Until then, I thank all of you for your kind words.

 

Wrinkles, Scars, Irregularity, and a dose of old age make for great writers.

The first time I stood in front of my vanity mirror and saw who appeared to be a stranger was a riveting moment.  OMG, that’s me, I thought.  I came to the conclusion that I was, by all definitions, a senior citizen.  The last time I had thought about my age was about five years earlier when I walked into a local McDonald’s and asked for a cup of coffee.  Without asking my age, the twenty-some year old server leaned back, turned her head to the right and yelled “ONE SENIOR COFFEE.”  I was puzzled, traumatized, and pissed off.  At that time I wasn’t a senior citizen, by my standards, and couldn’t believe that she would yell such a thing.  Well, several years later, I can honestly say that I am officially a senior citizen, and must learn to appreciate the qualities that make old age something to relish.  Why is Larry writing about old age, and who is he kidding, “wrinkles, scars, irregularity, and a dose of old age make for great writers?”  (That’s probably what you think.)

After a good deal of effort, I made it to my office, thinking that I needed to write something.  I haven’t written anything for over a week.  Well, I’m in a shit-load of pain that runs from my back to my buttock, to my right knee, and even my right shin.  I’m on medication, and it still hurts.  I’ve been seeing a pain management doctor for some time, and the injections no longer work.  I have been referred to a surgeon who will go over my options.  I have been told by a couple of doctors that I have spinal stenous.  Now I’m being told that I am a good candidate for surgery.  ”Good candidate.”  What in the hell does that mean?  Did I win an award?  In a few days I should know what will happen to my body, yes, the one with wrinkles, scars, and a good deal of irregularity.

At times we have to justify our present condition whether physical or emotional.  That’s what I’m doing.  I now believe that every wrinkle and scar on my body tells a story.  Hey, I have a scar over my right eye where a rooster got on top of me when I was six years old and began to dig into my face.  (We ate the rooster for Sunday’s dinner.)  I have a scar on my left lower lip, caused by riding my bike off of a high porch and smashing my face against a brick.  Another scar on my head from running into a garage when I had a blanket over my head.  (I was playing kick-the-can during the evening.)  I have a scar from hernia  surgery when I was thirteen.  I used to show the guys my scar when I was in gym class.  I had an appendectomy surgery when I was twenty.  My girlfriend wanted to see my scar.  Oh, I can’t forget my big scar from prostate cancer surgery.  Now I could tell you some real stories about that scar.  (The prostate surgery was performed in 2006 and I remain cancer free. )  Okay, here’s some information about prostate cancer surgery.  After the surgery, you are unable to have an erection for six months.  But there is hope.  If you want, you can give yourself an injection into your penis which will bring on an erection.  Yes, reread that, it’s true.  I chose the injection.  It all comes down to how much you want sex.  I’m assuming that we have a mature audience.  I could go on and on about the prostate surgery but I should probably stop this discussion.

Now the wrinkles come as we age, as we continue to have experiences.  Yes, they tell stories as well.

Okay, what about irregularity?  Sit down with some senior citizens and listen to them talk.  The subject always comes up — What do you take for your irregularity?  How much fiber is in a whatever.  More stories….

So, what does this lesson from an aging man tell us.  Wrinkles, Scars, Irregularity, and a dose of old age make us into more interesting people, and if applied properly, make for great writers.  I can’t leave this blog without telling you what made me write such a blog. Well, I’m in pain, taking heavy pain medication, feeling a bit depressed about the eventual surgery, and the need to write something.  If you’re a bit spiritual, send a prayer my way.  If you’re not, have a drink for me.  If you’re spiritual and like to drink, say a prayer and have a drink.  If I don’t make it through the surgery, think about me in this way — He was a good man, just a bit strange.

Fiction or Nonfiction, characters need depth.

I was in a small room waiting to see my pain management doctor.  There, taped to the wall, was a series of bright yellow faces staring at me, ten of them as I recall, each with a particular facial expression, indicating the level of pain that I was experiencing. At the time, the pain in my lower back was at a level six with surges reaching number ten.  Being a writer, my mind began to wonder.  Could I produce a chart showing the ten levels of emotional depth for the characters in my stories.  Fiction or nonfiction, characters need depth.  Number one would indicate the most depressing feelings possible, like my dog had bled out on me, vomited, empty her bowels, and died in my arms.  Number ten would represent the happiest of all feelings:  I went home for a quick lunch and ended up getting lucky.  Each number, from one to ten, would represent a particular depth of feelings.

I’ve had people ask me how to write a memoir if they haven’t suffered through hard times, how to write about war when you’ve never been in combat, or how to produce a fictional character with depth.  Now I’m not an expert on such matters, whether it’s about me or a make believe person.  Years ago, I would have registered a two,  maybe three on the depth chart.  Now, things are different.  

When I had been diagnosed as having PTSD brought on by horrific memories of childhood sexual abuse, I began what became longterm psychotherapy.  I’ll never forget the first time my therapist made a particular statement followed by, “How do you feel about that?”    ”What do you mean, how do I feel?”  I asked.  ”Just what I said,” she answered, “tell me what you are feeling.”  ”Well, you either feel good or bad,” I said.  ”Now I’m feeling bad.”  ”Can you be more specific?” she asked.  ”Do you feel sad, happy?”

It took several sessions before I could even answer the question:  ”How to you feel about that?”  I was so lacking in feelings that I sometimes imagined that my two daughters had died, and then I would measure the depth of my feelings.  Empty feelings, that’s what I had.  I asked my therapist why I wasn’t able to feel like other people.  She assured me that I was a loving, compassionate man and that, in time, I would experience a whole range of feelings.  The journey was not easy.  It required a lot of hard work, emotional suffering, and a willingness to keep an open mind.  Well, it turned out that my therapist was right.  In time I became a different person, and I should say, a different writer.  I was able to connect with my feelings as never before.  I am now a level eight with surges to ten.

I remember the main character in my first book, “The Rita Nitz Story:  A life without parole.”  After several interviews Rita became upset with the directness of my questions, and accused me of being just like the prosecutor in her case.  ”You’re all  the same,” she said.  Six months passed before she granted me another interview.  I had completed enough interviews that I could have finished her story, but that was not what I wanted.  I though about her background of sexual and physical abuse, the men in her life, dysfunctional family, etc… and realized that given her background, her behavior was quite normal.  Without realizing it, I was showing empathy, a characteristic that I had learned in therapy.  You can’t get into a character’s head without empathy.  Otherwise, you, as the author, become too much of an outsider.  And compassion, let’s not forget about having feelings for your character, and an open mind.  Empathy, compassion, and an open mind, all things I learned in therapy, opened the door to a deeper relationship between Rita and myself.

A character, whether yourself or fictional, doesn’t have to have a load of experiences or accomplishments to have depth.  Every person has a story, has depth.  What about a person that is superficial, seemingly empty, devoid of feelings, without material accomplishments, etc….?  I would argue that the person who holds all of these characteristics and seems to have no meaningful life, is a character with depth and has the potential for a great story.  And don’t sell yourself short.  With empathy, compassion, and an open mind you will find that you could be the character in a great story.

Go to the movies:  a great place to study characters.  Go see Blue Jasime written by Woody Allen.  Cate Blanchett does a magnificent job of playing a a New York socialite.  Although this is a great movie, I have to admit that Cate Blanchett’s character made me deeply depressed.  I found myself so sad that a person could be like her character, and not know how to correct her shortcomings.  She didn’t have to be like that, I thought.   But all of the character’s shortcomings is what made this into a great movie, in my opinion.  Now, apply that to our writing.

Fiction or Nonfiction, characters need depth.  Depth is not measured by a resume. Writers need to have empathy, compassion, and an open mind.  Then, and only then, will we see the depth in every character.  Yes, even when writing about yourself.  If you find this a bit weird, or unattainable, I suggest looking into meditation, therapy, and soul searching as a means for finding the empathy, compassion, and the open mind that all writers need.

Tagged: compassionate & compelling stories, creative writing, creativity, meditation, storytelling, therapy

Back pain, writer’s mind, pain medication, and a wonderful therapist

Wow, what an exhausting night filled with crazy dreams.  It has to be the combination of my back pain, the mind of a writer, a wonderful therapist, and the addition of pain medication.  Otherwise, I would have to accept the possibility that I’m a bit strange.  Hey, maybe they’ll write on my tombstone, “A good man, but a bit strange.”

A little background.  I’ve been having lower back pain for the last two years. I entered pain management and received injections in my lower back.  At first, they lasted for several months, but now they give me one pain free month.  That was three months ago.  Monday I will begin a different procedure where they block the nerves in my lower back.

Now the second point.  My wife loves dishes, and has multiple sets which she has accumulated over the past 46 years of marriage.  Yes, that’s what I said, 46 years.  We would buy a new set, she kept the old set.  It went on and on.  Finally, I went to Lowe’s and bought a cheap-ass set of cabinets that I hung in our garage.  Unfortunately, I didn’t take into account the weight load on the cabinets.  Days later, there was a crashing sound in our garage.  The cabinets had fallen onto the top of our car, causing substantial damage.  Why didn’t I have a lower deductible?  Well, the good news — we lost a set of dishes.  Now, a year or so later, she wants another set of dishes, followed by “If only you had installed better cabinets, not that cheap shit that you always buy.”

Now, the final point.  I have been in longterm therapy for some time dealing with the effects of childhood sexual abuse.  My therapist is a very skilled and compassionate therapist and would do anything for me.

Okay, here comes the dream.  It happened during the night, as most dreams do.  The dog was in her crate next to our bed.  Bailey, she’s my dog, takes such smooth rhythmic breaths.  I had taken some pain medication which should help me sleep.  I’m lying on top of the bed, watching some television, feeling myself slide onto that magical carpet that takes me to “la-la land.”  The back pain becomes a distant memory as I become surrounded by a gel-like substance.  Ah, this must be love, I thought.  Eventually, when, I’m uncertain, I found myself in a large store shopping for a new set of dishes for my wife.  Yes, another set of dishes.  I found a set for $225. which seemed okay.  But I couldn’t happen notice this set for over $600.  Two young ladies working at the store walked my way.

“Can we help you?” they asked.  This was a weekend job for the ladies.  They worked full time at the local Women’s Center, and we know how underpaid they are.  (I forgot to mention that I am on the board of directors for the Center, and I consider the employees to be angels.  How do I know they are angels you might ask?  Well, it’s because I’ve seen their wings.)  Okay, back to my dream.  I told the ladies how much I liked the $600. set but it was a lot of money.  They answered by saying that I could buy the set for a 60% reduction if I called a certain person.  ”Who might that be?” I asked.  The person is a therapist who can get you the dishes for 60% off.  She is busy seeing clients at the moment, but you should call her later and give her our names. She will take care of you.

“Okay,” I said.  ”Why would you tell me this.  You are employees for this store.  Something doesn’t seem right.”

“It’s okay,” they said.  ”Just do it.  This therapist will do anything for you.  Just trust her.”

Well, that’s my dream.  I began putting all the pieces together in order to determine its meaning — the dishes; the back pain, a writer’s mind, a wonderful therapist, and the pain medication.  Yes, it makes sense, as most dreams do.  I’m not all that strange.

Tagged: and a creative mind, dreams, mental health, stuff

Every writer needs a “shit detector.”

   It was twenty or some years ago when I studied with Lisa Knopp, a faculty member who taught creative nonfiction writing at the local university.  I worked privately with her for over three years.  Of all the things that she taught me, and there were many, I’m continually reminded of her advice each time I examine my writing.  ”If you want to be a good writer,” she said, “you have to have a good “shit detector.”  She went on to say that I need to know when my writing is a piece of shit.  Each time I go through my multiple drafts, I need to clean out the “outhouse.”

Now for the non-writers, I should point out that a shit detector is not something you  purchase at the local Lowe’s store.  No, it’s not a mechanical device that has a low, medium, and high setting that is used when you determine the level of shit in your writing.  No, that’s not how it works.  Your intellect, mastery of writing, emotional maturity, and whether you bleed when you write, all of those, and probably some long forgotten,  encompass the shit detector.

How we use the shit detector helps determine the quality of our writing.  I suggest not using the detector until you have written your first draft.  Otherwise you will always regard your writing as a piece of shit, and never be able to write anything; not even the first draft. I use two techniques when utilizing the shit detector.  First I read the work out loud.  Sometimes I think that I have written a masterpiece and then I read it out loud.  OMG, what a piece of shit.  After I have cleaned out the outhouse, I step away from my work for a day or two.  By this time the shit will have floated to the surface.  Then it’s just a matter of picking out the pieces and tossing them away.

The final step is achieved when you read it out loud and feel an emotional rush throughout your body.  That’s a sure sign that you have a worthy piece of writing.  It’s something that enables the writer to handle the rejections, loneliness, depression, suicidal thoughts, and the lack of self worth.  It can feel so good.

When my teacher told me about the shit detector, I didn’t know if that was her original thought.  It wasn’t until I began to write this blog that I wondered if other writers knew about the shit detector.  Well, much to my surprise, I found a blog written by Ashley Perez on the shit detector.  ”The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in, shock-proof, shit-detector.” — Ernest Hemingway.  Hemingway has some powerful quotes.  Remember the one about how to write?  You sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

Ashley adds an important element to the shit detector.  Not wanting to steel from Ashley’s blog, I will direct you to her blog so you can read the rest of the story.  I promise that it is worth your time.   http://www.ashleyperez.com/blog/item/23-the-most-essential-gift-for-writers-hemingways-shit-detector

Tagged: compassionate & compelling stories, creative nonfiction, story telling

To the mentally ill who have no voice. Please listen.

After visiting family in Wisconsin, a place where cold people have warm hearts, it is good to return to our home in Southern Illinois.  I have been thinking about what my next blog would be.  The answer became clear while I was surfing over the internet and discovered a blog that grabbed my attention.  Because of time restraints, I do not follow a large number of blogs.  But this one caused me to quickly click the “follow” button.  The blog, “Weathering the Storm: Overcoming Bipolar Disorder,” is truly remarkable, and is written by Kait Leigh, a young lady who has bipolar disorder.  Kait’s life is one of overcoming the struggles brought on by mental illness, particularly bipolar disorder.  Even if you or a family member do not suffer from bipolar disorder, you should check out her blog, http://weatheringthestormbp.com/contact/  Where her story is filled with the blackness of night, she has become a truly compassionate and caring person. Please check it out.

I became very interested in bipolar disorder when I wrote my second book, “Cherry Blossoms & Barren Plains:  A woman’s journey from mental illness to a prison cell.”  Rebecca Bivens was found “guilty but mentally ill” for killing her five-year-old step-daugther.  Becca had been diagnosed as being bipolar but was not taking her medications.  Add to that the fact that she was being physical and sexually abused by various men.  Combine the two and you have a formula for a trip into madness.  Now that Becca is in prison and taking her medications, I find it difficult to believe that this woman committed such a violent crime.  Becca, the woman that I know, is a loving and caring person.

Through my research on mental illness, I have discovered that if someone suffers from a severe mental illness, he/she is not necessarily violent.  If untreated, they can be.  But with proper counseling and medication that can become valuable members of our society.  With all of the shootings that make headlines, it is easy to jump to the conclusion that the mentally ill are violent.  We usually find out that each one suffered from a severe mental illness but was not receiving treatment.  Yes, the mental health treatment in the USA is lacking.  The gov’t does not care to spend the money on people who have no voice.  You will learn more about mental illness if you click onto Kait Leigh’s website & blog at weatheringthestormbp.com

When I wrote my book about Becca, I used different metaphors to describe what a person suffering from bipolar disorder might experience.  Here is one of my metaphors.

“It was as if someone or something, possibly alien, took over her mind.  I can see how an imaginary octopus-like creature might have controlled her thoughts.  Living in the lowest part of her brain and hidden by darkness, this creature, the one I imagined, reached outward with its eight tentacles, each lined with two rows of suction cups, and latched onto her hard.  No one escapes its grip.  When threatened it released an inky-black liquid that allowed it to slip away.  Even if one of it’s tentacles was severed, one quickly regrew, making it impossible to kill.

This octopus-like creature, the one that I imagined, the one that invaded Becca’s mind, is called bipolar disorder, also known as manic-depressive illness.  More than 2.5 million American adults, or roughly one percent of the population, struggle with bipolar disorder…..”

http://weatheringthestormbp.com/contact/   

Tagged: bipolar disorder, compassionate & compelling stories, creative writing, Mental Illness

A reflection on my years as a graduate student at Southern Illinois University

Larry Franklin discussing his book at Longbranch Coffeehouse in 2013


   I was asked to give my thoughts on being a graduate student at Southern Illinois University.

***


   “I can’t teach you everything while you’re a graduate student, but I can show you how to find the answers. That’s what will stick with you for the rest of your life.” That’s what my boss and mentor, Phillip Olsson, told me when I was completing my Masters of Music degree at Southern Illinois University. Now, at age 71, I can look back on the twists and turns of my career and fully understand the meaning of Olsson’s remarks.

In 1964, I completed a Bachelor’s degree in Music Education at the University of Illinois, followed by a Master’s of Music degree from Southern Illinois University in 1966. I taught music at SIU for one year before learning that I was about to be drafted by the U.S. Army. I quickly auditioned for the U.S. Navy Band in Washington, D.C., and became a member of the band from 1967-1971. After completing my enlistment in 1971, I returned to SIU where I taught for the next four years.   In 1975, I chose a different path and became a certified financial planner. I operated a successful financial planning practice until I retired some thirty years later. It was during that career change that I drew upon what Olsson had taught me at SIU. I knew that I would be successful in any career that I chose.

   I then decided that I wanted to be a published author. I completed an MFA in creative nonfiction writing at Goucher College in Baltimore, Maryland. My first book, “The Rita Nitz Story: A life without parole,” was published the Southern Illinois University Press in 2005, followed by “Cherry Blossoms & Barren Plains: A woman’s journey from mental illness to a prison cell,” published in 2010, and more recently, “Mnemosyne: A Love Affair with Memory,” published in 2013.

   I would be remiss if I didn’t credit my social development while at SIU. There was the student center, a habitat for a diverse population; the smell of deep pan pizza and Monday night pitchers at Quatro’s; the sporting events flanked by an assortment of artist performances; Midland Inn, the only place open after midnight; the Cypress Lounge, frequented by graduate students and faculty; and yes, the occasional trip to Carrie’s bar located between Carbondale and Murphysboro. So many memories.

   What a wonderful path I’ve traveled, a foundation where anyone could succeed. And yes, SIU was a major player in my success. “I can’t teach you everything while you’re a graduate student, but I can show you where to find the answers.”

(Information on Franklin’s writing and blog can be found at authorllfranklin.com)






Tagged: creative thinking, Southern Illinois University