Larry L. Franklin's Blog, page 19

Bleeders make the best writers.

I had to post a quotation that was shared by Teretha G. Houston on her twitter account.  ”There is nothing to writing.  All you have to do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” — Ernest Hemingway.  Wow, is what I thought when I first read Hemingway’s quote.  I certainly feel that way when I write.

Tagged: compassionate & compelling stories, creative writing, poetry

I’m only a gnat in the forest.

Mnemosyne: A Love Affair with Memory

I find myself reflecting on the life of Nelson Mandela as I hear one story after another flash across my television screen.  Mandela was one of the great leaders of our time; someone we should try to emulate.  But as hard as I try, I am only a nat in the forest.  I write compassionate and compelling stories, hoping to give a voice to those unable to speak.  I throw pebbles across the still water and watch ripples scoot across its surface.  Maybe one ripple will reach another, another, and so on.  How many my message reaches, I’ll never know.  You see, I’m only a nat in the forest trying to do the right thing.

Tagged: Childhood sexual abuse, Mentally Illness, PTSD

I’m only a nat in the forest.

Mnemosyne: A Love Affair with Memory

I find myself reflecting on the life of Nelson Mandela as I hear one story after another flash across my television screen.  Mandela was one of the great leaders of our time; someone we should try to emulate.  But as hard as I try, I am only a nat in the forest.  I write compassionate and compelling stories, hoping to give a voice to those unable to speak.  I throw pebbles across the still water and watch ripples scoot across its surface.  Maybe one ripple will reach another, another, and so on.  How many my message reaches, I’ll never know.  You see, I’m only a nat in the forest trying to do the right thing.

Tagged: Childhood sexual abuse, Mentally Illness, PTSD

You can’t know what you don’t know. Part II

Mnemosyne: A Love Affair with Memory

“You can’t know what you don’t know.”  That’s what my therapist said as she sat in her chair, waiting for my response.  I scanned my mind looking for clues to explain my past behavior.  When I was a boy growing up in the baptist church I was taught that we have free will — we know the difference between right and wrong, and it is up to us to make the right decision.  It sounded so simple.  Now I have a different view.  Our behavior is based on a combination of our biological makeup and life’s experiences — nature and nuture.

Nature tattoos us with a genetic makeup, DNA, that determines who we are in many fundamental ways.  Nuture is a product of what we see, hear, smell, and touch, and the countless life experiences that mold our core.  Developmental biology tells us that we are a combination of the two.  From the beginning, we are organisms with a genetic blueprint that continually interacts with our environment, causing change to occur as we move from conception, to childhood, to adulthood, and finally to death.  In her book, “The Biology of Violence,” Debra Niehoff says, “Even the most unrepentant assailants, the most cold-blooded murderers, the most sadistic of serial killers, were once infants.  There was a time when they could barely hold a rattle, much less a gun; when they smiled for Christmas portraits and giggled at peek-a-boo; when they were afraid of fireworks, needed help to feed themselves, and wore shoes no bigger than ring boxes.  What happened?  What inner or outer factor — parents, schools, genes, morals, abuse, television, neglect, stress, attention deficits, self-esteem, temperament — has the power to transform innocence into violence?  The answer provided by modern neuroscience is ‘all of the above’”

“It was the childhood abuse that caused me to act in a certain way.  I’m certain that I knew the difference between right and wrong.  All of the abuse programmed me to think and act in negative ways.  It’s my DNA.”  That’s what I told my therapist.  We agreed that it explains my past behavior.

I think about this therapy session when I examine my life, and when I wrote my two books about two female prison inmates.  Both inmates participated in violent acts.  And in each case, each person has a history of physical and sexual abuse.  There are so many inmates who committed acts of violence that were “programmed” to behave in a certain way.  I’m certain that a lot of them knew the difference between right and wrong, but their “programmed” ways overpowered and concept of “right and wrong.”  It doesn’t excuse their behavior, but it certainly explains it.  You can’t know what you don’t know.”

Tagged: Childhood sexual abuse, Mental Illness, PTSD, sexual abuse

You can’t know what you don’t know. Part I

Mnemosyne: A Love Affair with Memory

I was a young boy, six-years old as I recall, and about to enter the first grade at the DeLand Elementary school.  This was a big day for me, a chance to show my older brother and his friends what I was made of.  The older boys had physically and sexually abused me and I wanted to be just like them.  (Sounds crazy doesn’t it.)  My plan was simple.  I would act up in class until the teacher took out the paddle and spanked me.  (Spanking was common decades ago.)  My young teacher kept telling me to stop but I was persistent.  Finally she removed the paddle from her draw and with tears in her eyes, she spanked me.  (I later wondered if I was the first student she had ever spanked.)  I couldn’t wait until school was out so I could tell my brother and his friends what I had done.  But much to my surprise, they turned and walked away as I was sharing my experience.  I believe they said that I was crazy.

Fast forward several decades later when I had been diagnosed with PTSD brought on by memories of childhood sexual abuse.  I was talking with my therapist about my past behavior.  Of course I had more troublesome experiences than my first grade spanking.  ”Why did I do such things when I was younger?” I asked.  I was ashamed of my past behavior and didn’t understand why I had committed such acts.  ”How could I have done such things”

“You can’t know what you don’t know,” she said.  Simple and powerful, that was her statement.  I sat quietly as I reached for a response.  It was obvious that my therapist wanted me to discover the meaning of her statement.  This was the key to my past behavior.

(Part II will be coming soon.)

Tagged: Childhood sexual abuse, Mental Illness

A special thanks to the Longbranch Coffeehouse & the Daily Egyptian

I want to thank the Longbranch Coffeehouse for inviting me to participate in their author series.  The book reading/discussion was held before a lively audience who offered up several interesting questions.  My book, “Mnemosyne:  A Love Affair with Memory,” has served as a vehicle for discussing one of society’s biggest sins — childhood sexual abuse.

I also want to thank the Daily Egyptian, the Southern Illinois University student newspaper, for writing a story about my book reading/discussion at the Longbranch Coffeehouse.  The story can be found at http://dailyegyptian.com/author-share...

Tagged: Childhood sexual abuse, Memoir, PTSD

When I first heard the words in the dark black night. Part II

I feel like I need to elaborate on my previous blog — “When I first heard the words in the dark black night.”

I just finished watching a concert of Jason Mraz on my television.  It was so obvious that Jason goes to that well of creativity which I referred to in my previous blog — “When I first heard the words in the dark black night.”  Without thinking, Jason pulls buckets of that liquid-like gel of creativity from the all too familiar well.  I couldn’t help but feel overcome by an urge to begin writing; looking and expecting to wallow in that substance that I call love.  How could any rush of that magnitude be called anything but love, God, or some spiritual force.  Of course I could be a bit more scientific and say that it was an excess of endorphins that I experienced.  But since this is my blog, I will call it love.

When I want to explain a difficult concept, I turn to the use of metaphors.  Lets imagine that we are sitting in the living room with our children or grandchildren.  I’ve done this many times before.  For the moment, the conversations have stopped as we listen to music fill the room.  The children, two, three, or four years of age, begin dancing in an unplanned, uncontrolled, creative way of moving about the room.  They’re dancing to the tune of a different drummer, some might say.  No inhibitions, no self-made boundaries to restrict the freedom of movement.  This is creativity at its finest.  Now watch the same children twenty years later.  Self imposed inhibitions, lower self esteem, someone is watching me, etc…  The well of creativity has been hampered if not closed.  The great artists are like children.  They swim in that liquid-like gel that I call love.

A good musician has a command of the techniques used to sing or play their instrument.  A truly great musician adds creativity to their performance.  When I was a music major at the University of Illinois, we had a saying:  You are either a musician or a mechanic.  A musician plays with feeling.  The mechanic is merely a musician without feeling.  Writing works the same way.  Not only do we have to master the craft of writing, but to be a great writer we must visit the well of creativity and submerge ourselves in the liquid-like gel I call love.

When I feel the rush of creativity knocking on my door I must do something.  After each of my two previous books I quickly began working on my next manuscript.  I had to write another book.  I had neglected the marketing aspect of my books.  Now I’m trying to get into social media and build my platform — all things that we are suppose to do if someone is going to buy our book.  As a result, I haven’t begun writing in a serious manner for a few months.  My well of creativity is running over the top and leaking in numerous places.  I don’t know how much longer I can hold off.  So, what do I do?  For the moment, I’m going to concentrate on the marketing of my book and write more blogs.  Maybe the blogs will allow the creativity to simmer for awhile.  Perhaps I’ll sing to my dog, clean out the garage, or feel like my soul is beginning to die.

 

When I first heard the words in the dark black night.

I was three, maybe fourth months into therapy.  Horrific memories of childhood sexual abuse came in different ways — sometimes a complete memory, other times in bits and pieces while meditating.  I was very proficient in meditation, and would sit for thirty to forty-five minutes, and even an hour.  The really bad memories erupted during nightmares in the form of metaphors which had to be analyzed in order to grasp their meaning.  On this particular night the meditation flowed nice and easy, allowing me to experience the sensation of floating throughout the darkened room.  Only the street light slide under the window shade.  Otherwise, it was a dark black night. This was when I began hearing words that jumped in my mind.  The structure and rhymes seemed like poetry — crude, unrefined, but powerful nonetheless.  Maybe my surprise came from  the fact that I had no interest in writing or reading the written word.  I moved to my computer to see if I could recall what I had heard.  My fingers flew across the keyboard as lines of poetry appeared on my computer screen.  It was easy and without effort.  I was writing poetry about the sexual abuse I had experienced during my childhood.  It felt like I was in the middle of some alien experience, or perhaps a miracle.

The next day I was sitting at my desk where I maintained a financial planning office.  I couldn’t help but think about the previous night’s experience when I actually wrote some poetry.  I couldn’t wait until I went home and sat at my computer.  Evening came.  Okay, I thought, let’s see what I can write.  My mind was in lock down.  No words came forward.  Finally I gave up and assumed that last night’s experience was unexplainable and would never happen again.  So, I returned to my meditation and settled into my soft chair.  Thirty minutes into meditation the same thing happened again — more poetry about childhood sexual abuse.

In the days that followed it became clear that the key was to meditate and wait for something to happen.  The meditation somehow eliminated the wall that had previously blocked my creativity.  In time I could enter the place where poets dare to tread.  My therapist suggested that I contact a writing teacher and see where my writing might lead.  I took her suggestion and talked with a client of mine who happen to teach in the English Department at the local university.  She worked with me for about 6 months and then suggested that I work with a teacher of creative nonfiction writing at the university who worked with me for three years.  Upon her suggestion I completed my MFA in creative nonfiction at Goucher College in Baltimore, Maryland.

Here I am three books later, thinking about the wonderful journey that I have taken.  My therapist and writing teachers changed my life.  I can now enter that well of creativity, floating through a liquid-like gel which must be love.  Not only does it happen when I write, the love comes forward anytime I open the door.  What a life changer it has been, and is there for the taking.  One only needs to trust, to feel, and ultimately to love.

 

A book reading at the Longbranch Coffeehouse

I’m looking forward to a reading of my latest book, “Mnemosyne:  A Love Affair with Memory,” at the Longbranch Coffeehouse located at Carbondale, Illinois.  The Longbranch, a longtime local establishment, is a coffeehouse with class — great people, smooth coffee, a fine assortment of food, and a perfect spot to hang out with some friends; the ideal environment for a book reading/discussion. Come join us at the Longbranch on Friday, November 22nd, at 7:00 p.m.

Yes, the inmates and I sing the same song.

Yesterday I had a wonderful experience as I met with 70 inmates at the Shawnee Correctional Center.  I spoke for two hours on my latest book, “Mnemosyne:  A Love Affair with Memory,” which deals with childhood physical and sexual abuse.   As I expected, we do sing the same song, that haunting melody I had referred to in an earlier blog.  The strongest connection came when I said, “You can’t know what you don’t know.”  I heard the wheels in their brains begin to turn like a dormant steel mill that hadn’t run for years.  We talked about how we all know the difference between right and wrong, but we have been programmed to act out, which dominants our desire to do the right thing.  Our behavior can be traced back to our childhood — physical and sexual abuse, no role models, and an inability to know how to trust, to feel, and ultimately to love.  Yes, we sang the same song, but now we began to harmonize.  It was a beautiful moment, one that I would love to repeat.