Views and Mechanics Publisher's Note Memories of the Body Broken Review of Ambition Is Not a Dirty Word Review of The Blood of Flowers Review of The Girl Who Stopped Swimming Review of The Poet Laureate of People Who Hate Poetry Creative Nonfiction My Boo Radley By Rebecca Ward A Walk in the Park By Madonna Dries Christensen Poetry Hearts and Diamonds By Andrena Zawinski It Was Then I Kissed Her By Andrena Zawinski In By Andrena Zawinski Death of Word By Tony Brown Fiction Being Caught Up With My Ego By David Landrum A Voice In My Head Screamed By J. A. Tyler About the Contributors © 2008, River Walk Journal and respective authors and artists. All rights reserved. Do not use or reproduce without permission. River Walk Journal, Inc. Board of Directors Chairman - Elizabeth Ross Vice Chairman - Joseph Koch Secretary/Treasurer - Geri Stock-Ross Editorial Director - Patti Kurtz, DA Literacy Director - Kenneth Weiss, Ed.D Policy Director - PA State Rep. Jess Stairs Advisory Board Chairman - Patti Kurtz, DA Asst. Chairman - Dan Lachenman, PhD Samuel Hazo Christopher Leland Edwin Yoder Joseph Bathanti Journal Staff Publisher - Elizabeth Ross Editor-In-Chief - Joseph Koch Senior Editor - Patti Kurtz Editor - Elizabeth Murray Copyeditor - Kathy Skaggs Publicity Director (PA) - Geri Stock-Ross For information about submissions, visit http://www.riverwalkjournal.org/subs.html. Questions about promotions, subscribers' services, and advertising should be sent to publisher@riverwalkjournal.org. River Walk Journal, Inc. is a non-profit corporation run entirely by volunteers. For information about volunteer opportunities and internships, visit VolunteerMatch. |
Notes from a Journal VI “What are you writing now?” The question echoes in my mind for a while, and finally repeats itself as I try to push it back to its source, deep in the recesses of my subconscious. Knowing it will keep repeating if I keep ignoring it, I think to myself, “another essay.” “Still writing that radical stuff?” “No,” my thoughts snap back at the intrusion. “Not this time.” These conversations in my mind would seriously cause me worry if I hadn’t already made sure they were at least a little normal. I asked a professor in psychology once if there was anything abnormal about my having conversations in my mind with my dead father. At first, I was worried that I would be carted away, but after a few questions to clarify what I meant, it was determined that it was probably my mind’s way of remembering him, and more importantly, his voice – harmless, if a bit odd. Since then, the frequency of these talks has decreased dramatically, and invariably happen only when I’m writing now. It’s like I have an automatic critic sitting in the background, ready to leap out and prompt me on what I’m writing. I know my father would have been annoyed with my political writing in particular, so his voice pipes in most often when I’m engrossed in political works. “You can do anything you put your mind to.” He used to say that all the time when I was growing up, but now his voice warns of being too edgy, making enemies, and calling too much of the “wrong kind of attention” to myself. It leaves me with an interesting internal struggle each time I sit at my keyboard – one that if I allow it too much weight, paralyzes my mind. I could call it writer’s block, but that is far too simplistic. “Stick with what you know,” he mocks, but it is a fatal error. It was his insistence that left me in the smoky backrooms of political campaigns before it was legal for me to partake of the cigars – or vote. I remember him glaring at me that November night in ’96 while I smoked a celebratory cigar. It was the first one, and at least I was old enough to have it. That was the last campaign I worked in the public eye – ever since I’ve been in shadows, helping candidates that would undoubtedly deny knowing me if it ever came to light. I liked that fine, and I guess that’s why my father’s voice is protesting my steps into the political spotlight, small as they may be. He taught me quite a bit – “you’ll learn more by listening,” and “be a fly on the wall.” I followed his advice, and learned volumes. But something broke not so long ago. I was approached by “a friend of a friend” to go into the depths again, this time to help do some damage control for a politician I wasn’t sure knew I was being consulted. It was more ugly than usual – something that in itself was frightening, given the amount of dirt I’d dug over the years. My reply was direct and to the point – “I’m retired.” But I wasn’t. Playing in the political arena was bred in me, and some would say I was born into it, given our family history. It skipped a couple generations, so I got a large dose. My father’s voice didn’t come up when I was asked to do the dirty work of yanking skeletons from closets, but it came in loud and clear when I crossed the line into writing analyses of others doing what I used to do. He died before the current administration, and undoubtedly would have encouraged me to become more like Karl Rove. Being in it is fine, but writing about it? Never! My father would have hated the idea of my becoming a political writer, and my subconscious keeps reminding me of it. I don’t want to exorcize his spirit entirely, but I do keep wishing it would be quiet when I’m writing. “Don’t like how something is? Work harder to change it,” he says. Set the bar higher. All right, dad, whatever you say. Remember, the pen is mightier than the sword. Now, be quiet and let me think…. Elizabeth Ross |