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Filtering by Category: In Handwriting
Resolution #O: Use That New Health Insurance and Finally Go to the Doctor • Chelsea Florio
Bretty Rawson
Resolution #2: Stop Dating Men with Mediocre Ambition • Kaitlin Kominski
Bretty Rawson
If you haven't made any resolutions this year, here are four great places to start. May your resolutions be short, sweet, and sharp.
Read MoreIt Merges Their Work With My Writing Hand • Monica Coughlin
Bretty Rawson
BY MONICA COUGHLIN
In school I learned to write cursive with a fountain pen and I have loved them ever since. I have had many pens, some expensive ones, but none is the workhorse that the Sheaffer Schoolhouse fountain pen has been for me. The ink always flows, it is the Sheaffer or the Cross fountain pen that I turn to the most. For me there is an intimate quality to the handwritten word. I like to write my own words in longhand, but also the words of others'. It merges their work with my writing hand and creates for me a special bond.
The Tears We Refuse Touch Bone • Four Poems by Karen Benke
Bretty Rawson
Karen Benke is a creative writer, adventurer of pen and paper, and long time poem-maker. She is the author of the chapbook, Sister (Conflux Press, 2014), and three popular books on playing on the page, Rip the Page! (Roost Books/Shambhala, 2010); Leap Write In! (Roost Books/Shambhala, 2013); and Write Back Soon! Adventures in Letter Writing (Roost Books/Shambhala, 2015). She lives north of the Golden Gate Bridge with her teenage son, a magic cat, and a rescue dog. Though she prefers receiving letters via snail mail, she can be reached via her website: www.karenbenke.com.
All of Us, Once Angels, Who Finally Finished Falling • John Reed
Bretty Rawson
Poet and playwright John Reed takes us inside his head, where his sonnets start, but also on a bus, where his sonnets form, and finally, where they end up, scribbled onto a napkin. It's how he escapes doubt, and discovers form.
Read MoreBernie Sanders, in a Mansion, with a Subaru Forrester • Trinity Tibe
Bretty Rawson
HANDWRITTEN BY TRINITY TIBE
My fifth grade year, I was addicted to the game of MASH. Every day before school and at lunchtime, my friends and I would huddle around our spiral notebooks, trying our hands at rudimentary divination. Who would we marry? How many children would we have? What car would we drive? Would we end up living in mansions or shacks?
Back then, I solidly believed in the institution of marriage, and probably wanted to marry Jonathan Taylor Thomas or Elijah Wood. I wanted 2 or 3 children, though I always left that third slot open for my friend to play a wild card. More than once it was predicted that I would have 1,000 children. Wow. I'm thirty, unmarried, and childless. Better get on it.
Oh, the MASH days, before I paid attention to gas prices or the idea of keeping my privilege in check. At first I wanted a simple convertible, but the game made me greedy. Soon I was writing "Hummer stretch limo with a hot tub and a personal chef" in tiny letters on the game board. Meanwhile a friend would write in "Clown Car" as my third option. Thank you, whoever you were, for keeping it real.
I loved drawing the game board, perfectly-shaped, filling in the spaces. I loved saying "Stop!" as my friend spiraled her pencil in the middle box, sealing my fate. Maybe what I loved most of all was that, no matter what the outcome was, there was always a chance to play again, to keep playing until the perfect future appeared.
Trinity Tibe is a co-founder of Say Yes Electric Collective, an art community in Prospect Heights, Brooklyn, that creates space for diverse artists and encourages collaboration. She is working on her MFA in Poetry at The New School, and she also loves to draw, paint, and puppeteer. Find her at TrinityTibe.com or @trinitytibe
Writing Prompts for Anxiety Attacks • Kaitlin Campbell
Bretty Rawson
Up and Back Again • Chad Frisk
Bretty Rawson
On the top of a mountain in the Pacific Northwest, author Chad Frisk came to a clearing. He didn't expect to write there, but he also didn't expect to be there, which is exactly why he wrote there. Below is the result in its original shape.
“The top wasn’t what we thought it would be. There were no signs telling us what to expect. You just stepped up and into a world that was entirely invisible from below.”
“How did we get here? we thought. The earth stretched out in all directions like bunched up maps on a cluttered desk. To one side, bright blue lakes linked in a loose chain. To the other, the steep black peaks of unnamed mountains.”
Trails of Thought • Brett Rawson
Bretty Rawson
Sometimes, words do not express the thoughts in the shape that we feel them. For Brett Rawson, he often finds himself in need of blank space, a pen, and his hand to fully follow the shape of his thoughts.
Read MoreIndian Summer Evenings • Nivedita Nivi
Bretty Rawson
While some use their journals to capture the everyday experience, Nivi uses them as a space and place for her poetry to roam.
Read MoreSnappy Stories in Bed
Bretty Rawson
A Get Well card from an antique shop that is dated 1955. A cute cat, thoughtful note, and throw-back to getting better, hurriedly so.
Read MoreClean
Bretty Rawson
Sarah Madges is a handwriter living in Brooklyn. Her handwriting has appeared in numerous composition notebooks, a handful of three-subject college ruled notebooks, and a whole host of moleskines. She also works with typed words, which have appeared in places like the Village Voice, Killing the Angel, and various abandoned blog platforms.
300 Mg
Bretty Rawson
Wellbutrin blues dose high dose low so close. closet blues
keep shoes rubber made walking. white round scribbles. Avoid
avoids. Walk away stomp shoes bouncing soles black.
colorful hyphen split open particles purged beads of feel
betters scattering scattered. Extend the release of. You might
experience. May include. Talk to your doctor.
Peristaltic magic make me whole soul bouncing.
Internal tremors shake off just wellbutrin blues.
Swallow swallows swallowed shallow breathing blue-
Ing. Better better better better. Walk out old life
matinee movie — much brighter than you
remembered. Glittering goldly sweetly scrim of
saccharine. Put it on peristaltic. Old life moth balls
closet blues forget forgot. Swallowing a white room
quiet white noise machine drown out therapy
drown out but what about tell me about talk
about I. Scratch pad for scars give coat for bag
rattling. Bouncing in bag walking out old life.
Ticking rattler reminder not quite not quite. Quit.
Sarah Madges is a handwriter living in Brooklyn. Her handwriting has appeared in numerous composition notebooks, a handful of three-subject college ruled notebooks, and a whole host of moleskines. She also works with typed words, which have appeared in places like the Village Voice, Killing the Angel, and various abandoned blog platforms.