I’ve always been a puzzler.
For me, writing has often served as a process to process the past. To use craft to rework, rewrite and revise life defining moments that tend to stick with a person.
Until recently.
The way I write has taken a turn.
I blame collage.
A high school friend taught me how to collage. The style was what I now recognize as that of Hannah Höch (1889-1978), the only female member of the Berlin Dada and credited as one of the inventors of collage. Back in my teen days, it was just words cut from magazines and assembled in meaningful ways on glass bottles, sealed fast with clear Mod Podge.
I rediscovered collage a little over a year ago. Both Substack and Instagram host many collage collectives sponsoring open calls and I decided to participate. Puzzling and piecing materials busts the wheels off preconceived notions for me. I would assume some artists (as well as writers) may outline a plan, but me as a pantzer, any early vague idea goes off the rails fairly quickly. The final result of a finished collage is beyond what I imagined.
As is my writing these days. I’m viewing the world with curious wonder.
Two examples of past and present writing.
Back Street Press published “63 Ghia” online 3/11/2020. The rework of a past incidents in this short creative nonfiction piece is the terror of knowing now that the decision I made that day could have easily landed me in a bad situation or far worse.
The speedometer hits 80 mph with no sign of slowing down. My Karmann Ghia, it’s old and not in a collectible way. I bought the car for 400 bucks scraped together from working the credit desk part-time at a furniture store on the weekends. The engine block sat covered in sand and the doors flew open every corner I turned, but I considered both mere details. I knew my grandfather could clean it up and fix the doors and he did with slide bolts, installing an extra set on the passenger side the day I almost dumped out my grandmother on a grocery run.
I pull over at John Deere and throw the car into neutral. The engine roars like twenty lawnmowers ready to explode. I switch off the ignition and grab a roll of black electrical tape from the glove box, my go-to fix to keep this heap running.
I lift the hood and fiddle with the simple engine. Someone yells, need help? A guy walks across the parking lot wiping his hands with a grimy cloth. He’s outfitted all John Deere.
He tips his hat with the trademark stag and I step back, giving myself a clear getaway, lesson learned post-Ted Bundy. Even though the creep is locked up in the state pen, a girl can’t be too careful about inspired copycat killers. The guy leans in and I tell him the car won’t slow down, even when I lift my foot off the gas. Be right back, he says and returns holding a large paper clip. More trusting now I’ve witnessed his interaction within the actual John Deere building, I step up and watch him fasten the paper clip in and through some thingamabob and give it a tug. Start it up, he says.
The car idles in typical sputter. Rev the engine. He listens and nods. OK, foot off the gas. The engine slows. Yup. The throttle return spring snapped. The paper clip will do you for now, don’t wait, get it fixed. He slams down the hood and thumps an all set. I slide bolt my door locked and ease away, back in the groove of responsive RPMs. Later, I secure the clip with two slivers of electrical tape. I never take the car to a mechanic, but I do buy a box of large paper clips.
The last sentence, ugh. Still brings me back.
Fish Barrel Review published “The Fix” online as part of Issue 9, February 28, 2025. The images pop into my brain demanding to be popped into rare form.
Two angels walk the park. A cold face is found upturned in the snow. He is bleeding yellow pipes. The angels manifest a plumber. She arrives in a pink Mercedes. She’s never been born. The repair is before her time. A welder steps out of the car. He is twenty years from becoming the plumber’s father. He grabs his plasma torch and welds the leak closed. The angels meditate the mended man back home and wing over to the cafe for coffee.
One certainty. An angel was definitely riding shotgun whenever I drove that Ghia.
My last traditional narrative short story was published February 29, 2024. My last nine published pieces with two forthcoming have been these magical tiny tales. The past it seems is behind me, although in both stories, I still harbor a flair for fixing things, lol.
Thank you, Back Patio Press and Fish Barrel Review for publishing my work.
Thank you for reading my then and now writing. Be safe out there.
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World Collage Day is Saturday, May 10, 2025. Read more at the Kolaj Institute here.
That last photo 📎🖇🥹 ...then and now is beautiful 🤍
Mod Podge! That brings me back.