Join a one-night version of the Unspoken Ink Young Adult Cancer Creative Writing Workshop!
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Sign Up For An Open Write Night!
Interested in checking out what it’s like to join the online Unspoken Ink Creative Writing Workshop before committing to 8 weeks of the group? You’re in luck! On November 19th from 5-7 pm PT / 7-9 pm CT / 8-10 pm ET we’ll be hosting an Open Write Night (aka Unorthodox Ink)! You can spend an evening with other young adult cancer survivors and caregivers and do some creative writing while you’re at it.
Where: *Online* video chat. We’ll send you more information about joining after you register. Please have a microphone headset and a webcam.
Who: Young adult cancer survivors and young adult cancer caregivers.
When: November 19th, 5-7 pm PT / 7-9 pm CT / 8-10 pm ET.
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How does it work:
- This workshop uses the Amherst Writing and Artists (AWA) Method. The facilitator provides a writing prompt and you can use that prompt in any way you’d like to create a story over a set amount of time. Once we’ve finished our writing (yes, the facilitator writes too!), everyone is given the opportunity to read their writing out loud. Though sharing is optional, hearing your own story and hearing someone else’s, teaches us about our experiences and our stories. Once the piece is read, we reflect on the writing – what did we like, what stood out, what did we remember. Everything is considered fiction so we do not respond to the writer as a support group may, but keep the focus on the writing.
- Sometimes the prompts are about cancer, sometimes indirectly related to cancer, and sometimes not about cancer at all. Above all, the writing program emphasizes that we are more than a diagnosis.
- Following each weekly session, you may decide to submit your writing to Mallory (mallory@lacunaloft.org) for publication on LacunaLoft.org in their Young Adult Voices program section. This is not mandatory!
What Is It Like To Carry A Child?
Lately, the song by Peter Gabriel “I grieve” from the movie “City of Angels” plays on repeat when I see babies, baby clothes, little kids, blasted strollers and families in general while at the store, the mall, freaking Cracker Barrel.
I have to almost step outside of myself in order to NOT have a breakdown. Though some days are better than others, I can’t seem to fully accept this permanent loss.
What hurts the most is I will never have anyone who looks like me or inherits the way I tilt my head when I’m pondering or laughs like me.
As an only child, I have always enjoyed my own company. My imagination is huge. Now I wish I didn’t have such a huge imagination because I keep imagining what a son or daughter might’ve looked like.
I tend to focus my grief of being medically induced into menopause on not having anyone to look like me because I grew up just knowing my mother’s side of the family. Thanks to divorce when I was two, I never met anyone on my father’s side until I was 35 years old.
I look nothing like my mother. I look nothing like her side of the family. I have struggled with that.
There is no one to carry on my name. It literally stops with me.
What is it like to actually carry a child? Thanks to cancer, I will never know.
by Megan-Claire Chase
How would you respond to the writing prompt, ‘Ovary Suppression’?
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This writing comes directly from one of our participants in our Unspoken Ink Creative Writing Group for young adult cancer survivors. The participants met for 2 hours each week, for 8 weeks during our Summer 2018 session. This writing has not been edited since its original creation, showing the wonderfully raw and powerful prose coming from the courageous writing group participants each week. If you’d like to sign up for future sessions, please email info@lacunaloft.org or sign up on our interest form.
The Last Seven Days
Late in the spring, we shared a piece by Carol Anne responding to this same prompt… Now read another submission by a writer in the Unspoken Ink summer session…
The nights had felt endless and so had the days. The longest 8-minute phone call 18 months before was culminating in the longest, last 7 days.
Seven days of middle of the night meds.
Seven days of a constant stream of visitors.
Seven days of catch up phone calls.
Seven days of a beautiful, snowy world.
Seven days of ignoring the inevitable.
Seven days of silence.
Pills became syringes of liquids and creams. People became so far away, emotional expanses opening up the already pronounced physical distances between us. The world continued on outside in a ruthless veil of normalcy. Nods and blinks turned into silence.
The topic we’d ignored crashed through the house. It sloshed at our ankles and slowly rose up our legs, torsos, up to our noses.
I wanted to shout. Hit the rewind button. Ask all the questions I never knew I had and make space for the ones I hadn’t yet formed.
But then, all of a sudden, the seven days were over.
You were gone.
How would you respond to the writing prompt, ‘a moment’? “Everybody has a moment when you know nothing is going to be the same ever again, when one part of your life ends and another begins. This is when you know that the changes, for better or worse are going to be coming hard and fast. You’re on a roller coaster and all you can do is hope that your safety belt stays fastened and that you’ll come out in one piece. These moments are what make us who we are, and I know I wouldn’t be quite me without mine.”
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This writing comes directly from one of our participants in our Unspoken Ink Creative Writing Group for young adult cancer survivors. The participants are meeting for 2 hours each week, for 8 weeks during our Summer 2018 session. This writing has not been edited since its original creation, showing the wonderfully raw and powerful prose coming from the courageous writing group participants each week. If you’d like to sign up for future sessions, please email info@lacunaloft.org or sign up on our interest form.
The Little Things
The little things are often bigger than we give them credit for. There’s triumph in getting out of bed and staying out of it all day. There’s dignity and strength in showing up to treatment each day. Taking a shower and getting dressed, making dinner, eating dinner. Each moment is a celebration, each day is a new triumph of existence and life. Some days my only accomplishment is feeding the cats. Some days it’s staying sane in the face of grief and the terror I feel waiting for the results of my next scans. Is it radiation necrosis? Is my brain being eaten by the radiation that killed off Larry (my tumor)? Has my cancer come back a third time? Breathing through each day and surviving daily life is cause for celebration. It’s the (big) little things that give meaning and hope to each day.
by Carol Anne Pagliotti
You can read more of Carol Anne’s writing at SoapBoxVille.
How would you respond to the writing prompt, ‘a moment’? “Everybody has a moment when you know nothing is going to be the same ever again, when one part of your life ends and another begins. This is when you know that the changes, for better or worse are going to be coming hard and fast. You’re on a roller coaster and all you can do is hope that your safety belt stays fastened and that you’ll come out in one piece. These moments are what make us who we are, and I know I wouldn’t be quite me without mine.”
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This writing comes directly from one of our participants in our Unspoken Ink Creative Writing Group for young adult cancer survivors. The participants are meeting for 2 hours each week, for 8 weeks during our Summer 2018 session. This writing has not been edited since its original creation, showing the wonderfully raw and powerful prose coming from the courageous writing group participants each week. If you’d like to sign up for future sessions, please email info@lacunaloft.org or sign up on our interest form.
Silence Of Life
I miss the simplicity of just being. The hustle and bustle of this thing we call life is utterly stressful and noisy. All the distractions are blinking like neon lights. What’s amazing is when you pause and embrace the silence.
I never thought I could meditate, let alone make it a daily habit. Now I must have 15-20 minutes of pure silence a day, whether thru a guided meditation, music or just sitting. Once I understood that meditating and mindfulness does not mean totally clearing the mind, but it’s letting the thoughts come, release them and coming back to center. I truly see the value in it.
As a talker who used to work in radio and TV, noise used to fill the silence.
Now I see it’s the time in silence that is filling my soul.
by Megan-Claire Chase
You can read more of Megs writing at Life on the Cancer Train.
How would you respond to the writing prompt, From an animal’s point of view?
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This writing comes directly from one of our participants in our Unspoken Ink Creative Writing Group for young adult cancer survivors. The participants met for 2 hours each week, for 8 weeks during our Winter 2018 session. This writing has not been edited since its original creation, showing the wonderfully raw and powerful prose coming from the courageous writing group participants each week. If you’d like to sign up for future sessions, please email info@lacunaloft.org or sign up on our interest form.
Infertility
I saw the cutest little boy at Target, maybe he was two or something, wearing the most darling sweater vest and bowtie. I couldn’t stop looking at him. Before I knew it, I was crying; just silent tears rolling down my cheeks. It was a punch in the gut because cancer took away my option to have my own child.
Yes, I know there are many children who need a home and could foster or adopt. I actually want to smack people when they make that insensitive comment. Why can’t they see how much it hurts me to know I’ll never have someone who favors me or inherits my talent?
What is my legacy?
I somehow ended up in the children’s section while at Target. I couldn’t stop the torture. Every tutu, dress, bowtie and little shoes caused a tear and my breath to catch in my throat.
It’s funny that I think about children at least once a day. I had convinced myself pre-cancer that I would never have any and didn’t want any. They are too expensive. What if they are premature like I was and filled with health problems? Plus, I’m single, so end of story.
Yet, when my oncologist and gynecologist said it’s best to have a hysterectomy and bilateral salpingo oophorectomy to lower my chances of a breast cancer recurrence since my body suffered such horrible sided effects from all the post treatment for pre-menopausal women, my heart stopped. The final step was to medically induce me into menopause many, many years early and hope my body will respond well to the post treatment for menopausal women. Plus, the surgery would completely prevent me getting cervical, ovarian, uterine cancer and endometriosis. Sigh.
I collapsed into tears. Do I want to live or die? Thanks to cancer, my insides are already dead.
by Megan-Claire Chase
How would you respond to the writing prompt, Reproductive Endocrinology & Infertility?
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This writing comes directly from one of our participants in our Unspoken Ink Creative Writing Group for young adult cancer survivors. The participants met for 2 hours each week, for 8 weeks during our Winter 2018 session. This writing has not been edited since its original creation, showing the wonderfully raw and powerful prose coming from the courageous writing group participants each week. If you’d like to sign up for future sessions, please email info@lacunaloft.org or sign up on our interest form.
Imagine
I imagine a world where people see beyond color, shape and size.
I imagine a world where I can be accepted for ME and not be told I’m a sellout or that I “speak well.”
I imagine a world where employers work to understand how cancer affects us.
I imagine a world that loves and no one is homeless.
I imagine a world where hugs are a daily start to each day.
I imagine a world where the mind is free from the constant fear and anxiety of cancer coming back.
I imagine a world where all my true friends and I lived not only in the same state but same neighborhood.
I imagine a world where loneliness is a thing of the past.
Imagine that…
by Megan-Claire Chase
How would you respond to the writing prompt, imagine?
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This writing comes directly from one of our participants in our Unspoken Ink Creative Writing Group for young adult cancer survivors. The participants meet for 2 hours each week, for 8 weeks during our Winter 2018 session. This writing has not been edited since its original creation, showing the wonderfully raw and powerful prose coming from the courageous writing group participants each week. If you’d like to sign up for future sessions, please email info@lacunaloft.org or sign up on our interest form.
Beep, You’re Alive
Ah, the loud, annoying beeps that reminds you that you’re still alive. That sound echo’s in the infusion room. No more watching Grey’s Anatomy or The Good Doctor. Seeing those machines on TV make it too close to home.
Heartbeat, pulse – oh so rapid.
That shortness of breath was for real. Lovely how the infusion nurse says to take long, deep breaths and relax. Why is the machine turned?! “Show me the numbers!!!,” I say in a Jerry Maguire voice. Turns out, pulse was rapid, heartbeat rising. No wonder she only turned the machine after appearing to calm down.
Why does the cord and line to the port always get tangled? I don’t want to tango with you. My dance card is full.
by Megan-Claire Chase
How would you respond to the writing prompt, reduced to vital signs?
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This writing comes directly from one of our participants in our Unspoken Ink Creative Writing Group for young adult cancer survivors. The participants meet for 2 hours each week, for 8 weeks during our Winter 2018 session. This writing has not been edited since its original creation, showing the wonderfully raw and powerful prose coming from the courageous writing group participants each week. If you’d like to sign up for future sessions, please email info@lacunaloft.org or sign up on our interest form.
Flame
It started as a slight flame, a little warm but not uncomfortable. As my body showed more and more signs that something was wrong, the slight flame became a blazing and dangerous wildfire attacking my very soul.
The visual burning of flesh never leaves my memory. Damn you radiation. Damn you chemo. The dark marks left on the neck are a daily reminder of how you engulfed me and pushed my emotional state over the edge.
Oh burning flame, you tried to turn me into ashes, but I triumphed. I still feel the aches and pains from dancing with flames, but I keep on pushing on. It’s a slow recovery but resilient; somehow, always resilient.
You are ashes to me now. Putting you out nearly killed me. As if it wasn’t bad enough you burned my insides, leaving me barren, forever childless. I am a shell of myself, but again resilient. I will rebuild again.
by Megan-Claire Chase
How would you respond to the writing prompt, How the Fire Started?
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This writing comes directly from one of our participants in our Unspoken Ink Creative Writing Group for young adult cancer survivors. The participants meet for 2 hours each week, for 8 weeks during our Winter 2018 session. This writing has not been edited since its original creation, showing the wonderfully raw and powerful prose coming from the courageous writing group participants each week. If you’d like to sign up for future sessions, please email info@lacunaloft.org or sign up on our interest form.