Barbara Chapman
When cultivating words pruning is essential. Often it’s the passages or phrases that you prize the most that need to be cut. As a word gardener of many years, this is a key lesson that Barbara has learned.
Barbara's arrival in Shropshire in the early 90s coincided with the founding of Bridgnorth Writers and she was delighted to become a member.
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At that time, she aspired to follow in the footsteps of a famous Barbara in the realm of romantic fiction. Alas, despite the coincidence of their initials, this was not to be.
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With the encouragement of the Group, Barbara has ventured into other genres and now writes flash fiction, short stories, poetry and has even tried her hand at haiku.
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She has been involved in a number of projects with Bridgnorth Writers, the latest of which culminated in an anthology entitled Stirring the Dust. The project was based on an exploration of origins and offered a wide scope for inspiration. Writing the Ancestors Back to Life, a workshop she devised and presented, was just one of the creative fruits of this endeavour.
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Barbara has been longlisted in The Doris Gooderson short story competition.
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There is a novel completed and waiting in the wings, so watch this space!
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Barbara is chair of Bridgnorth Writers.
Visit
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I follow the white coat. Stop, present card, door unlocks, pass through, door locks. There have been three doors since I left Dr Conrad’s office.
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“She’s doing well,” he assured me. “We have techniques for managing the condition. It takes time to find the most suitable. You’ll see.”
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I wonder what the techniques are, feel doubt tinged with hope, or perhaps it’s the other way round.
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We are before the final door. The orderly opens, steps to the side leaving me framed in the entrance.
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It’s her - pale face, thin hands. But where her hands were always in motion now they are still; she is clasping something, clinging to it as if it were an anchor.
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“Hello,” I say. “What have you got there?”
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She stares past me then refocuses. Her hand opens, offers a smooth, oval stone.
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“What are those? Words?”
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“Pins.” The word falls strangely from her lips.
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The marks on the stone are words: Life, Curve, Smooth, Tumbled, Lost…
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“I see.”
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I don’t.
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She smiles, the Sarah of old. Blink, she’s gone.
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“They force the words to wait their turn. Then I can make them into stories. Always so many words…”
“The stone fixes them for you.”
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“Yes!”
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My heart wrenches. “Tell me a story!”
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The orderly slams the door. The stone thuds against it.
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“My fault?” I ask.
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“Good days, bad days.”
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We leave: present card, door unlocks, pass through, door locks…