THE EMPATH
FOR SPLATTER, as her students call her, writing is that creative outlet, that necessary escape when life feels challenging. Her voice in prose leans poetic, but she hopes her dialogue feels instinctual, honest. She spends most of her writing time on screenplays. She’s drummed up a novel or two. She hopes her wordsmithing will become both on-screen comfort films and the curved spine of the well-loved novel tossed in the backseat, often revisited, and discussed over coffee. Stephanie Platter loves singing at church with her family, and in her day job she teaches her passions to high schoolers. She writes when it rains, so it’s a good thing she lives in Seattle.
Awaken the soul. Listen And fuel the craving for Kinship. Awaken the voice. Silence Then burst forth in glorious Singing. Awaken the mind. Wonder At all that the world has to Offer. Awaken the eyes. Dream of all that is yet to be Made. Awaken the body. Open Hands wide to…
You won’t understand unless you’ve been through it, in it, under it. Dunk then emerge. Half and then whole. At six years old I had my first swimming lesson. The lakes in Minnesota, though dark and cold and rocky on the outset, are not frightening or foreboding. They are still. Drop a pebble in from…
In a different life I’d paint the streets By night, a stealthy lord. An artist loner dreamer type, Allegiance shown in words. On business walls and reader boards On windows and on signage. I’d Banksy this and Fairey that Along my pilgrimage. Art speaks the words I cannot say Graffiti…
Tie a yellow ribbon. Be on time. Set an alarm. Set two. Don’t forget your purse. Where are those keys? It’s heavy whipping cream not half and half. She’s had a hard year. Don’t bring up her trip to the U.K. Sing from your diaphragm. It’s not your fault. Don’t forget to breathe. Just breathe.…
The senses are born to savor. Awake and link to memory all that you are taking in. Flavors : The perfect citrus jems; the meal salted, plated, warm; the scrumptious offering of garden fresh snap, the sizzling simmer saucing; the sweet! Your eyes close in pure delight. Flaky, croissant crust sugared and warm, fresh out of…
I have a crush on Prufrock. T.S. Eliot’s character. I have no idea why his poem is called a love song. It’s not about love. It screams Odysseus lost at sea waiting to be torn from the mast by his own longings. I don’t know why I like him. He’s moody, older, scuffed and stumbling.…
I’d like to write a book called What to Expect When You’re Least Expecting It. Or… What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Crazy. Or… When Life Gives You Lemons… Make Lemon Bars. Are You Kidding With the Lemonade? Okay, that’s kind of a long title. How about The Tailspin of Perfectionism? Or maybe: Disappointment…the Disillusionment of Believing…
Home is a season A doing A done A longing A haven A song to be sung A knowing A settled A heart hanging hat A washing A wearing A knick and a knack A picnic A berry pie Lazy noon nap Adventures By lakeside A fireside camp A circle A diamond A threshold A…
Not all who wander are lost. The first place I drove when I got my license was the grocery store. I don’t know why, but all of those lined shelves in sections, labels out, helps remove stress. All’s well with the world there. I don’t even have to buy anything. Just wander and feel better.…
“Bowl is life.” The sign above the door boasts explosive clip art of a bowling ball striking pins over Ariel Bold font. You push the metal bar on the door and step into a rush of hot, stale air, the air of the alleys. Incessant rolls of thunder and subsequent crashes on repeat. Marge at…
My heart an empty stained old thing It bends within its cage Withering whistling whip-stilled and struggling Rages and bursts again. Be careful with that It’s an emblem, you see Once broken it takes quite an army To push on the sand till it’s swallowed by clams And pearlized by their tongues in their…
Kindred 