Ellis Elliott is poet and fiction writer, and published her first poetry collection, “Break in the Field”, in 2023 with Devil’s Party Press. It was a finalist for the Two Sylvia’s Press Wilder Poetry Book Prize. She is to publish her first cozy mystery novel, set in the mountains of East Tennessee, and based on a lineage of Appalachian Granny Women, in 2025 with Current Words Press.
She also is leads writers in “Bewilderness Writing”, a writing practice based on freewriting from poetry prompts.
Holidays can famously bring out the best and worst in human behavior, and that is exactly why they are a fertile time for writers.
We witness Aunt Marge refuse her annual holiday dinner invitation because of a disagreement she had with your mom in 1986. We watch as 40-year-old cousin Clayton once again retreats to the basement to play video games. We laugh more than we have the entire year at the family Christmas song karaoke contest. It’s all there.
For writer’s, this isn’t a problem. It’s material.
Every gathering becomes a small stage where coping mechanisms perform. Pay attention to who fills silence, who polices tradition, who disappears into dishes or drinks or distraction. These aren’t flaws—they’re strategies. And strategies are where character lives.
Notice the body before the story: clenched jaws, doorway hovering, over-loud laughter, tears. You don’t need to interpret, just collect details. Meaning comes later.
As the year turns, resist the urge to overanalyze what the holidays reveal. Instead, write from them.
A New Year Writing Invitation:
Choose one uncomfortable, or wildly sentimental, holiday moment. Describe it in plain language, then rewrite it from another point of view—or place it in another time.
May the new year bring closer observations by staying close to what’s real. That’s where the writing lives.
In moments of upheaval or change, poets often become the ones who name what others feel but are unable to articulate. Poetry has long been one of our most potent tools for reflection, resistance, and social awakening.
The following information comes from the blog posts of poet Trish Hopkinson:
In a world overflowing with information, it can feel almost impossible to hear the quiet murmur of our own inner voice. From the moment we wake, we are bombarded: endless news updates, social media scrolls, texts, and the constant hum of opinions vying for our attention. All of it fills the space where intuition—the whispering language of the subconscious—once thrived.
Yet, as writers, intuition is one of our greatest tools. It’s what allows us to leap into a story we don’t fully understand yet, to follow a surprising character down an unplanned path, or to trust an image or phrase that arrives out of nowhere. Without it, we risk writing only what we already know, instead of what wants to reveal itself.
Fall: The Season of Listening
October, with its crisp air and longer nights, brings a natural invitation to slow down and listen. Folklore tells us that in autumn, as the veil thins between the seen and unseen, intuition becomes easier to access. Shadows stretch differently, the wind carries voices, and we sense the tug of what lies just beyond.
This is the perfect time of year to tune in. The season itself seems to whisper: pay attention, the unseen is speaking.
Why We Lose Touch with Intuition
Intuition is quiet, subtle, and often inconvenient. It rarely announces itself in bold type. Instead, it flickers in images, hunches, gut feelings, or sudden questions that surface in stillness. When we drown our senses in constant input, we crowd out those fleeting signals. It’s like trying to hear an owl’s call on a windy night—you know it’s there, but the noise drowns it out.
Our culture rewards speed, productivity, and certainty. Intuition asks for slowness, stillness, and trust. It feels risky to follow because it rarely comes with a guarantee, but instead with a nudge: “this way, try this, pay attention.”
Reclaiming the Lost Art
The good news is intuition can be reawakened. Like any art, it thrives with practice:
Silence the noise. Even a few minutes of quiet each day—no phone, no media, just breath—can make space for inner knowing to rise.
Notice the body. Intuition often lives in the gut, the chest, the skin prickling on your arms. Writing down where and how you feel things can help you recognize its signals.
Follow the odd image. When a strange metaphor or unexpected detail shows up in your writing, resist the urge to explain it away. Let it lead you.
Trust the detours. If you sit down to write one thing but another insists on being written, follow that tug. Intuition often works sideways.
One of my favorite ways to access this hidden reservoir is through freewriting. When we put pen to paper without censoring, judging, or editing, we bypass the noisy critic in our head. Freewriting allows the subconscious to slip through, offering images, insights, and connections that often surprise us. It is a way of honoring the intuition that we so often ignore. In the flow of words that tumble out, we begin to recognize patterns, truths, and directions that were there all along, waiting to be heard.
Tuning in to our intuition is not about achieving perfection or following rules. It is about reclaiming an ancient art: the art of listening inwardly. As the veil thins, perhaps it is time to sit with the page, quiet the outside world, and let your own inner compass
Intuition as a Writer’s Compass
The deepest writing often doesn’t come from logic or planning alone—it comes from the subterranean river of memory, dream, and imagination. Intuition is the compass that guides us into that underground place. When we let it lead, we discover connections we couldn’t have forced, truths we didn’t know we were carrying, and stories that surprise even us.
This October, let the season itself be your reminder. As the veil thins and the shadows lengthen, practice listening for what arises in the quiet. Intuition is not a luxury—it is the thread that ties us to the mystery of creativity itself. To follow it is to reclaim a lost art, both in writing and in life.
(And if you are interested in learning about intuitively understanding your surroundings check out the books by writer Tristan Gooley, like The Nature Instinct or The Natural Navigator.)
Thank you for reading this post and visiting the Old Scratch Press Blog. Next Saturday October 25th at 5:00 p.m., three members of the Old Scratch Press Team are participating in a special online reading from their newly published books. FREE. Read more about it here. And follow us on Facebook.
Ellis Elliott, Founding Member, Old Scratch Press Collective, Author: Break in the Field and A Witch Awakens: A Fire Circle Mystery available on Amazon. Bewilderness Writing : http://bewildernesswriting.com/
There’s a certain stereotype about writers: distracted, dreamy, maybe a little moody, often lost in their own heads. Then there are those of us whose third-grade teacher writes on her report card, “Ellis is very sensitive. She says she doesn’t feel good when she doesn’t want to participate and sometimes puts her hands over her ears.”
What we don’t always name is that many of us identify with something more specific—ADHD, anxiety, depression, OCD, autism, bipolar disorder. In other words, neurodivergence.
Far from being a barrier, these brain patterns often come hand-in-hand with creativity. Our ability to notice connections others overlook, to hyper-focus on a project for hours, or to sense language at a heightened level can all be part of what makes us writers. (Doesn’t everyone have a list of words they hate simply because the way the word feels in their mouth?)
The Double-Edged Sword
Of course, the same brain that gifts us with creative leaps can also work against us. ADHD can make finishing projects feel like climbing Everest. Anxiety can whisper that nothing we write is ever good enough. Depression can steal the life-force necessary to even begin. The very sensitivity that makes us attuned to metaphor and meaning can leave us overwhelmed by the noise of the world.
Reframing the Narrative
Instead of treating neurodivergence as something to battle, what if we reframed it as part of the writer’s toolkit?
Hyperfocus can become a superpower for deep revision. Or help you finish the book!
Restless energy can fuel bursts of freewriting that break past creative blocks. That, and dance breaks.
Heightened sensitivity can deepen character work, dialogue, and description. As long as you remember to take breaks.
The key is learning how to manage the edges—finding rest, support, and strategies so that the gift doesn’t become a burden.
Practical Ways to Support Your Creative Brain
Chunk your writing time. Short, timed sessions (15–25 minutes) can harness focus without overwhelming you.
Write rituals, not rules. A small ritual (lighting a candle, stretching, a playlist) helps train your brain to enter writing mode.
Name the inner critic. Literally give it a name or persona so it loses power over you.
Seek community. Writing groups, workshops, or even online spaces help balance the solitary nature of the work.
Honor rest. Brains that run hot need recovery time. Pushing the pause-button isn’t failing—it’s part of the process.
Why It Matters
When we share openly about the link between writing and neurodivergence, we create permission for others. Permission to stop beating themselves up for struggling with deadlines. Permission to see their “quirks” as part of their artistry. Permission to make choices others might not understand. Permission to write anyway.
Do you identify as a neurodivergent writer? How does it show up in your creative process—both the gifts and the challenges?
Ellis Elliott
Founding member Old Scratch Press Poetry Collective
Author of Break in the Field poetry collection and A Witch Awakens: A Fire Circle Mystery.
Poetry has always moved with the times, and it is about time for me to drag myself along with it. From verses passed down orally to broadsides nailed to doors, from hand-sewn chapbooks to poems read over the radio, the form has never been fixed. Now, in the digital age, poetry has found a new home in the scroll.
And by scroll, I mean the swipe of a finger across a screen. On platforms like Instagram and TikTok, a younger generation is shaping how poetry is written, read, and shared. But this isn’t just for the under-30 crowd. If you insist on thinking this way, you may well get left behind. More and more poets of all ages are exploring these platforms—not to go viral, but to connect in quiet, and sometimes beautiful ways. And if you’re a poet who’s been writing for decades, or just starting out later in life, there’s a place for you in this unfolding form. (Even if that means asking your children, or grandchildren, for help—which they might then turn around and use for content on Instagram or TikTok later).
This is not about abandoning your favorite notebook or legal pad. It’s about discovering what the poem becomes when the “page” can move, speak, and shimmer.
What’s Happening in Poetry Right Now?
Social media poetry isn’t a trend—it’s a growing corner of the literary landscape. Here’s how the form is evolving, and why it might just inspire something new in you.
1. Short and striking poems are thriving
Poems written for screens are often brief—just a few lines that catch the eye and echo in the mind. In many ways, it’s a return to the epigram, the haiku, or the Dickinsonian lyric. These poems are intimate and distilled. Think of them as poems meant to be read in the space between moments—waiting in line, sipping coffee, catching your breath.
2. Poems paired with image and rhythm
Instagram poetry often appears one line at a time across a series of images, like flipping through a visual journal. Some use soft colors or textured backgrounds. Others feature the poet’s handwriting, scrawled on a napkin or journal page. On TikTok, many poets read their work aloud over quiet imagery—footsteps on a forest trail, candlelight flickering, steam rising from a teacup.
It’s not performative. It’s present. The screen becomes a small stage for the inner voice.
3. It’s not about perfection—it’s about presence
You don’t need to be tech-savvy or camera-ready (well, it helps, or, again, you can ask your kids) And, you don’t even need to post anything publicly. For many writers, playing with these tools becomes part of the creative process. Recording yourself reading a poem on your phone, overlaying it on a favorite photo, or sharing it with a few close friends—these are all meaningful ways to engage with your own voice.
How You Might Try It
Here are a few gentle ways to dip your toe into the scroll-space:
Take a short poem you love—or one of your own. Try formatting it so that each line stands on its own. How does it feel to see each phrase alone, framed by white space?
Record a reading. Use your phone’s voice memo app to record yourself reading your poem aloud. Don’t worry about background noise or perfect delivery. Sometimes the quiet rustle of real life is part of the music.
Use a free design tool. Sites like Canva.com let you pair text with images. Choose a background—an old photo, a sunset, a textured piece of fabric—and overlay your poem.
Share it—or don’t. You might post it on social media, email it to a friend, or simply keep it in a folder. The act of making something new is what matters.
As for me, let me just say I am a SLOW work in progress. Good luck to all of us over age 60 and remember to think of moving our creative work onto social media as just another way to flex our creative muscles, have fun, and play!
You know when it happens. The story has been built up in just the right way. You are fully invested with the characters and the plot. You keep reading “just one more chapter”. That’s when you know you’ve found a good mystery book.
Before I started writing my first cozy mystery novel, I had been a longtime fan of all types of mysteries, but I knew I needed to better understand the nuts and bolts of what goes into a mystery plot. What is happening behind the scenes to create that magic?
Here are five essential craft elements that keep a mystery ticking:
🔧 1. Tension and Pacing A good mystery walks the tightrope between suspense and reveal. You want to feel the pressure build—chapter by chapter—as secrets unravel. Tension isn’t just about danger. It’s also emotional: suspicion, urgency, grief, even humor can turn the screws.
🔍 2. A Compelling Question At the heart of every mystery is a question that demands an answer: What happened? Who did it? Why? This central mystery is what pulls the reader through the story. Subplots may swirl around it, but that core question is the lighthouse.
🧠 3. Misdirection and Fair Play Mystery readers love a challenge. They want to guess the killer but be surprised too. The trick is layering in clues that are “fair” (not cheats), while also planting red herrings. It’s a dance between revealing and concealing—just enough to keep readers guessing.
💔 4. Emotional Stakes The best mysteries aren’t just puzzles—they’re stories that matter. Maybe the sleuth is seeking justice for a friend, or the town’s peace is at risk. There’s something personal on the line. Emotion gives the mystery depth and resonance beyond the crime.
🎭 5. Character and Voice In cozy mysteries especially, voice is everything. Readers come back for the sleuth as much as the sleuthing. A quirky, determined, or vulnerable main character gives us someone to root for—and keeps the story grounded even when the plot twists like mountain roads.
What are some of your favorite mystery books? Can you identify these elements within them? Are you reading because you like the puzzle or is it more about the characters?
In high school I watched the clock in last period, because I knew as soon as the bell rang I was heading straight to dance class, and all the teen angst and hormonal folderal of the day would be disappear once I got there.
I’ve taught dance for over forty years now, and that was the beginning of a lifetime of learning how the mind/body connection affects my creativity and well-being.
We’re taught early on that writing is supposed to come from the neck up—brain first, fingers second. We believe the words live in our head. But I’ve come to understand this: the stories I care about—the ones that ache and sing—live in my body. And if I want to write them honestly, I have to move.
Movement Makes Space for Story
When I’m stuck on a line in a poem or in a scene, walking often is my default means to address it. It might just be a walk around the block that allows my shoulders to drop and my breath to even out.
There’s something about the gentle rhythm of walking—or swaying, or stretching—that stirs the sediment at the bottom of the creative well. It shakes loose a phrase, a memory, an emotion I hadn’t thought to name.
We say “I’m working it out,” and often we mean emotionally—but there’s a physical truth there, too.
“ But I do believe very strongly that the best poetry is rooted in bodily experience. We experience reality through our bodies and senses, and truth, to the extent that it is apprehensible.” -Poet Rebecca Foust
The Dance Between Emotion and Motion
As someone who grew up dancing, I know I carry emotion in my body, and in order to gain access I have to move. In order for the reader to feel what I am writing about, I must first feel it myself, and that is not going to happen if I stay entirely in my head.
Movement helps me feel it. And when it’s a big feeling—grief, rage, shame, heartbreak—moving my body helps metabolize it. When we experience trauma or hold strong emotions, our bodies remember. They contract around those memories. Notice how we hold our breath or the body tenses up. If we don’t move them, we risk writing around the truth instead of into it. And I don’t have to run a marathon or take up kickboxing. I can simply take a deep breath, raise and lower my arms a few times, twist gently side to side–all in my deskchair.
Moving lets the emotion pass through me so it can move onto the page. Otherwise, it stays stuck in the pipes.
Stillness Is Its Own Kind of Movement
Sometimes, the writing calls for the opposite. Stillness. Not scrolling or skimming or daydreaming—but deliberate, open stillness. The kind that invites something deeper in. The kind that looks like staring out the window.
This is the space where I can hear the quieter parts of my story—the voice of a child I’d forgotten to listen to, or the image I saw in a dream but brushed off. Lying still and staring at the ceiling can be just as powerful as dancing. For me, it is my meditation practice. It’s all part of the same body-based practice.
Final Thought: You Are the Instrument Your body is not a machine that carries your brain to your desk. I tell my students of both writing and dance that the body is an instrument that vibrates with memory, story, longing, and truth. When you write from your whole body, your work carries a different kind of resonance. So move. Let the story or poem move with you. And then write like your body remembers something your mind forgot.
Click this link for a quick 5-minute seated stretch to get the body moving and the words flowing: https://youtu.be/n0VlNd3nLFw
Sometimes words are hard to find. Like now, for me, when the words and feelings are so big they look like a giant ball of yarn; overwhelming and untangle-able.
That is when I find my words elsewhere. It might be “black-out poetry”, like the one made from my poetry submissions rejection letter collection. Or, it might be from refrigerator word magnets. Or, it might be from headlines in the New York Times. Opportunities abound and are yours for the taking. “Found Poetry”, which I first thought of as just weird, is actually quite fun. So, what is “found poetry”, anyway?
Found poetry is a literary collage, crafted by selecting and rearranging words from other sources to create something fresh and meaningful. Blackout poetry, cento, erasure poetry, and cut-up techniques are all ways to engage with found poetry. Not only is it a great exercise in close reading and creativity, but it can also be a meditative way to reconnect with language when traditional writing feels out of reach.
How to Create Found Poetry
Gather Your Source Material – This could be an old book, a newspaper, a diary entry, or any text that speaks to you.
Highlight Interesting Phrases – Look for unexpected word combinations, evocative imagery, or intriguing snippets of text.
Rearrange and Shape – Remove, rearrange, and add punctuation to shape the poem into something that feels complete.
Experiment with Form – Try blackout poetry (blotting out words with ink), centos (poems composed of lines from other works), or even digital found poetry using search engine results.
Literary Journals That Accept Found Poetry
If you’ve crafted a found poem that feels right, consider submitting it to a literary journal. Here are a few that welcome found poetry:
The Found Poetry Review – Dedicated to publishing only found poetry (currently on hiatus, but their archives are rich with inspiration).
Diode Poetry Journal – Occasionally publishes found poetry alongside traditional forms.
River Teeth: Beautiful Things – Accepts short, poetic nonfiction, including experimental found forms.
The Indianapolis Review – A journal that appreciates erasure poetry and visual found poetry.
Pangyrus – Open to hybrid and experimental poetry forms, including found poetry.
Entropy (Closed, but check for archives) – Previously published a variety of found and hybrid poetic works.
Fence – Open to experimental poetry, including found forms.
If you’re feeling stuck in your writing practice, found poetry offers a playful and rewarding way to engage with language. Whether you keep your found poems private or submit them for publication, the process itself can rekindle your creative spark, or even maybe begin to gently loosen your own giant yarnball.
(Black-Out Poem written from one of my rejection letters)
Have you tried writing found poetry before? Share your favorite sources of inspiration in the comments!
As we often hear, and know is true, writing is a solitary endeavor. Since I find long stretches of alone-time nourishing, I love that about it. But that doesn’t mean I want to go full-on-hermit. I need human interaction, even if it’s just Tina at the grocery store telling me about her cats.
Specifically, since my need for human interaction is limited, I’ve sought to find ways to find or create a writing community that is a balance of the two. Here are a few things I’ve come up with that might seen outwardly mundane, but with an added introverted twist:
· Online Writing Group: I created Bewilderness Writing, knowing that my role would be as guide, not teacher. Each week I read a poem, offer jump-off lines that folks can choose to use, or not, and then we free write for 10 minutes. Afterwards, each person reads what they’ve written and the group does not offer comment or critique. Sounds ridiculously simple, huh? It is. And what can’t be known beforehand is just how intimate and rich the writing can be within this container. Setting aside all the “writerly benefits”, it fills my need to see and hear others figuring out life using words on the page. There is great comfort there. And the tapestry of styles and voices enriches my own writing life.
There are many “writing alone, together” online opportunities without prompted writing, as well.
· In-Person Writing Group: I created “Writers in Coffee Shops” a few years ago using the social networking website Meetup. I set it up with straightforward parameters from the get-go of “writing alone, together”. We would meet at a local coffee shop, spend a few minutes sharing what we were working on, then get to it. At the end of the hour, we could share about how or what we did for the hour. After that time, folks were welcome to share their work and invite comment or critique.
For awhile, especially in the beginning, I had people who did not get the memo and wanted to chat. With gentle reinforcement those folks either got used to our system or didn’t come back. Eventually, I found a small, committed group, and we came to know our coffee shop time as not only a standing-date commitment to our writing, but a place to commiserate on the writing life. We became friends.
Want something similar?
Shut Up and Write: https://www.shutupwrite.com/While I might prefer my more “demure” group name, this is basically the same format and you can find them, with over 400 chapters all over the place
· Collaborative Writing: Recently, I had a friend and former Bewilderness group member contact me after taking a poetry class that included “renku,” which is a Japanese collective poetry composition of collaborative linked verse. My friend asked if I wanted to give it a try together. She would send me a few lines and I would send a few back. Since we’re just starting this adventure, I can’t tell you the outcome, but I’m hopeful. It is just the right mix of connection and effort for me. It intrigues me to see what might come out of it. Think of your favorite writing form, enlist your favorite writing friend, combine the two, and see what you might come up with!
These writing groups are for messy, first-draft writing where the intention is to get “your butt in the chair” and ideas on the page. While these groups all lack the comment/critique component, I am a big believer in getting other eyes and trusted opinions on your work, and there are plenty of in-person and online opportunities for that. Whichever one is your preference, there is great benefit to having others along for the ride alongside you, and what that looks like is for you to choose.
My first mystery novel, A Fire Circle Mystery: A Witch Awakens, about an amateur sleuth discovering her lineage as an Appalachian Granny Witch, comes out in Spring 2025.
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