Writing
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The story begins with a woman named Jane Leeds, often called Mother Leeds. She had already borne twelve children, but upon discovering she was pregnant with a thirteenth, she cursed the unborn child in a fit of despair and frustration. “Let it be the devil,” she said—and some say the devil listened. On the night…
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I’ve decided for some of my older articles, to revamp them, and make them better. This is one of them. As the veil between worlds thins and the spooky season creeps closer, it’s time to shine a lantern on a lesser-known legend—The Wampus Cat. Though many may not have heard of this cryptid, its roots…
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![The Marine Never Died But The Man Withered Anyway [Storytime]](https://lbachman.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/04/themanwithers.png?w=1024)
It was the witching hour when I started writing, early morning on April 28th. Something in the air felt familiar, like a chord struck from a song I hadn’t heard in years. I couldn’t stop thinking about that day—April 28th, 2016.That morning, I sat with a family member and said the words I never imagined…
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![The Beats of Protest [Politics/Music]](https://lbachman.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/04/beatsofprotest.png?w=1024)
If it isn’t the folk-torn songs of the 1960s or the sharp tongue of ’90s hip hop, music has still always held a mirror up to society—showing us ourselves from different points of view. Think: Bob Dylan crooning “The Times They Are A-Changin’” or “Fight the Power” by Public Enemy roaring across the radio waves.…
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For me, poetry and writing are inseparable. The way I engage with language—through prose, verse, music, and storytelling—has always been enriched by metaphor. It allows me to draw emotional parallels, to frame the strange through the familiar. It creates a connective tissue between reader and experience. That’s why metaphor is more than a literary device…
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There’s something about the way the wind moves through moss in the South. Not the Spanish moss tourists photograph, but the kind that hangs heavy and grey, like ghosts caught mid-sigh. It drapes itself over tree limbs like sorrow that’s settled in and made a home. The quiet here doesn’t feel empty. It feels like…
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There’s a certain kind of writing that doesn’t just tell a story—it opens a vein.It’s not always clean or careful. Sometimes it stings. Sometimes it stains.But when I write poetically—when I lean into the rhythm, the silence between words, the ache behind a line—I’m not just crafting sentences. I’m bleeding. This is the art of…
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This might sound a little clickbait-y—I know. But it’s not a lie, not really. It’s just a soft truth I’ve been dancing around for a while now. So here it is, plain and honest: My name is Lynn Lesher. Some of you know me better as “L. Bachman”, the name I’ve written under for years—the…
![Writing Independently,Thriving Consistently [Writing]](https://lbachman.com/wp-content/uploads/2025/05/writing-independently-thriving-consistently.png?w=1024)