Dear Diary

I have written in you for years

You have helped me with my fears

I have poured all I have inside

Things that I have learnt to hide.

You have helped me through

Confusion, through pain and love

I have found in your pages

All that I am.

My mind needs your help

To straighten out the thoughts

To unravel the tangled emotions

That are caught in its claws.

I trust you to listen to allow

Me the time

For in your world there is 

No time-

Just space and patience

A place where I can

Lay the past to rest

Bearing all of it 

Not just the best.

Your lines give me structure

To create a new path

You are open and welcoming

Like a loving old Aunt

You lay there waiting for me

Never pushing or pleading

Ready for me whenever

My heart is bleeding or needing

A release.

Thank you dear Dairy

Thank you for your peace

xxx
https://britainsnextbestseller.co.uk/book/index/WriteTherapy

Daily Writing Practice: Remembering Dreams

Remembering Dreams

Do you ever wonder how you can remember dreams? Lately, I've been reading Carl Jung's Memories, Dreams, Reflections and attempting to record my dreams every morning. If I can remember my dreams, I will have a view of the hidden me. I want to look into the parts of my personality that I hide from myself - risky business! I consider myself honest about my motives and practice self-witnessing. Maybe that sounds strange but those of you who are in some kind of meditation practice know that witnessing your thoughts and actions (without judging) can yield a tremendous amount of information about yourself. I am looking to find a creative energy source that will bring my writing alive with vitality. I've discovered other techniques to wake up the muse but I would like a more reliable routine that keeps me in touch with my imagination.

The goal is to wake up everyday, notice what in floating around in my mind and then immediately write down everything in my mind - take a "mental picture" as it were. Words, thoughts, images, sensations, songs and so on. I have discovered that I must notice my thoughts before I move from the bed. I cannot allow myself to talk or engage in any preliminary activity before I write or else I lose the thoughts. Some days I'm successful while others (like today) I get caught up in washing dishes, making coffee, preparing for the day and before I know it - the dreams are gone! What did I dream last night? What influenced my subconscious? Blank! My mind is unable to remember my dreams because I had too many intervening thoughts before I recorded my dreams such as - why hasn't anyone done the dishes in two days! It's a good thing I didn't cook dinner last night or else there would be more dishes. How can I get cooperation about cleaning the house? And then my mind goes analytical - Why are we so stuck in these social gender roles that I'm the one who breaks down and does the dishes first? It's enough to wipe out anyone's morning dreams! My thoughts are a giant eraser rubbing out the lightest dream pencil marks first but today, the entire page was all gone.

Mental palaver! Jung uses that word as in to arrange a palaver to mean conversations  he has with the Africans at night. He wants to know if they have dreams and if they provide some kind of insight into their daily lives. He attributes their resistance to sharing their dreams with him as evidence of a lack of trust or "shyness." Jung even offered rewards - cigarettes, matches, and safety pins for sharing dreams but they wouldn't budge. I'm thinking that maybe they didn't remember their dreams because of too much palaver! I have been recording by dreams every morning for two weeks - let's see if some pattern emerges. I have a safety pin in my pocket for good luck.  Do you have any dream wisdom to offer? How do you remember your dreams?

©  Cynthia Pittmann 2013

~Also published in Oasis Writing Link (TM)

Your Creative Process?

Recently I've been thinking a lot about the so-called "creative process," thanks to a couple books I've been reading: Gail McMeekin's "12 Secrets of Highly Successful Women" and Oriah Mountain Dreamer's "What We Ache For." Some people, and I might be one of them, claim that humans are innately creative beings. But I'm haunted by questions: why must we try so hard to complete creative acts if the creative impulse is supposed to come so naturally? And why are only some things recognized as creative while others are not?

Innovation and creativity are buzzwords in the current economy, and it appears that success depends on them. But only to a certain extent--if we actually unleash all our creative impulses, all order would disappear. With the current torrent of technological advancements, it's easy to think that our lives are becoming more mechanical and less creative. Yet, even though technology can seem like the furthest thing from creativity, it was born through a creative impulse, an inspiring idea.

For me, I struggle to come to terms with my computer; we have a love/hate relationship. Years ago, I realized how vast a resource computers can contain, yet how much a drain it was to constantly sit staring at their screens and typing on their keyboards, not to mention the other, more subtle aspects like radiation. Now, it's as if my whole existence depends on my computer, yet I often can't stand it--especially sitting there nonstop as if I'm glued to it.

Often I will have an idea that I would like to blog about, yet as soon as I turn on the computer, it's as if my creativity shuts off. I love the ease of typing but my mind shifts into another gear when I'm in front of the computer. It's difficult to maintain focus on writing alone. Then, when I try to write with pen and paper, I find the feeling so awkward, it's as if I've almost forgotten how; through all the years of typing, I'm out of practice to write by hand and the letters sometimes get mixed up as they're coming on to the page. Have I suddenly become dyslexic from all the scanning I do on the computer? I never had great penmanship to begin with, but now it's all the more worse for lack of use. It's become encrypted!

Nonetheless, my urge to contribute creatively to the world pushes me to keep trying--to strike a balance between new technologies and the primal need to document my perceptions of the world on paper or virtual page. Like the cavemen who created the first tools just so they could paint their walls with images, so too I seek to use the latest tools available to enable my feelings and thoughts to take some form beyond my own head.

I'd love to hear from you in the comments: How do you balance the benefits of technology with its costs? What's your creative process?

The inevitable distraction of tea

The big purple mug sat and stared moodily at me from the corner of the big oak desk. Its presence mocked and taunted me, hogging my attention like a hungry toddler in a superstore full of chocolate treats. I tried to ignore it, as a mother attempts to ignore the child’s tantrum in the cake aisle, but it refused to be ignored.

I lifted and held my mug in the way it loves being held, two fingers through the handle and the rest of my hand lovingly wrapped around, just to reassure it that I had not forgotten how much it meant to me. Never before had my beloved ‘World’s best Dad’ cup looked so sad.

I sighed as I lifted the cup and felt the coldness of the ceramic against my touch. No hot tea had blessed this vessel for some time, perhaps even half an hour by the feel of it.

“Fill me now” it seemed to mutter, the words breaking up with heartfelt tears, and echoing in my head like an explosion of emotion in a cavern of despair. “Please – I need it, warm me with tea and put me to your lips again.”

I choked back a tear as I looked into the stained pit of emptiness at the bottom of my mug, and stared miserably at the cold, thickly brown sludge resting there. I held my breath to calm the fire in my heart at the sight of the swollen wet crumbs, betraying the secret packet of Digestives that I had hidden behind the Idiots guide to Blogging. There are some things that are best kept secret in all marriages, Digestives are one such thing.

I felt the pull of the Digestives calling my attention away from the empty mug and towards the book shelf, but it did not last long. What good is a Digestive without tea?

I put the cup down with a flourish of decisiveness and determination. I was not going to be a slave to distraction and prevarication any longer. My fingers returned to the keyboard and I stared at the monitor, daring Microsoft Word to try and give me its leering look of condescending disgust again. All I had to do was concentrate, and something would write itself down on my screen, something would come to mind – something always does.

For five whole minutes, my fingers were a blur as I opened up the thesaurus and found out what prevarication meant. And condescending.

And flourish.

And gusset.

I sighed as I realised I could think of no more words to dive into and discover. The screen blinked at me. I blinked at the screen. Finally I smiled, as inspiration hit me squarely between the eyes.

With the oppressive weight of writer’s block lifted from my over burden shoulders, I threw a flirtatious wink at my mug and laughed as I said, “Oh come on then, you frisky little devil.”

The writing can wait a few minutes while the kettle boils.

also at my blog - http://www.glenslife.com/

Bird by Bird

I am an impatient writer. The rush to adequately express my thoughts makes me uncomfortable. You see I have a lot to explain and I don’t care to take the time to carefully spell it all out (insert sigh here). I am well aware that I owe it to my reader(s) to make their journey from one scintillating point to the next more of a tip toe through the tulips than a murderous leap.

I hate to read the murderous leap stuff almost as much as I hate to write the other.
So it’s time for a change. I need a new perspective much like the one I implemented to help me pass 3 years of statistics.

I realised that there were problems in my statistics future because while I languished in the bookshop queue with new stats book in hand I instantly regressed to my 17 and a half year old self. As I flicked the text open to a random page I was instantly transported to one of the perfect rows of individual desk islands set up in readiness for my final mathematics exam. The desk islands' sea was an enormous hall where I had sat through many achingly boring assemblies and school plays. My eyes caressed the exact spot where I danced at the formal with my sweetheart.

In contrast to that fun night the hall was now full of quiet. Pens, pencils and erasers were carefully lined up on each desk along with the examination slip, a bottle of water, and for those who insisted that they had a sore throat, (yeah right!) a pack of Butter Menthols. The only sound was a chorus of bitten fingernails drumming away as Sr. Fancy made her way down the aisles licking her thumbs and distributing the exam papers. Each exam paper was firmly placed face down on each desk. Each paper in danger of bursting into flames with the heat of each set of eyes as they attempted to reveal what lay within. Finally the command was issued: Girls, you may commence. There will be no writing for 10 minutes in which time you must read through the paper carefully….

Within a nanosecond there was the deafening sound of over 100 papers turning, pages flipping and a solitary stifled laugh. Mine. For within two nanoseconds came my appreciation of the simple fact that there was no way I could pass because I was crap at maths.
Back in the bookshop queue I reexperience the feeling that I am hopeless in the face of all numbers. I want to run off screaming, but I stay with it. Instead I pay for my book and then I turn on my heel and make my way from the campus book shop to the library. At the catalogue terminal I enter the word "statistics". Fourteen hundred and twenty six entries spring up along with a little bit of my lunch. I scroll through them slowly my eyes glazing over at the titles of these books ( The annals of statistics, applied statistics, computational statistics..). One catches my eye on the 157th page. It says "What is mathematics anyway?" By Reuben Hersh. Yeah, good question! I mutter to myself as I record the call number. I wonder off to the library's southern corridor in search of the book. I find it. It is an unassuming paperback with a very vivid cover. I flick it open and read.

After 10 minutes I am saved. You see depite the fact that everyone agrees that mathematical statements are true the author argues that any certainty is simply a mistake. You see regardless of our ideals, mathematics is done by fallible people, it is a human activity and mathematical truths are uncertain like any other truths. And it is now that I know that mathematics is a game. The numbers do not mean anything really. Mathematics is not an exclusive club for brainy people. It does not reside on the lofty, difficult to access, dusty top shelf. It is just a bit of fun.
My maths avoidance has been cured just like that. I can do statistics. I can do it and I might actually enjoy it. Right there in the library stacks I give myself permission to do so and what follows is 3 enjoyable years of statistics. My marks are fabulous. I enjoy every minute of it. I have been set free.

It is about 10 years later that Anne Lamott's book- "Bird by Bird: some instructions on writing and life" delivers a "What is mathematics really?" type cure for impatient writing.

In her fabulous book Anne explains:

"Thirty years ago my older brother, who was ten years old at the time, was trying to get a report on birds written that he'd had three months to write. It was due the next day. We were out at our family cabin in Bolinas, and he was at the kitchen table close to tears, surrounded by binder paper and pencils and unopened books on birds, immobilized by the hugeness of the task ahead. Then my father sat down beside him, put his arm around my brothers shoulder, and said, Bird by bird, buddy. Just take it bird by bird."

It is my solemn vow after reading Anne's helpful book to write a shitty first draft of everything. To write it all. To include all the details needed to connect the dots. To follow all the little paths that lead the reader through the tulips. To stop and smell the roses along the way.

My patience will come from just writing the next little bit, and not thinking about the hugeness of the task ahead.


Just like that I give myself permission to be a patient writer.

Ripples and Swells the Words of Writing

    I went through a door today. Well, I almost went through a door. My brain saw a door and literally, without thinking, I went through. Almost. That’s what you do with doors. You see a door and you go through the door, unless it is stuck. It was one of those embarrassing moments that usually happen when you’re running into a store and push on a door with a huge lettered sign that says pull. Like a bird mistaking the reflection of the trees in the window for trees I went crashing into the door. And yes, there was an audience, there’s always an audience. Like the tiny bird I just stood there looking at the door. It was a door. Doors open. You go through doors. You go in doors. You go out of doors. Maybe it was the concussion that made me daft but this really bugged me.
    The long strong arm from a production worker who, with one motionless swoop, opened the door cleared my daftness. As I exited the room I warned those I met to be on the alert for the infamous door. They thanked me. Unfortunately I caught a glance of them looking back as the door opened with grace and beauty. Harumfph. I was so not pleased now.
    “What do you see when you write?” was the innocent but teasing question asked of me not long ago. I knew the answer. I had visualized it day after day for more decades than I care to count. “Bread crumbs” was my reply. Writing is my way of leaving bread crumbs for those who come down the path after me. Writing was my prayer, my bread crumbs that would hopefully leave a trail for others. Bread crumbs to warn of danger. Bread crumbs to encourage others to not give up there was water just around the bend. Bread crumbs to let them know they were not alone that others had walked this path and were not far away. My words were bread crumbs.
    Tonight I see a different image. My words are no longer bread crumbs. My words are ripples, little swells in the ocean of life. A water skier can use them to gain speed. A child floating may giggle as the swell tickles its way underneath the raft. Another boat may follow the current left by the swell. A renegade beach ball may be pulled from the shore by the swells. The course they take, the path and current they travel are their own. Our ripples and swells may crash against each other and merge into yet an even bigger ripple and swell. There will also be times when my words, the ripples and swells will lie still or imperceptible beneath the surface. That is ok for that is what swells and ripples do.
    Perhaps it is a concussion but I am left with one final image-why would I leave bread crumbs to a door that I think is stuck? No, I think my words shall be ripples and swells. I pray they will tease, delight, carry and hasten the journey of others or give them reason to pause and just float. Everyone’s path or current will be different than mine, for the path is just that it is every one’s, not mine. And with that, I shall go check out concussions on Web MD and bask in the swells of others. That’s what ripples and swells do. I’ll save the bread crumbs for our lunch on the beach.

note - also posted on my blog

Writing Fiction

Hello all! I can't believe it's been so long since my introduction on the site. I have been interviewing for and just received a new job at my company. My focus has been there and now that I'm settled on a new position, I can sit down here on Writers Rising and write thoughtfully.

One thing I've been thinking more about is writing fiction. I've been writing some short essays, descriptions really, of people I encounter in New York. On the subway, in coffee shops, on the street, as I'm waiting for the elevator. It's helping me keep my ears wide open.

Here is a link to one of these essays that I've been working on. I'd love to know what you think!

A writer's rising

I was 16 when the writing bug bit me hard. Getting my poems and reflective essays published in local magazines was encouraging. But as much as I found myself attracted to the idea of making this form of self-expression a full-time endeavor, the thought of letting down my parents held me back.

I halfheartedly prepared for management courses, studied computer networking for a year, and even tried my hand at teaching. Anything but writing.

Ok. Time to ‘fess up. I was still writing on the side. Small freelance op-eds for the local daily; a couple of reports for another national magazine; my journal. Just pursuing my “hobby” as I’d tell mom.

Sneakily, I had applied for a writing position with a publishing house in Mumbai. Within three days of my application, the hiring manager called. A 45-minute phone interview ensued. I was shaking with nervousness. If I got this job it would be a resounding validation of my skills. I could convince mom and dad that I was good at this – that someone thought my writing was worth a paycheck.

48 hours of suspense. I checked my e-mail every hour on the painfully slow dial-up connection; made sure the telephone receiver was kept properly. I couldn’t eat, sleep, or drink. And then it came. The offer letter. They wanted me to start in a week.

Surprise. A tinge of disappointment. Anxiousness. Those were the three emotions my parents exhibited when I broke the news. Two days later, these would be replaced by excitement – a mild sense of achievement. Happiness that their only child was taking flight.

I had found my wings.

I learned many new skills on the job, but within nine months I was keenly aware of my shortcomings. I had no real grounding in journalism. “You’re supposed to get married at this age, not go back to school,” said dad when I told him I wanted to get a master’s degree.

In the U.S.

I quit my first job, flew back home, and started preparing for the GRE and TOEFL. “It isn’t the writing bug that’s bitten her,” mom would say. “It’s the love bug.” She was partly right.

An unexpected e-mail from halfway across the world had made its way into my inbox in the wee hours of a winter night. He had read my poem on sexual exploitation of girls and wanted to know what kind of a nut-job I was. What business did I have thinking and writing about such serious topics at my age when my peers were out shopping for bangles or discussing the latest Bollywood heartthrob? He was moved (and curious enough) to write me. I responded. Within a week of exchanging 50-odd e-mails and four-long IM conversations per day, we knew we were meant to be.

He loved my writing style. Encouraged me to speak my heart. Inspired me. Challenged me. Supported me. Was my worst critic. My best friend. Still is.

After a year of drama, intense preparation, and lots of rewrites I got into all the six colleges I’d applied to. I chose to go to the University of Iowa. It was hard – more for my parents than me. I was looking forward to a new life. They were pining for their baby girl.

We made it through.

2004 was a milestone year: I graduated with a master’s degree in journalism, got my first full-time job in the U.S., moved from the mid-west to California to be with my husband (we’d gotten married the year before), and got a driver’s license.

Six years later, I continue to enjoy writing as a profession. I write about students, professors, philosophers. Through their stories, I inspire interest in education.

My parents say I had the brains to become a lawyer, an IAS (Indian Administrative Services) officer, an engineer, a banker, or anything I wanted, but I chose to be a writer. (And truth be told, they’re proud to see my byline now and again.)

It doesn’t pay as much as all the other “choices” I had, but it’s satisfying.

And with my blog, I can take a break from PR communication, and write about things I’m passionate about. My ponderings. My observations. My two-cents on the goings on of this crazy world. It’s where I find my solace.

It’s where I hope you can find some inspiration, too.

As Fate Would Have It Or You Would Have It?

In Korea, it seems there are the Christians, the Buddhists, and those that profess no belief in anything. I am amazed with the many who rely on superstitions and fortune tellers to confirm their choices, like finding a floating message in a bottle. In many different versions of belief systems, there is much written about the importance of having a clear mind and vision for yourself. You are the result about what your think about.

In Korea, I have been fortunate enough to do nearly everything on my list, save one thing. That was to visit the artist and writer's colony in Andong. I am so close to it, and yet so far away, the problem is, I can get there, but I have no way to get back. So I chose not to go. That kind of bit me in the butt, cancelling twice because of transportation. However, I can't really be too upset over this. Instead of a week up at Andong, I wrote my little heart out during my 'vacation', which was more like being fused to my keyboard, having writing marathons that left me with as little as two hours of sleep. When I get those 'brain fevers' I loose comprehension of time and sometimes you manage to scrape together some jewels out of the whole journey.

There was a time where I was obsessed with misspelled words, messages on t-shirts that seemed to scream at me to take action. Some of these messages pushed my internal buttons, igniting rages of thought and writing. My own explorations into what I perceived as a deadening of our brains. I was enraged. Had we, as a human race, lost our ability to imagine anything anymore? Even the tag, got under my skin. The contradictions in our society, "Be your own brain; Take to Trend" made me want to start a revolution within myself. How can a writer be original if they only follow trends? Imagination is the most underrated ability we can possess.

Today, I felt like the picture above, "Spew Out Your Worries". Today, I received my working papers for China. I have been officially hired by a University to start teaching in February. I have tried and mostly succeeded in couching those worries. My chief worry, was not about the job. My chief worry was being to continue my writing on my blog, The Lotus Sutra Chronicles, and the other writing projects I have agreed to do. It was with immense relief that I found several other expatriate blogs based in China. I still managed to jump up and down with excitement holding these "work papers". I know what this journey is going to mean for me. I made a huge leap of faith and caught on to the cliff's edge and I am going for it.

The way I look at it is simple. We can line up waiting to have our fortunes told, putting our faith in a complete stranger's words. The other option is to stop and listen to ourselves. The truth about who we are is already inside of us. Spew out your worries and realize that no one else can tell a story the way you can. I don't want to encourage anyone to follow my path. There is an incredible beauty in your own path, and yes, that means spewing your guts once in a while to have courage. Not through fate, but through faith (and hard work).

Creating Space for Writing

You're busy right? We all are, so let's get on with it.

Let's consider the possibility for getting some writing done and work/life balance (if such a thing exists). It's one of my favourite subjects. And I'm guessing it's one of yours. You're here right?

Ok let's get down to the nitty gritty. This won't take up alot of your time.

Let's say that you have a partner, +/- children, a career, a job, a mortgage, extended family, friends and other interests , but you want to get some writing done. What you need is some head space. Here's how to create it.

Give yourself permission to create the space you need. If you are like me everyone else comes first. What I'm asking you to do is put yourself first for 4 nights. This is difficult but it is not impossible.

List all possible escape destinations. I go to stay at my parents condo when they are overseas, to destinations within one hours drive of my home, to seaside holiday villas in the middle of winter (it's cheaper), or on planned retreats with other writers.

Plan to go away for at least 4 nights. I take 7 because I know it takes me 48 hours to get into the state of flow. This is when I become so absorbed in my writing that nothing else matters. I know this because I journal while I am away.

Plan your project before you go. One month out, commit to a project. Then gather the resources you need to work on it. Write a plan, and write about what you want to write. If you are going away with other writers meet and discuss plans. It will help you to commit.

Pack all the things you need for writing. Think about your comfort as the first priority. If you are heading off to a cabin you will need a comfortable chair, slippers, you're favourite cup, a printer, extension leads, music etc.

Pack all the things you need for you: good food, fine wine, yoga mat, runners, dvd's, chocolate.

Invite others who need writing space (that would be most writers!). Structure your time and during breaks talk about your writing. Ask for help, edit a piece of their work and have them edit yours. I usually brainstorm headings with other writers. The results can be hilarious, but I always come away with great headings.

Journal regularly during your writing retreat. Write about what you are writing about, how you are feeling, your goals and ideas. Set goals for each day. Before you pack up to come home plan your next retreat.

Finally, don't be reluctant to plan your writing time. The structure is important. It will make you excited about getting some writing done.

Keeping the Pipes From Freezing

An old bit of folk wisdom I picked up somewhere advises that one keep a slow drip of hot water running through all the faucets in the house during a major freeze. That way, the theory goes, standing water expanding as ice won't cause the pipes to crack and flood your basement. I don't know if this bit of folkloric advice is true or not, but I follow it as if it were. Writing is a little bit like that. You expect that things going on down in the basement are liable to take care of themselves. However, without at least a warm trickle of expression, your internal pipes may freeze...crack...and burst.

I am one of those poor writers cursed with the memory of a few sublime experiences while laboring at my craft; this hampers our ability to partake of ordinary writing, the variety that we writers refer to as "The Work". It is prosaic, unexciting, and necessary. If you are only willing to write when you are on fire and phrases pour out of you like wine, then your catalog will not be long.

This morning, for instance, I had amassed for myself such a great number of chores to do and errands to run - some of a critical nature - that I stood on the brink of not writing at all. Then, the demon Resistance changed tactics and tried to show me the towering prose I had been allowed to transmit during exalted, altered states, and then pointed to a prophecy of what my writing today would be like - just a bunch of tired, trite cliches that would be of no use to anyone. Next, the demon Resistance throws up another barrier by attacking me physically: Often when I am approaching The Work, I feel a powerful, soporific drowsiness steal over me, unbearably intense, that will make me literally fall asleep at the keyboard. Recognizing all of these opposing forces as simply the current I have to swim against to make the daily effort to create, I'm able to float to the surface and ride the current forward. In this, there are equal parts effort and surrender. If I'm going to move forward I have to surrender to the current and let it take me where it wants to go.

It doesn't have to be some kind of finished product with a beginning, middle, or end. It doesn't have to be marketable, or even readable. What matters is that you do it. Everything else follows after that - the surrender to the process is why you are doing this at all, not because someone's going to congratulate you or compliment you or pay you. You will find that the less you write, the less you will be able to write. And even if you are diligent and write every day, you will have days on which you feel as if you're just beginning all over again. Accept that too. Strive for it. A beginner is not burdened with assumptions or wishes (as much). Just do The Work, and if you work diligently, you will eventually find that it is feeding something deep within you - something deeper than your ego. And once that benefit presents itself, you will find that it has a tendency to spread outwards towards others.

Hello! My name is...

First, let me say how excited I am about being asked to participate in this group!  Reading the credentials of the other writers on this blog was a bit intimidating, but I decided to close my eyes and jump.

I fell in love with books at a very young age.  I loved to write when I was still in grade school, making up simple stories for my eyes alone.  During my junior high years, my focus shifted to writing songs and poetry.  Strumming my guitar, sharing my original compositions with any friends that would listen, I dreamed of being a song-writer; but I never had the confidence to pursue it for a career.

My high school teachers often told my mother that I should be a writer.  However, they never told me!  (I learned of this only recently when my mom told someone else.)  I loved Lit classes, and still wrote my songs and poems, occasionally tossing in a short story.  Sadly, I never considered it more than a hobby.

Through my young adult years, I worked various jobs while raising my only child, a daughter.  My writing became almost non-existent, except for the time when, in my thirties, some college courses reignited my love of writing.  Even though my instructors gave me the highest marks, and encouraged me to enter my essays into local contests, I still lacked the confidence to actually do it.  At one point, I started writing a novel.  After about three chapters I lost steam and put it away.

Now I'm in my fifties and have finally found the confidence to pursue my life-long dream.  I am over fifty-thousand words into my manuscript.  And I have a plan!  Perhaps I'll share about that next time...

I currently write three blogs:  a farm blog, an essays blog (my miscellaneous site) and a blog about my pursuit of becoming a published author.

The Heaviness of Words

Image by Darwin Bell via Flickr

Bach in school, I hated Latin. I had to study it at the Uni also, but if you ask me today, I forgot all the declinations and ablatives and such. What stayed in my memory are the proverbs. I remember a lot of them, and especially the one that says "Verba volant, scripta manent", that means, roughly translated, "Spoken words fly away, the written ones remain".
I love words. I respect them. I love and respect the ones that know how to use them to give us pleasure. As a journalist, they were the matter with which I created something. Something that remained. I am in awe of the written word. I can resist longer without food than I can without reading, without a book. I taught myself to read when I was six and I haven't stopped reading ever since. When I was seven I wrote my first short story and I dreamed of becoming a writer. I haven't stopped dreaming... I am not a writer and I don't think I'll ever be. I condemned myself to a dreamer's status the moment I renounced my native language and had this illusion I'll be able to write in a language that is not mine to share. I struggle like I'm drowning but I'm afraid I am no partner in this match.
I am a feeler. Before I write something, I feel it. Sometimes even the smell of a certain thing triggers waves of words, just like in Proust's "A la recherche du temps Perdu". My problem, though, is that many times I find myself wordless. I feel the emotions trying to materialize into words, to break free from my mind, and I just can not express them. Because they mainly want to come out dressed in Romanian and I force them to wear borrowed clothes that just don't fit.
The heaviness of words just crushes me and leaves me powerless. I pray to God asking Him to lift this curse, to let me breathe, to let me live. I am burried deep in a forest of words with nothing but a mere scissors to make my way through it.