Yes, I know — if you’ve visited my blog for a posting within the past two weeks, you were a bit disappointed due to nothing new. For that I apologize. Two weeks ago I was in Cleveland, OH. Returning home late Friday night, I left again on Wednesday, driving to Columbia, SC where we (the writers and meeting planners in attendance) had a whirlwind tour of our great capital city. Stay tuned for those stories — after I recoup a bit and get my house cleaned again.
Sometimes life does make demands and I so enjoy meeting those demands. When I started this blog, I shared plans of how a writer begins this journey as a writer. I suppose you could say, I started my journey in third grade of elementary school, writing a story titled, “My Visit to Saturn.” My dad loved the story so much, he managed to get the original story from the teacher, type it, and sent to magazines. Eureka! At the age of eight-years-old, I was a published writer. Somehow the published copy got destroyed, but the original handwritten story, scribbled in an eight-years-of-age handwriting is still in my dad’s precious scrapbooks.
How I cherish that story. Later, in high school I wrote many things – some were assignments that teachers loved so much, they read them to the class. My class members cast me looks of hatred, while I beamed like a lightbulb. Imagine me — a mill kid – receiving such recognition.
Flash forward to many years of marriage, a bit of unhappiness and depression. One day in the early 1980’s I was filled with such gloom I contemplated doing something desperate; instead, I picked up pen and paper and began to write my thoughts. I am pleased to say, those thoughts have never been published; nevertheless, they served as a guideline for me to do something with my life. And so, I write.
In college, I had a great English teacher who told me writers hate to write. I disagreed with him, at the time. Now, that I am a writer, I have discovered how true his words were. What? You say? Writers hate to write???!!!
That is so true. When the words flow, we enjoy our work. Occasionally, we will re-read the work and recognize it is a product of our research, our paths, our journeys, along with the characters we meet. When a writer is forced to sit at the work chair, staring at a screen, a hard copy, or scribbled notations, we actually do hate to write. When that happens to me, I attempt to do something different. I’ll read. Sing. Dance. And sometimes I actually want to scream. Instead, I grab three leashes and walk with my dogs. Nothing inspires me more than to take a leisurely walk with my dogs, to listen to the sounds of nature, the scents of fresh raindrops, dew drops, Southern Jasmine, Magnolias, and the iridescent smell of Mimosa trees, or Gardenias and roses. How I love when I see my neighbors working in the gardens or sitting on the porch. Occasionally we only wave. Other times, we stop to chat a bit. When I walk with my precious pups, my mind starts to work again, and if I am able to break thru the blockage of a writer’s mind, I’ll grab my Blackberry and send an e-mail to myself with the thoughts, storylines or plots, and perhaps a few characters I’ve met, or created on my journey.
Life is filled with stories and characters and I am blessed to know only a few. This is why I write. To share life, experience, pain and heartache and happiness.