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Where was I? How did I get here? Where am I going? |
| As a kid, I would go off into the woods alone and write about the nature all around me. Now I find myself screaming inside to pull out the words that are locked in. I am going to take a journey through myself to see what I can find, and who I am today. |
| When I first started this blog, something I've never participated in before, I wanted to get myself writing again. I have been so far away from it for so long. I wanted to find out when I stopped and why, so I needed to look at myself. I'm not trying to make myself out to be some perfect writer here, just remembering the early writing experiences that made me feel good about my writing. Where was I? - writing poetry at 10 just for myself because I wanted to; memorized classic poetry; recommended by my teacher to participate in a special creative writing class at school; published pieces in the school newsletter; entered 9th grade and with each poem assignment, the teacher chose mine as an example of one of the best to read to the class; my Poetry class teacher always chose me to read Shakespeare because he loved how I recited. In college I continued to write and majored in English, mostly because that was my best subject: - I had many excerpts of my literature analysis read by professors as examples; I wrote an analysis on Plath's "Lady Lazarus" and my professor read the entire paper to exemplify exactly what he was looking for (I got AA, he doubled my grade because he liked it so much); I submitted a poem to the college arts and literary magazine, and out of the five-college area to submit, mine was one out of the ten they chose to publish. Ok, enough of that stuff. I know I must sound pretty pompous about writing. I'm really nothing like that, I'm pretty quiet and reserved. I need to remind myself how much I loved writing, and how purposeful it was. I haven't written a new poem in about 15 years. That's a scary thing. Ok, now I have a beginning. ** Images For Use By Upgraded+ Only ** |
| Sunday, I'll be going to my grandmother's house. She died last month, she was 93. My mother asked me about some of her belongings, and the one thing I wanted most was something I knew no one else would want, her dresser. It was painted green a long time ago (not the greatest color choice, to me) but even though the drawers wouldn't close anymore, and everyone tried to talk her into getting something new, she wouldn't part with it. She told me her bedroom set were the first pieces my grandfather bought for their new home, and I loved my grandfather. I guess this is really weighing on my mind right now. I haven't really been able to talk to much about her death. I've lost family members before, but this was so surreal. The family gathered at the hospital and waited for the end to come. I had to be strong for my mother. I don't think I've begun grieving yet. I feel frozen, just like my writing. Maybe I'll try to write about her. |
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