How could you? Oh, Noooo! You Shouldn’t! Not that! Are you crazy?
So many voices I’ve allowed to quiet words I’ve wanted to say over the years. Of my own doing and for a good many years, I gave up my writer’s voice in the name of privacy, decorum, or just to keep the peace. I’m so glad that voice is here and can be silenced no longer. Writing, in spite of judgments personified or of my own personal doing, is helping me heal.
From an early age, I knew, WRITING IS LIFE. In 2016, an astute 5th grader started a term paper with that line. She got an A. Writing IS certainly my life. Throughout my years, words have been there when there was no one else.
Six months of the saddest time in my life occurred in 1977, while living in Tiraspol, Moldavia on a honeymoon disaster. My first marriage involved a job in the USSR, his employ not mine. I went as the lucky Plus One at 21 years of age. I found myself alone, sans translator, 14-16 hours a day, in a place where language was a mystery. Even the alphabet betrayed me, being Cyrillic. Lacking daily conversations with another human being, no English television, no random billboards to read, no words, my mind starved during those months. Exiled and imprisoned, I devoured novels brought from home. Completing one book a day provided a silent stream of words. They painted vivid pictures while I found comfort in the strength from the text as mine waned.
During my marriage to VST, my interests turned to other things. Important things requiring time and patience. Raising Children. Farming through disastrous weather. Injuries. Teaching. Travels. Life just kept coming while I never carved out quiet time for writing. My own self care I neglected for years..
These days, I write throughout the day, every day. Topics and projects are an endless choice. The stories have been waiting patiently for their day to be told in the proper way. Russia. Marriage. Divorce. Children. Farming. Students. The hospital. Angels. The one that got away. The ones pushed away. These tales are lined up, waiting to come to life. And so, I write.
It started with an inspiration from a strange place. Vlad, an old, new friend, found routine in publishing daily, without fail, like clockwork. Publishing daily since 2015, this came first, while other aspects of life remained tattered and in disarray. Topic research, chosen words and a voice came alive daily, without fail. While life was literally flaming around his feet, with computer in hand publishing was priority, every day. So admirable. Just like that, I realized I had the discipline to share my words, as well. With that, September 24 delivered my first post. Through the days that followed, I’ve enjoyed experimenting with thoughts, memories, and writing. I dream of my first book in 2021, as Oliver lounges by my feet, and Winterpast holds us both, warm and secure.
Through months of widowhood, writing has encouraged me to bravely explore a space so dark and sad it had the potential to crush dreams and end hope. A true test of faith, it could have fanned a bitter soul. It could have blinded me from seeing the beauty surrounding me now. My words stopped that from happening. As they vented the truths I lived through, remembering some kinder than they were, fires burst on my computer screen, flared and went out. Like a fantastic controlled burn. Months later, words are healing me still. My super power is writing. For that, there is no kryptonite, except “a weak and a lazy mind”. I assure you, my mind is neither.
If you’ve ever, in your quietest thoughts, mused about writing, buy a journal today. Pencils and pens. And just begin. Writing IS life!