A place to share my writing
Why write? I ask myself this question daily. It seems indulgent, spending so much time trying to transfer thoughts into words, reworking and refining those ideas until they ring true and say something that resonates with me and that I hope will resonate with others.
With so many words in the world, why bother adding more? It’s a personal quest. To understand myself. To see through my own prejudices, fears, and limited worldview. To understand what drives me, as well as those who I may never share physical space with but who burrow into my consciousness asking questions.
The answers are never easy. People are complicated. By the time we’re adults we have so many misconceptions about ourselves. How do we peel off the lies we’ve created? How do we face our demons?
Writing gives me the courage to look under the mask, into the deep chasms and the glittering cosmos. Writing is my armor against paralysis of the spirit and an affirmation of our humanity.
I would skip the About Me section altogether but my advisors insist, so I’m compelled to serve up something clever here with a few bullet points of awesome credentials that illustrate how qualified I am to write.
The truth is, my B.A. in English and Music has little bearing on what I write now, late in life. I seem to have been born to or crawled onto a solitary branch of humanity’s tree, sometimes a lonely place, but the view is exhilarating.
I’m only a reporter of what I see from the tip of this precarious branch, attempting to keep my balance as it trembles in the wind, yet continues to reach outward toward the light. Only some of what I see can be reported. Some things, however, I believe are diminished by putting them into words.
As a life-long introvert, these words of Emily Bronte ring true for me. “If I could, I would always work in silence and obscurity, and let my efforts be known by their results.”
When I’m not out on a limb sending post-it notes back home, I might be found grinding coffee beans, filling cat food bowls and bird feeders, or reading aloud excerpts from favorite books with my husband of 35 years, a fellow writer and bibliophile.
The kids are gone, but we have visitation rights to the grandbabies. At the point of this writing, we eagerly await delivery of another grandchild and a John Deer mini-tractor to till the soil on our 2.5 acre homestead in Northern California.