Well, it’s certainly been an interesting two weeks! After watching all the quarantine notices throughout the States, I wondered how…
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Writing
NaNoWriMo 2019
I have a little picture filed away above a list of many other memory-inducing snapshots on my computer. It’s from…
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The Springtime of Joy (Poem)
It was beautiful, down the valley, Where the wild gorse grows, Beautiful in the sunshine, Where the river’s current flows….
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A Shout-Out to All Creators!
I don’t remember now how the conversation first started, but I got to talking with my younger brothers about a…
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Standing on the Shoulders of Giants
It’s always encouraging to hear from other writers. Back when I first started writing, I dived in head-first with little knowledge of story structure, character development, or even what the word “plot” or “novel” meant. That first year, especially, I spent reading everything I could on the subject. And though I’m sure I’ve forgotten most of what I learned then, I do remember the feeling of my world expanding exponentially, and the sure realization that I’d never look at anyone or anything the same way again.
There was a moment soon after I started writing for fun in longer form when I remember seeing a teenage girl being comforted—multiple times over a weekend—by an older friend of ours. Later, when I asked my parents about it, I explained that I wanted to know why she was doing that “because I might use it in my writing one day.” It turned out she had recently lost her brother, quite unexpectedly, and my heart went out to her.
But I knew then, even more than I had earlier, that life would never quite look the same again. I was a writer—was seeing life from the perspective of a writer—and that became a constant in my life.
Keep Going!
This afternoon, as I peeled onions and chopped broccoli as meal prep for tomorrow, I was thinking about my writing. As much as I love writing, I’ve been feeling rather burned out lately.
“Why don’t I just take a break?” I thought, as the pile of broccoli pieces slowly grew under my knife. “A break from everything written for even a week would be such a luxury!”
But then, I realized that if I did so, it would stretch into much more than a week. I’d rationalize it with, “I need more time to recuperate!” “I’m too busy right now!” “I don’t have any ideas!” And soon, another three years would slip by, unheeded, until a day in the future when I’d wake up and miss the joys of stories blossoming under my fingertips. I’ll mourn the years wasted when I could have been learning something—even something little every single day, like I am now—and instead just have let that part of me lie forgotten.