I am a lover of writing. Even when I was a little girl. Poems and prose. Short stories and longer sagas. Words buzz around inside my head and I am like the beekeeper, tending them. A constant in my life as I grew - first to teenage years, then young adult, then married and mother and on. Some of my writings still sit half finished. Once on paper and those now new in my document file on my computer.
I have four chapters of a novel. A screenplay that saw light once for a few weeks and then was turned away. A short play that was produced in a small theater with a small cast. I have ideas that seem good at the time but are not really. Yet still I keep them for that one sentence gem that I know I will use some other time.
I have written love poems and heartaches. I have honored my children in words that escaped raw and full of love and pride from my very core, blessed with the gift of being their mother. And I have written farewell notes on store bought cards, wishing well and fare do well as tears did well up in my eyes.
But over these last few years, since after the screenplay but before this weekly writing blog, I have not really written much. Perhaps the notes to my children or husband or family. Or a few lines that could be a poem if I had let it grow up. But I did not write on a consistent basis and I think there was a hole there that I did not know was there till I started writing consistently each week.
I have now been writing my Monday morning writing – that started as a Sunday morning writing – for two years now. December 21, 2014 was my first entry. A weekly diary. One hundred and five writings, including this one. Some read like a distant overview of my day. Many are about my dog. And a lot are deeply thought reflections on how I feel and what I think and who I am.
I write every week. Usually when I first wake up. But my mind works all day, every day, and so when thoughts pop in I often record them in the notes app on my phone so I don’t lose them. Most mornings, when I begin to write, those recorded musing seem always to relate, one to the other.
The more I write the better I am as a writer. My mind needs the practice of a constant flow. This allows me to be honest and I rarely second guess the words. A change here or there, a word replaced or a reordering of words strung together to better capture the beat of a sentence or the nuance of tone. But overall, what I put down first is usually what stays.
The ideas, however, sometimes challenge me and need to settle in my mind for many days before they will let me release them. And so, while often I begin my Monday morning writing with a new thought in that moment of setting fingers to keyboard, I also have a number of writings swirling in the caldron that is my mind. Still in smoke and whisper form till one day the brew is ready and the words lift out just right and become a Monday morning writing.
It is a grounding into the creativity that nourishes me. That flow of words that erupt out of me sometimes or must be cajoled to the surface, they are my voice. Whether an easy rhythm of images and imagination or the extracting of thoughts pulled one at a time, my writing is my soul and heart playing hangman with my mind.
When I started writing I did not know that these morning musings are necessary and good. That I had forgotten something about myself. That I am a writer. My words are strong. The images are clear. What I write resonates within me and then out of me to you and I am blessed with these thoughts that I share.
Mother, Wife, Friend, Sister, Daughter, Dancer, Dog and Cat lover.