Random thoughts in a blog post are sometimes the most telling....Or they're just super-annoying and I don't know any better. Either way, I am going to complete a blog post today. There may be rhyme and reason to it, or you may all shake your heads and click away. Let's see, shall we?
I joined a writing group. I decided it was time to get off my blogging ass and do some writing in another forum. I sometimes have delusions of grandeur in which I see myself writing a memoir of sorts. People like memoirs. Especially when people swear and tell secrets and make them laugh and cry. I've done all those things in the last 20 minutes, so who knows? Perhaps a memoir is something I could manage.... someday.
So, yes! The writing group. It is filled with interesting people living their interesting lives. Some of them enjoy writing dialogue. Some enjoy descriptive paragraphs. Some enjoy screenplay. I have no idea what the hell I enjoy. I felt like such a jerk walking into that first meeting, copies of my work in hand, a couple of pens in my pocket, and a big notebook to light my way. EVERY SINGLE PERSON IN THE ROOM pulled out a laptop, and my head fell into my hands. When we had a 20 minute "free writing" session, I got through approximately 5 pages of writing. Everyone else had a piece to rival "Les Miserables". So it may be time for me to buy a laptop, or it may be time for me to recognize that writing comes to everyone in different ways. For most, it's via high-speed internet. For me, it's the pony express.
I love to write. Words make me happy. I love the way they feel coming out of my mouth. I love the way they caress or assault my ears. I love to hear them in different accents. I love to spell them, and I love to see them on the page. (Why thank you, Dr. Seuss, would you also eat them in a tree? Ugh. As I said before, this is random thought time.) As a child, I used to sit in my room and read books until my eyes crossed, and then I'd pull out a ratty notebook with hearts all over the front. Those hearts had my name joined to every crush I had; Laura Riker and Laura Picard were particularly popular. That notebook held all my most precious prose and poetry. I wrote biblical epics and World War II short stories. I wrote poetry that would make even Emily Dickinson weep. No, really, it was that bad. The poor woman would have sobbed herself right into an epileptic seizure.
As I read and then wrote lovely words, my real world fell away, and I was the beautiful, intelligent, and graceful girl I always wanted to be. I was the princess the Prisoner of Zenda came to rescue. I was Jo March, writing and running and having great adventures with her sisters. There were no bullies in my writing world. The mean girls couldn't get me there. The kids that picked me last could not come near me. The practical jokers, the nicknamers, and the shamers all stayed away. I was the creator of worlds.
As I continue to fight this well-known bully called Bipolar I Disorder, I find myself longing for those days. I remember the comfort of the weight of a book or notebook in my hand. I remember asking my illustrator uncle to create a cover for one of my short stories. It was GORGEOUS, and something I treasure to this day. I remember taking my notebook and pen wherever I went, like a sword and scabbard. Books and writing were trusty companions, and ones that I continue to cling to now. I read whenever I have the concentration and focus. Some days it's only a page or two, but sometimes it's whole books. I am starting a new adventure in nutrition and supplements as Western medicine continues to fail me, and so my pile of "to read" has turned into a mix of vitamin education, diet theory, and Chinese medicine. I journal and take notes and make lists, words flowing forth in as many forms as I can stand.
I am going to continue to go to my writing group, armed with a crappy notebook. With a head full of stories both real and pretend, I will conquer my fears and shortcomings and make them all into a suit of armor. I love to write. And there are no bullies there.
