Twice … I’ve read the same question. It held my attention, if only for a short time between this and that. Then I read it again. That made three times. “Why do you write?” The question sought me, so I thought I’d ponder it.
Why did I write and what place does writing serve in my life?
‘Schicksal,’ has been published two years. I set up a new computer recently. Whilst importing my outlook files, I looked at my emails, the deleted items bulged. Before deleting them permanently, I went through them again.
Public speaking love it or hate it: it’s an authors lot. Schicksal has taught me a lot.
Library based book launches/ author events are a wonderful to connect with readers. So dress the part and share your unique story. Enthusiasm is deliciously infectious, like laughter, it makes the world sparkle.
My computer DiEd. I tried to breathe life into it,
‘Let’s get you a new computer. How long have you had that thing anyway?’ Inwardly groaning, I jumped into the car. A new challenge loomed, setting up a new computer… passwords… resetting passwords…moving files… Arghhh………………………………………..
The blurred a patch of the windscreen persisted even I moved my head. Silently I cursed the health centre car; why didn’t they clean the windows properly? I sat in a comfortable parlour with an old fashioned mantlepiece clock, 10:15, doing a home visit.
Assessment done, Issues discussed, began to write up the home exercise program. I derailed. My speech garbled and I lost the ability to write words. I looked at the clock,relieved that I could still read the time, 11:05.
I wrote about Dala, my father’s hometown in Schicksal. We went there as part of my research into the past. Dala taught me many things. This is what happened just trying to get there. Our confusion is probably shared by travellers and immigrants daily.
Winter in Kyneton, cold but clear
Although the clouds gathered the weather held off.
A small group of us stood by the war memorial,
Some had red flowers
…a Flander’s poppy.
Writing ‘Schicksal,’ I often came to dead ends. My three children inadvertently helped. I’m sure their intentions whilst pure were never intended to be so far reaching. Some months after my father’s death I packed up the unit that had been sold. The process incredibly painful for me left some things undone.
On NYE, I sat on the floor, determined not to bring unfinished business into a new beginning. The ‘too hard basket,’ as the white plastic laundry basket became known, contained items I had no idea what to do with.
Among these random things were two old Benson and Hedges metal boxes containing photos.
This past month I spent time with my family. The birth of our first grandchild: a gift on many levels. Pushing through my inertia, I forced myself to enrol for a copyediting course. Usually, I procrastinate when something significant is looming on the horizon … something I don’t want to consider.
On my writing desk I have a photo of my mother. She laughs at something riotously funny. The image in the sepia tones of time, is someone I never got to know. Her European side locked in the vault of her heart buried deep,sleeping soundly.
This morning I reflected on Mother’s Day and the cycles of nature. As a child I revered my mother, loved tagging along as she completed her household chores. In adolescence we drifted apart as I began to befriend for the woman inside me. I selected the direction of my feminine reality.
Then I became a mother, young and confident. Embracing motherhood I sought to provide foundations for my children to stand on in their lives. I watched them adore me, running to the door when I came home from the hospital, hugging my knees and saying, “I love you mum.”
My heart still overflows just remembering this.
My readers may recognize this image, the basis of a chapter in Schicksal.