Spring Winds and Scattered Petals

I’m watching  the blossom fiercely wrenched from the trees by spring winds. A metaphor? I too, am suspended in the whim of the universe, a dance so random that I can’t always keep up. I’m still writing. I’m trying to encapsulate the process of self-empowerment, an adolescent anorexic turning the tide. It ebbs and flows a staccato experience.

Writing has given me the courage to shine light into my deepest recesses. Words fail. How do I convey my truth and share something that drove me to deny myself over and over? Like the blossom, I’m stripped bare by spring winds of my pen.

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Memoir and My Fuzzy Memory

Year eleven, German Verse Speaking Competition … gaps, Swiss cheese recall. I sought ways to reconcile the short fall in my memory. Accepting my cultural heritage had become another pillar in my recovery from anorexia. I’d fragmented myself. But realised that I had choice and in an adolescent way, with my half-formed brain, began to glue the fragments together.

But the question remained, how did one stimulate the fuzzy memory?

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Sharing One’s Vulnerabilities

It’s okay.

What did I say?

It’s okay.

Really but I’m not sure where I’m going…

24″ Waste has taught me a lot. My latest memoir based on a flaunt with Anorexia in the 70s, has been a long and convoluted road. I wrote it, getting my message on paper. But the underlying concepts were unclear. I have a really good friend, smart, honest and most importantly a reader.

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Inside the Memoir Writer

What entices you to read a memoir? I would love to hear your thoughts.

What makes me want to write my second memoir? The unscrambling follows please read on.

Researching this genre, I find an elegant and confusing list of memoir attributes. These hope to unite those impassioned writers who want to share something about their lives, often a deep revelation of some hardship overcome. Writing to heal or healing to write; who knows.

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The Old Beauty Case

 

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.

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