At the sensitive age of nine I lost the two main characters in my life, my grandam and the illustrious rajah who created me. I had never known that type of love until I had my progeny. As an undeveloped child, I inscribe my name in the cursive it completed me. I designed letters so artistically beautiful. Connecting shapes and angles as I practice to perfection. Writing words just to see how they would turn out. I began writing sentences to express my feelings and tell stories. It was the first stage of learning of the self. I yearned for my grandmother and my father and as I sobbed through the pain. My trusty sword, a well sharpened #2 pencil and an excellent pen were my weapons against tribulations.
As, the spirit would have many of my feelings were cursively written without punctuation, organization or editing and lyrically sounding, leading me to sometimes write someone paper, and then in a composition book help me to put my tragedy in perspective. I knew nothing about being a writer, but I was writing. This happened in 1959 during a time when racial issues were not something, I was aware of as a child. Writing about my feelings helped me to express all the emotions that came from missing a grandmother who through religion read to me a bedtime story. The holy bible from genesis to revelation. Helping form pictures in my immature mind. Many of the words written were designed and put in poetry form. My poetry was crafted from the poetry written in psalms and proverbs; I learn lyrical poetry. Hidden in the words that she read to me is a lesson on how to act. Hidden in my subconscious was everything that I needed to know.
Time went on I learn to put my feeling into poetry being my psychoanalysis. A journal of all my pain. After moving several times, I lost the rare book of my poems. I hope if anyone read my words, would help them to solve their issues. My mind, would, play out these stories, mostly science fiction and romance genres. I always loved movies. All this happens before the desktop computer comes into the home. When I received my first computer in the 1990s. I was learning this bewildering machine and the software was a magical entity. A writer that assisted me to put my words, into action. I started on my first book of science fiction and created short stories. I was privy to its surprising talents. I lived for using this instrument to write.
Writing requires you look at other writings and find what you are trying to convey. Some have written and re-written at least a hundred times to get that sentence accurate. You go through an emotional roller coaster of queries that at times make you ask, “Who tells you that you can write?” Then I read a paragraph of my writing and recognize you can compose with practice. You recognize your talents, then research the details that will help you write deeper. Bookstores are bliss and every Friday I would visit my preferred. Borders taught me how to search the shelves of this store to find the information you seek. As you go through floors and shelves you find this character called the writer’s corner. This area houses books on character, plot and dictionaries and the human trait. Leading magazines of writing built the story for me so perfectly.
Writers who were dispensing words to help others with specifics. My imagination, of identifying an author’s hand that reaches for another lost writer. Inside she had so much fear, showing them how fear affects you and who. I would go back into my work and realize it needed better wording, design and greater clarity. Fast forward to my future and find that all my writing is in the future and it has given me great courage.
I believe I can write poetry and publish. What important information I have gleaned from designing words, I discovered the writer’s thesaurus and found it gives me stronger words with greater meaning, now it’s time to write that book that story in your head, about the alien ancestors who brought my humans to this planet to keep them safe. The question is where to start, who is my primary character and what is their mission. I need to research my idea. In the meantime, I am encouraged to start a short story, and search into great short works from well-known artists who have mastered, King, Poe, Hurston, Hughes.
Now I should have my own design. Hopefully it will fit, and my legacy is set, and my name will be uttered. I continue my journey to express my love for something given to me from the universe. A voice inside me is saying I learned from you and I learn from them, continue the voyage. Stories of me and my sister and my family and all the drama and character assassinations. All the while this wrote this remarkable character was doing something impressive, the words were healing my being. All the thoughts harbored in me, came to the surface. I was starting to be another person. Shedding tears of pain and joy but leaving complete understanding. I love the intelligent entity who gave the craft of writing and creativity. I never knew I loved writing so passionately. Daily I write something, even if it is a note to self, a reminder of what I need to do.
Going forward I find I have a novel, where others are finding it hard to put their butts in the seat, in that place to those stories out there. To embrace the greatness of communication. During all this movement of words, the world is changing and so are the sentences of creating a new one. I realize the so-called norm is no longer what I know and understand. People are telling a different type of story. They are outraged and no longer take it anymore. Dethroning monarchs with sentences and uplifting to those who need hope. Some of it masculine but the majority feminine and now they are not playing. The stories are about which I will not be changed. I will not be disrespected. The story is about the sentences written long ago and has become comfortable.
This achievement of writing has made me responsible for those who need my information. That I too must speak my truth in this new world is recreated. This writing is given me courage, especially since my silence otherwise has induced me complacent. This writing has made me come and face the truth of my pain and, how it happens and who cause the pain. Rivers from my eyes forge ahead to continue to work on my style. My journey has led me to conferences that has rooms of writers and authors at different levels of learning and publishing. Can I pitch a story idea, still building that courage? An agent gave a little advice, wowing he was interested in the story. My self-esteem is rising soon, only hoping to be a published author. The goal is to write great novels and short stories and continue to learn and meet people who have the same attitude.