At the sensitive age of nine I lost the two main characters in my life, my grandame and the illustrious rajah who created me. I had never felt that kind of love until I had my progeny. As a undeveloped child, I inscribe my name in 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 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 a great pen were my weapons against tribulations.
As the spirit would have it many of my feeling were cursively written without punctuation, organization or editing and lyrically sounding, leading me to write sometimes on 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 happen in 1959 during a time when racial issues were not something, I was aware of as a child. Writing about my feelings help 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 poem. I hope that if anyone read my words it would help them to solve their issues. My mind would play out these stories, mostly science fiction and romance genres I always loved in movies. All this happen before the desktop computer came into the home. When I received my first computer in the 1990’s. I was learning this amazing machine and the software was a magical entity. A writer that assist me to put my words into action. I started on my first book, science fiction and I created short stories. I was privy to its amazing talents. I lived for using this instrument to write.
Writing requires that you look at other writings and find what you are trying to convey. Have written and re-written at least a hundred times to get that sentence right. You go through an emotional roller coaster of queries that at times make you ask, “Who told you that you can write?” Then I read a paragraph of my writing and recognize that you can compose with practice. You see your talents, then research some of the things that will help you write deeper. Bookstores are bliss and every Friday I would visit my preferred. Borders taught me to 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 writers corner. This area houses books on character, plot and dictionaries and the human trait. Great magazines of writing build the story for me so perfectly, writers who were dispensing words to help other with specifics. My imagination of seeing a writer’s hand reaching for another lost writer. Inside saying she had so much fear, show them how fear affects you and who. I would go back into my work and realize that it needed better wording, design and greater clarity. Fast forward to my future and I find that all my writing is in the future and it has given me great courage.