On How I Became a Writer (Part 3)

What I am about to write is not what I intended for this evening. While the content will be about my writing journey, it will not be the one I initially envisioned. Instead, I will be sharing a short piece of fiction I produced in high school. 

Earlier today, my mind snagged itself on a row of barbed wire surrounding a minefield of controversy. My thoughts were entangled in several social media posts and the ensuing comments. Their ignorance and resentment ensnared me, and I lost myself in rage and resignation, but also self-doubt. That these people were so unwilling to accept the possibility that they may be wrong, or admit that they lack the knowledge to be so certain about their opinions, while I spend everyday questioning my own beliefs, frustrated me. And the ease at which they recite verbatim the talking points of those whom they never bother to question or critique, then call their opponents sheep while ignoring the irony, drives me towards despair. Finally, I begin to doubt my own beliefs, not because they lack evidence or validity, but from exhaustion. 

So, I squandered the time, energy, and focus for tonight's original content on a rant that played out in my mind. A wasted moment. At the very least, I could have written it out. Used it for a future post.

Sigh.

(A "Portrait of a Cossack Woman" by Serhii Vasylkivsky. Why a Cossack woman? Why not. Also, I needed an image.)

On How I Became a Writer (Part 2)

When I was young, I attended two separate Catholic elementary schools. From kindergarten through fifth, I roamed the halls of St. Michaels in relative bliss (at least that his how I remember it). I have this vague memory of the first day of third grade, in Mrs. Murphy's classroom, and remarking to myself just how green the light shown through the trees bordering the the large stretch of windows. Also, of Mrs. Murphy physically demonstrating how babies enter the world, by spreading her legs and making a downward motion with bother arms. Then from sixth until eighth grade, on the second floor of St. James, I was awakened to harshness of judgmental peers and frustrated teachers. During that time, I learned how bullying and pecking orders worked; the power of humiliation, from both children and adults; and how to stand up for myself by quietly rejecting the Church on Ash Wednesday (I refused to walk up to the altar and receive ashes, and I responded quietly to my teacher's stern inquiry, because, well, it was in the of Mass--even when protesting, I still behaved).

On How I Became a Writer (Part 1)

The first post in a series about how I discovered writing as a powerful form of self expression.   

During a text conversation with a good friend, the topic of children's books came up. At some point, I confessed that I had written one for a ninth-grade English assignment. Through the course of the exchange, I attempted to outline the story. It is a rather sad, disturbing tale. By texting the details, I began to unravel quite a lot about the emotions behind this attempt at storytelling. Later on, I began to analyze my responses to her questions, and realized I needed to find this assignment. Furthermore, the discussion pried loose tucked away memories of other creative writing assignments from high school and college. However, I did not act upon this nostalgic feeling right away. Instead, I let it linger, like pieces of a nearly finished difficult puzzle scattered in frustration across a table top. I yearned to pull the pieces back together and finish it, but the bad taste left by my irritation discouraged any attempt to restart the process. 

Meandering Thoughts (July 4th, 2021, Final Version)

Sorry, I skipped last Sunday's blog post. This past week was spent in Atlantic City, NJ, at a dance competition. Most of my readers (six out of ten), will understand what that means in terms of time and commitment. Some day I will  explain to the rest of my weekly audience (the other four), all it means to be a dance parent. Just not today.

Instead, I am going to try and reflect on this most sacred of days in the US calendar. Because of procrastination, I will not be able to present anything involving in-depth analysis. And my lack of confidence in my intellectual prowess and writing ability prevents me from declaring any bold political or cultural proclamations. In the end, dear reader, you will have to be satisfied with a short reflection on July 4th nostalgia.

Scratch that second paragraph. This is nostalgia, with a hint of philosophical revelation, and political cynicism.

Many apologies.