I was going to write of my singular thinking today. How odd it is that I come home to an empty house and rattle around until the hubby comes home. But what I got to thinking about in light of this "rattling around" I do is this: I work on the computer--the laptop that is. I sit and stare out the window and write. It was a gift of immeasurable importance that I had no idea was important until I had it. Does that make sense? It has allowed me to begin randomly putting words out onto a medium that had bottled up inside for, well, quite a long time actually. And they are words that are mine alone. Not the editing that I do for various bosses or colleagues. Not the endless stream of reading I do. Nope just MY stuff. I've even gotten back to trying my hand at free verse. I'm not sure exactly what all this means. I don't feel more well adjusted or anything. But I think I feel better inside where I hide sometimes. I feel more myself these days. Less a character of the adult I am most of the time. And that is most certainly a good thing. I'm more comfortable with my thoughts this way. Even though my actions still need a little work!
And because it's a singular activity, one that is not shared with hubby or even the cat, it belongs to just me. And to discover me at this age is a gratifying thing.
1 comment:
Sometime RAMH commenter Querulous Squirrel is learning something of the same thing. She's talking ultra-short fiction but it works the same regardless: writing, writing, writing -- as often as you can, no matter the length -- makes you a writer.
And, what a riot, the word-verification thingum of the moment: reriter.
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