Hmmm...

I once thought I would become a writer. My father is a writer and a good one. My mother also writes beautifully. Many of my siblings are blessed with the gift. In fact maybe all of us? Or maybe we were just exposed to so much literature and writing as children that we developed some skill. I used to sit in my father's loft, on an old red couch with a board (which he had covered with some kind of vinyl) on my lap. Encouraging us to sit and write was a way for him to let us be near him but not interrupt him too terribly while he wrote or graded papers. I can still smell the smells and hear the sounds of his fingers clacking away on the manual typewriter, the whir of the heavy metal phone as it rotated through a number, the creak of his chair as he leaned back when he had swiveled around to look at me. I thought my Dad was amazing and I always wanted to write.

In Elementary school I remember my 3rd grade teacher giving me paintings or photos and telling me to write stories about them to keep me busy and to spark my creativity. I created a series of stories about me and some of the kids in Mr. McLean's 5th grade class called, "The Heroes and Heroettes." As you can imagine, it was about heroic adventures. Mr. McLean would usually have me stand up in class and read them.

In Middle School Honors English, Mrs. Pace was always giving me praises and telling me that I would most surely be a writer ("like your father"). My brother John had a computer down in his room and he'd let me use it whenever I wanted (I think, or maybe I just did whenever he was at work). I remember writing a story about a girl and an experience she had when her Mom and Dad got confused about who was supposed to pick her up and she was left at school. My older brother Chris read it and said, "Did you write this? Really? How did you come up with something like this? Its really REALLY good." And I thought I would die of happiness and pride. I wrote a series of stories about 3 of my friends called, "The Awesome Foursome" and during breaks friends would often gather around to hear the latest installment.

In High School Mrs. Rostkowski was very skilled at teaching me more about poetry and giving me all kinds of ideas for different and creative ways to write. I was the editor of our literary magazine, published various stories and poems, and won some awards for some of my short stories and one of my poems. I even had a letter published in Seventeen Magazine. Pretty big time!

In college I wrote some good papers but didn't do a lot creatively. And little by little it has slipped away from me. Read a letter from my brother Mark and you will laugh, cry, and blush all within 5 minutes. Read Nancy's blog and you will immediately recognize wit and intelligence in her writing. Read one of Chris's short stories and you will most likely pee your pants. Our family loves writing so much that sometimes we would create our own poetry games around the kitchen table. This may sound strange if you don't know us. But if you do, you may have been persuaded to join in. A game might go something like this. We'll say it is my turn to give instructions. I might say: "You have 90 seconds to write a poem. It must be 6 lines. Nine syllables per line. It must start happy and end tragically." And then we'd read them out loud afterwards and laugh and laugh until we cried (or until Dad came out of his room for a late night snack and we had to hold perfectly still so that he, not unlike a velociraptor, would be unable to detect our presence or insanity).

And me? Hm...where has my creative writing ability gone? Sometimes I feel that my creativity is really stifled in the life I lead right now. Yet...what would I change or give up to develop these things more? Less time with the kids? Less time cleaning the house? Less time exercising? Less time working on Haitian Roots? Less time with my husband? Less time preparing church lessons? Less time trying to keep up my foreign language skills? I don't think that I spend enough time on any of those things. In fact there are many other important things that I feel I do not accomplish each day. Yet ever lurking in the back of my mind is the ache to create something beautiful. I want to read. Reading inspires writing more than any other single thing. I want to write. I want to play with words. I want to paint. I want to play the piano. Even at this moment, I feel the desire to spew forth words but there is a knot in my stomach saying, "No time, no time, you are leaving on a trip in 4 hours. NO TIME! So much else to take care of before you go!!!"

So, rather than taking the opportunity to let the "juices flow", I will just quickly throw together another post in order to keep up on my journal. And here it is with not a single creative thing.

This is of April 2010:
Tons of Powder
A full makeover by Deedle, including these two-toned nails
A cute new wig (might look similar to others but it is a little longer, really light weight and comfortable, and has a top where you can part it anywhere and looks and feels much more natural than most of my other wigs)
And finally SPRING!!!
We're finishing off the month at the Happiest Place on Earth. No, no, we're not all going to the temple. We're headed here: