I don’t write to be famous, I don’t write to be known, I write because I am and I want to be read. How sad to fill a room with paintings no one sees or play music no one hears. Writing is talking without sound, singing without score and dancing without movement and yet, it is all of them. It is a solitary art conjured from thought and expressed by the need to communicate.

HEAD SLAPS, SPEED BUMPS and LIGHTBULBS, one woman's WTF, oops and ah-ha moments of life.

They were published once, and as every writer knows, once is not enough.

Friday, January 27, 2017

Angst in a file

Years ago, at a particularly tough time, with finances off the rail and the demands of family over the top, I wrote a short story, which became a 82,000 word book,  about a women who disappeared, (willingly), while leaving no clues behind as to where she went. I actually figured out a way to head out of Dodge and make a new life, leaving my adored children and once in a lifetime husband behind.

Writing the story was great therapy; I was able to go without going. It was like writing a scathing letter to your mother-in-law and then tearing it up.  The story was pretty good and the emotional dump was soulfully needed but I never did anything with it. It’s buried somewhere in my computer. The book however, neatly tucked into its manila folder, haunts me from the bottom shelf of a bookcase. It reminds me of how despair can cook a novel that once seemed tasty but has gone rancid over time.

My point is that, over the course of this thing I call writing, as a response to life’s travails, I’ve murdered my husband, sold out my parents, burned down a co-workers house and abandoned my children. Those stories were never saved anywhere. I live happily ever after at home with a husband of many, MANY, years and with children, on their own, but close to the nest.  I am privileged and in a very good place. I wonder if writing happy stories makes you happier.

Do you write your angst away?