Writing seems to be in my DNA. My father apparently loved to jot down his thoughts on pen and paper (sadly, due to my parents’ divorce, I never knew him).
I probably wrote my first short story at the ripe old age of nine, as a Christmas present for my then 3 year-old cousin Annick, with illustrations. It was a story about a forgotten Christmas tree.
As a teenager, I spent a lot of time brooding and writing in secret dairies, which had to have a lock. Nothing unusual about that, you might say. I pushed the teenage pondering syndrome beyond the norm though; often walking the streets alone at night, tormented by figuring out that which I could not fathom. You know, those mundane things like ‘why am I here?’ ‘What am I supposed to do with my life?’ ‘How can I find true love?’ ‘Is God real?’ etc. It eventually stopped, when I narrowly missed being raped by a psycho, which I attribute to divine intervention, through unusual cunning ! My autobiography* will reveal all! (My sales pitch for the day!)
Adulthood and middle age were a whirlwind of dramas and confusion, yet always returning to laughter, while continuing with my outwardly ordered but inwardly tormented life.
Retirement and the later years have been an absolute surprise. A time of shedding that which was not life-giving and fully giving myself to that which added challenge, joy and satisfaction; such as seeing a finished poetry book series emerge, out of my life-long scribbles!
I have also found time to get involved with people and to share some of my acquired skills; running diverse groups, such as English for ESL** participants, study groups etc., all on a voluntary basis. This is giving back to society as an older, independent person. It is incredibly rewarding! I recommend it! It balances the often obsessive activity of writing, which can tend to lead isolating from others. So here we have it: my first blog (written on a different platform, which now has been merged with this one).
* in 20??(18/19/20)
** English as a second language