Blog Post #1 9/5/15
Our first assignment was given in class last night. After hearing my professor speak for over two hours, his enthusiasm gave me excitement, and ambition that I can become a great writer. The assignment was to read a collection of three articles on Why I Write, and consider why I write. Read three articles? All written in dates which I lack understanding of the time period. Believe it or not, after researching some words the writers referenced, I found myself completely indulged in their writings, and the honestly that came from them. In particular, the last article in the collection written by Eudora Welty The Making of a Writer: Listening in the Dark she uses story telling as her purpose. As a child in Jackson Mississippi, gossip was the best form of storytelling and she took it all in. Producing prize winning novels, and some fabricated short stories that can hold even the most illiterate readers attention.
Of course all this leads to why I write. It has been over ten years since I have been required to write for purpose of a grade, but in that ten years I have written beautiful poetry, inspirational letters, and even sent some love letters to my husband to remind him of how special he is to me. The poetry always seems to come to me in times of struggle, or emotional periods of my life. Being raised as a “Tough Huff” there was never too much room for crying or complaining about the metaphorical punches from life. Even if you did want to talk about it, there would be no one who could take themselves from their own demons to help you seek a solution. At a young age, I learned that putting hurtful words down on paper, reading and re-writing was the best way to talk the problem out with someone without hurtful criticisms that usually follow.
Inspirational quotes stolen from the bible or other authors, mixed with a little of my wisdom gained on this earth for twenty-eight years has been sent via post mail to many friends and family who have been incarcerated though all my years. I came from a poverty stricken neighborhood, with many friends who have stayed stuck on repeat becoming nothing other than a product of their environment. I have moved on from that neighborhood and been so blessed in this life to live in lovely white suburbia, but I never have forgotten where I came from or the people who shaped the person I am today. As they find themselves hemmed up in the same thing over and over, some have said my letters to them inspired them to truly believe there is a way out of this life.
As far as the other letters I send, often telling my husband how proud, blessed, and truly honored I am to be his wife in this little life we have built with each other. I often feel I put into words on paper what I cannot verbally say while starring into his eyes. Why I seek the safety of a pen and paper I am unsure, hopefully I will be able to figure that out in this class as I go through the process in finding out what kind of writer I am.
This is my first writing assignment in many years. As I sit in my dimly lit basement, in the quiet at my desk this came surprisingly easy once my fingers started. Sitting in my chair as my mind wonders what else I can say, what else can I do on this paper, I have ultimately come to the conclusion that I enjoy writing and can’t wait for the next assignment. Thanks Professor!