Writing in the ozone..

I never had a fantasy of being a writer.  It seemed to me that while I read voraciously as a child, I would leave the writing to all those wonderful people who were inspired to put pen to paper and compose fantastic tales for my enlightenment and continuing amusement.  I could never see myself amongst the Kurt Vonneguts or the John Irvings of the world, never mind the Tolstoys and Brontes.  I never had the power to sustain a story for long enough to create what I identified as a book. This was never a source of regret for me, anymore than not becoming a concert pianist or a bricklayer would have been.  There were people in the world who naturally fell into those roles and I was never one of them.

Can you remember the stories you wrote in school?  I can't.  I've been wracking my brain today to try and remember any of the short stories or poems I had to write when I was in elementary school.  I certainly had to write them. Those assignments were on everyone's curriculum and haven't really changed for the past 100 years.  I remember both my kids writing stories about their home life, the holidays, special occasions, local history and a variety of other trivial topics, but I don't remember any of my own writing.  I am pretty certain that the reason I remember what my children wrote was because I saved most of their work.  I have portfolios full of their early drawings and paintings and files filled with their writing and homework assignments.

My mum never saved anything.  As a matter of fact she never had any extra 'stuff'' round the house at all.  I can easily picture the tiny apartment I grew up in.  It was a one bedroom apartment in the Bronx in a pre-war block of flats.  My brother and I shared the one bedroom. It was painted every two years and the shared bedroom was always painted pale blue so my brother wouldn't feel weird about being in a shared room.  I think if I had had my way I would have painted it in multicoloured stripes, but no one asked me.  Anyway, to get back to things not being saved, I can actually remember the few ornaments we had around the house, since there were so few.  I can't believe that this was because we had so little money; I think it's because my mother didn't want extra things to dust. As soon as I brought home a picture, a story, a cardboard basket of cotton wool and a pipe-cleaner chick (for Easter), it would be looked at, I would hope commented on, and then thrown away.  No sentimentality there!

So my memories of writing are really vague.  I remember keeping a diary in my teens and recently, much to my embarrassment, I found one of these and it was full of teenage angst and self-doubt, sort of like my blog, but 45 years earlier.  I was always an artist, always drawing and painting and making things.  I never sat down and wrote for pleasure, but I was a great reader.  I loved my books and they were always my refuge from a chaotic and at times, frightening world.  It's too bad no one encouraged me to write as well as read, but I had my designated talent - art - and my teachers didn't seem to look much further than that.  The idea of being multi-talented never occurred to anyone.  It certainly never entered my head that I might be able to do more than one thing. People always told me how lucky I was to have this one thing that I could do so well.

I think that in some way I had the same idea with my kids.  My daughter was always a fine artist.  She had a fierce and wonderful talent that showed itself at a very early age and since both Ralph and I are artists, we encouraged and applauded this early ability.  She moved through school doing well in other subjects, but seemed to know that the art world was where she was destined to be.  Now, as an adult, she is still an artist, but in recent years she has started writing and is extremely fluid and talented in this, too.  Why didn't we ever notice this?  When my son was six he asked to play the violin and I think we were so shocked at this talent tangent that it took us at least another year to follow it up and then only when he asked and asked again.  We gave him paints and crayons and taught him to use surgical scissors so he could cut paper skillfully, but the idea that he might move into another creative area never crossed our minds.  He did go on to study graphic design, as did his sister, but they are both more creative and able than we imagined.

I am so very happy that I write and that I manage to do this almost every day.  It clears my head and allows me to trawl through my past for both the pleasant memories and the less pleasant ones that are still part of my history.  Writing gives me a different focus on life.  I get to sit back and reflect more and it's become a necessary part of my day.  On the occasional days when I don't manage to write something I feel a bit edgy and unfinished. I still would never call myself a 'writer', but I am someone who writes.  The expression that 'everyone has one good book in them' may not really be true, but maybe I have some reasonably good blogging in me, and heaven knows, I really and truly love doing this.

I feel like the crazy lady I sometimes see in the park sitting on a bench, muttering to herself.  She scatters all these breadcrumbs on the ground and usually leaves before she even knows whether any birds will come and eat.  She must take some satisfaction from the fact that when she returns the next day to scatter more crumbs, the ones from the previous day are gone.  I never know who, if anyone, reads my scattered thoughts, but when I come back the next day, the writing from yesterday seems to have disappeared.