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I wrote these short pieces years ago,
so thought I would give them another whirl, as my thoughts haven’t altered a
lot where ideas are concerned.
Thoughts Grow Like
Mushrooms
A small germ becomes
a giant idea. We all have ideas but most people let them slide away, never to
be recalled. I am forever seeking new ideas, new paths to walk; new avenues to
explore. My mind is never idle. I wonder what others think about when they just
sit and stare. Are they, like me, investigating another avenue to take? When I
began to write I thought—will I ever be fortunate enough to see a novel I have
created in print? Will it be such a tragedy if I don’t?
I am never sure what
prompted me to write, but once I began, I couldn’t stop. If I was unable to
read or write I feel my life would have no purpose. I’m not sure what drives
me. When I was a teenager, I felt an urge to write down my emotions—such as
that shy glance from a boy I thought was nice, and how it made me feel at the
time. This urge was dormant for years while my career path went off in another
direction—but then I reached a stage in my life when I had time to do as I
pleased. That is when I began to write in earnest, as if guided by what I like
to call my Muse. Of course, there were those pesky rejections to deal with
along the way.
People who don’t
quite understand writers think we’re strange. How do you have the patience they
ask, when told how much work goes into a book. How can I answer them when I
don’t know myself? All I know is that I often wonder what my mind would be
doing if it wasn’t toying with new story ideas. Perhaps I would have continued
with my first love, painting. But the urge to paint was never as strong as the
urge to write.
When I read a book or
a passage of writing by another author that stirs me to tears, laughter or
strong emotion I long to have the same effect on a reader. Perhaps this is why
we all keep at it. To have someone say, “I read your book, and loved it. I
enjoyed it so much I couldn’t put it down.” That is completely satisfying. I
feel I have accomplished a feat that once seemed impossible.
I know people who try
something and when they fail say, “I couldn’t be bothered to carry on.” I’ve
tried a few things in my time that I haven’t been all that successful at, but
I’ve always kept on until I felt I was as good at it as I could ever be. I hope
I have become a tolerant person as I’ve grown.
Words
Words. As writers, we
love them. Idolise them, in fact. Words are to us writers as the paintbrush is
to an artist, the baton to a conductor, movements to a dancer. A paragraph,
sentence, or at times one word will catch our attention, hold us in thrall, and
make us wish we’d thought of that phrase or word first.
As I work my way
through the dictionary, this occupation brings home to me as never before how
glad I am that I was taught English from the moment I could speak. How often in
the past, I have scoffed at newcomers to my country. How many of us are guilty
of suggesting they should learn our language before they arrive. Yeah, like it
will only take them a short course of a couple of weeks to learn the million
and one connotations and idiosyncrasies of the English language. So many English
words change their meaning by the alteration or addition of one letter.
Never will
I ridicule someone who endeavours to find their way around the English
language.
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