I’ve been writing now for over ten years. When I started, I didn’t have much to say, but I had much to say. What I mean is, I had many thoughts I wanted to express but I couldn’t seem to get it all down. I knew in the end, there was a story, a lesson, perhaps. And my challenge was to connect with the reader and navigate him or her to the end.
I admire those writers, newspaper columnists, for example, who can turn a thought about offending someone, for example, in all their years of writing, into a column, a story. I study the beginning, the middle, and how it all wraps up at the end. I see the thread woven throughout. I admire those who can take a simple act of doing something, or a something that was done to them, into an essay or short story.
As I progress, I continue to study my memoir writings. I have to consciously read each paragraph and ask myself questions. How did I feel? What was my initial reaction? What prompted my behavior? I soon realize there is more there than just the one paragraph. I write what’s on my mind and answer my internal questions. There is more.
Still, after all these years, writing about the essence of my self, experiences and lessons is not easy. Arranging words and thoughts just so to create a prose that speaks its own language is art where I must persevere its practice.
I wish I was more prolific, writing on simple, everyday topics with ease as other published writers do. But maybe its really not how much I write but what is in just the few words I configure.