I feel all tingly
as I start to write. No. I feel the top of my head start to tingle as
I think about this project that was given to me last
night: make a list of 100 of my dreams, write down what my soul fancies, as
I have become too practical. I need to
dream more.
(1.) I’d like to write.
I’ve
enjoyed writing nearly as long as I can remember. Enamored with language in high school and
prolific in my prose, I wrote to play
with words, using alliteration, allegory, similes, all different styles and
voices with which to play. I wrote to
express myself, not merely my outward self, the self that takes so much energy
to pronounce and maintain, but my writings were cries from my soul: sincere and
true and drastic and dramatic. I wrote
of what I fancied, what I feared. I
painted pictures with my words and drew you out as a playmate to come into my world
and enter a new reality.
I flaunted my differences, dressed up my
foibles, faults and fascinations with words, and flirted with my shadowy side
when I wrote in my 20’s. In my 30's, as motherhood and then career became more prominent in my life, my writing took a turn. I dipped my virtual pen again to write for our
computer business. I personalized
newsletter articles to our client base, wrote text for brochures, websites,
protocols, manuals, meeting minutes and anything else that needed ‘figurative
flair’, or at least that needed to be recorded (and I added the ‘figurative flair’
on my own).
Now that I've reached my midpoint in life, I combine these skills into capturing the passion an individual or business has, and then relay their message in the vibrant art of the written word.
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