End of summer, East Coast sunshiny day. Light breeze dancing the trees outside the French door that leads to my back yard. The circular fan in my living room is spinning away, stirring up cool air to stimulate my senses. Tip tapping the rhythm of my soul on the keyboard of a new computer that is willing to take in and translate my creative impulses to understandable phrasings. A year ago, I began blogging on The Huffington Post, and I remain grateful for being part of the worldwide family of bloggers.
At 3:21 p.m., EST, this is the fourth article I am writing thus far today. One clinical and professional, the other three personal and revealing. All reflections of years of honing and polishing a skill that has come to support me well.
Is that why I write?
Readers have shared that my words touch, move, heal, educate, entertain and inspire them. One said that I "paint word pictures" and that they feel like they take the ride along with me. I attempt to do that so that folks can have a vicarious experience. People bond with me over our shared humanity, and I have made friends as a result, some who I will never meet hug to hug, but still it feels like they are companions on the journey, so that this life feels less lonely.
Is that why I write?
Since I was a child, words have fascinated and tickled me. From as early as I can recall, books were toys that I would tote around too. Adults would read to me and then there came a time when I would read to them, exhilarated with my ever growing vocabulary. When I went to junior and then senior high school, I took three years of Latin so I could better understand the English language, little knowing that I would be enraptured by the muse who has me do her creative bidding. I chose psychology and social work as college and grad school majors. Journalism never came up as a consideration, but somehow the writing bug bit me and hasn't let go.
Is that why I write?
Journals that reveal the pains and pleasures of this incarnation have been part of my literary landscape since my teens and recently I read through some that I have had since the 1970s. They are a roadmap from the 20-something-year-old that I was to the 55-year-old seasoned woman into whom I have evolved. Some of her fears are still mine, some of her triumphs and challenges were the stepping stones onto which I have leapt. They are my mental meanderings and therapeutic interventions that have kept me (relatively) sane and vertical.
Is that why I write?
I get juiced by reader feedback and have seen the blogs I have written travel to places I may never go, or they precede me to destinations I desire to visit. They gently open doors that I felt I had to push on through before. My ego sometimes takes dips and dives, and soars to heights of splendor, depending on response or lack thereof. It is the bane of many writers' existence, this being at the mercy of readership. I am both hypnotically drawn to and cringing, sometimes pull away from the books and articles penned by others who are where I want to be. I question what steps they took to get to where they are, as I judge my work as at least as worthy of note as theirs.
Is that why I write?
When I comes right down to it, like many wordsmiths, I write simply because (as grammatically incorrect as it sounds) I "can't not write." What a lovely addiction by which I am plagued.
from Healthy Living - The Huffington Post http://ift.tt/1zRBdgM
via IFTTT
At 3:21 p.m., EST, this is the fourth article I am writing thus far today. One clinical and professional, the other three personal and revealing. All reflections of years of honing and polishing a skill that has come to support me well.
Is that why I write?
Readers have shared that my words touch, move, heal, educate, entertain and inspire them. One said that I "paint word pictures" and that they feel like they take the ride along with me. I attempt to do that so that folks can have a vicarious experience. People bond with me over our shared humanity, and I have made friends as a result, some who I will never meet hug to hug, but still it feels like they are companions on the journey, so that this life feels less lonely.
Is that why I write?
Since I was a child, words have fascinated and tickled me. From as early as I can recall, books were toys that I would tote around too. Adults would read to me and then there came a time when I would read to them, exhilarated with my ever growing vocabulary. When I went to junior and then senior high school, I took three years of Latin so I could better understand the English language, little knowing that I would be enraptured by the muse who has me do her creative bidding. I chose psychology and social work as college and grad school majors. Journalism never came up as a consideration, but somehow the writing bug bit me and hasn't let go.
Is that why I write?
Journals that reveal the pains and pleasures of this incarnation have been part of my literary landscape since my teens and recently I read through some that I have had since the 1970s. They are a roadmap from the 20-something-year-old that I was to the 55-year-old seasoned woman into whom I have evolved. Some of her fears are still mine, some of her triumphs and challenges were the stepping stones onto which I have leapt. They are my mental meanderings and therapeutic interventions that have kept me (relatively) sane and vertical.
Is that why I write?
I get juiced by reader feedback and have seen the blogs I have written travel to places I may never go, or they precede me to destinations I desire to visit. They gently open doors that I felt I had to push on through before. My ego sometimes takes dips and dives, and soars to heights of splendor, depending on response or lack thereof. It is the bane of many writers' existence, this being at the mercy of readership. I am both hypnotically drawn to and cringing, sometimes pull away from the books and articles penned by others who are where I want to be. I question what steps they took to get to where they are, as I judge my work as at least as worthy of note as theirs.
Is that why I write?
When I comes right down to it, like many wordsmiths, I write simply because (as grammatically incorrect as it sounds) I "can't not write." What a lovely addiction by which I am plagued.
from Healthy Living - The Huffington Post http://ift.tt/1zRBdgM
via IFTTT
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