My First Post

When I was 8 years old, I attended a summer camp in Vermont. It was a typical camp, I believe, and there were classes for sailing, swimming , crafts, and whatnot. One of the classes offered was a class in Poetry.

I recall sitting near a boulder covered in moss, on a hillside, with a camp counselor and a group of children, as we commenced to try our hands (or minds) at verse, for officially the first time (though my mother used to transcribe the songs I made up randomly at the age of 4 and this has also since been preserved as poetry).

I recall looking at an oddly shaped cloud and composing one of my first official poems.

And thus was launched my unofficially official decision or desire that “when I grew up I would become a writer.”

The story of my life between then and now would fill many books, many of which will never be written, and I will spare this paragraph the trouble of even a minor digression into that subject, as it is not the point. 

I sit here, many years later, having done so many things with my life, between that hillside moment and now, and having used my writing skills in so many ways, which often did (yes) assist me to earn money, or for which I was paid in various ways.  

I never did reach the point where I felt I could proclaim that I had “become a writer” or even that writing was the primary activity in which I engaged (at least where “making a living” is concerned.

Perhaps in a later post I will chronicle out or summarize the various writing endeavors I have engaged upon, successfully or otherwise.

On New Years 2023 I found myself in the cold and wet rainbow isle of Ireland, engaged in various humanitarian activities.  It occurred to me that I had reached a point in my life when I could realistically set aside a few minutes or even a couple of hours a day to more specifically and thoroughly study the craft of writing, to practice writing, to immerse myself in the craft , and to ... who knows, possible, one day, “become a writer” in the fullest sense of the word.

My life is unusual. I travel often . I run a charity. I help children and I educate.  When I am not traveling, I live in the Balkans with my husband.  And while I am there, I write (yes) educational books. This, too, is beside the point so I will once again put myself back on track.

It’s not the same: I do not honestly consider that I can say, “I have become a writer.”  Not yet. This may be because the writing I do is such a small part of our educational project thus far.

Over the last two weeks (during the holidays) there has been illness in the area.  There has been plenty of extra time in which I was not fixing my hair, putting on makeup, or packing myself into a car to travel to Dublin to tutor  or speak to groups or attend meetings.  Both my body and my environment were too distracting for “regular work” and on top of that I had the excuse that “it’s the holidays.”  I decided to use much of this “extra” time to rearrange myself and reorganize myself into what I have been wanting to do for so many years: writing.

I was able to use my “extra” time to huddle myself into a corner and to pile up with eBooks, audiobooks, and video course tutorials on the subject of writing. 

In the meantime, among all this reorganization and study, I could not think of what to write about, even for the purpose of practicing writing.  

Of course I have a collection of old incomplete stories, a novel I started when I was 16, and a few nonfiction writing ideas.  

As it stands I am positively blocked on those subjects right now.

Today (Jan 4, 2023) it dawned on me that there is one thing I could easily write about, even if only to practice writing.  And that is ... I could write about teaching myself to write.  I could write about writing.

So here goes.