When I was 27
When I was 27 years old, I was writing. It was January or February 2002. I recall a couple of weeks I spent immersed in a book I was writing.
I was writing fiction. It was childish, and possibly would have bored others, and showed a naive viewpoint I had at the time, but I was writing. I was at one time completely immersed in my story for weeks. I probably lacked any kind of proper story or plot, but I could write and did write.
I am now 49 years old. 22 years have gone by in which my writing of fiction slowed to nearly nothing - occasional attempts to reapproach the craft, nothing much more.
Oddly enough, I continued to be able to write poetry, on and off over the years. But I wanted to write fiction and somehow ... couldn't. Or didn't.
What happened nearly 22 years ago? What happened immediately after my cessation of dedication or ability to pursue this craft?
March or April 2002. Oppression. Nothing more, nothing less. This was when it stopped. And now that this oppression begins to lift ... and I am writing again, or at least struggling to recover the mindset and ability to do so ... I suddenly realized what happened.
It was oppression. And now it stops. Now my life re-begins. Or, at least, a different kind of life, where every day can be an adventure but not an agonized, terrified struggle for survival and self protection (even in the years when all seemed calm but that threat still lingered in the shadows ...)
This body was born just over 49 years ago, but I am just as old or young as I ever was. I am less naive and perhaps more methodical. Wide eyed dreaminess has been replaced with cynical resolve. But I am still here.
I was writing fiction. It was childish, and possibly would have bored others, and showed a naive viewpoint I had at the time, but I was writing. I was at one time completely immersed in my story for weeks. I probably lacked any kind of proper story or plot, but I could write and did write.
I am now 49 years old. 22 years have gone by in which my writing of fiction slowed to nearly nothing - occasional attempts to reapproach the craft, nothing much more.
Oddly enough, I continued to be able to write poetry, on and off over the years. But I wanted to write fiction and somehow ... couldn't. Or didn't.
What happened nearly 22 years ago? What happened immediately after my cessation of dedication or ability to pursue this craft?
March or April 2002. Oppression. Nothing more, nothing less. This was when it stopped. And now that this oppression begins to lift ... and I am writing again, or at least struggling to recover the mindset and ability to do so ... I suddenly realized what happened.
It was oppression. And now it stops. Now my life re-begins. Or, at least, a different kind of life, where every day can be an adventure but not an agonized, terrified struggle for survival and self protection (even in the years when all seemed calm but that threat still lingered in the shadows ...)
This body was born just over 49 years ago, but I am just as old or young as I ever was. I am less naive and perhaps more methodical. Wide eyed dreaminess has been replaced with cynical resolve. But I am still here.
Comments
Post a Comment