Sandy Supposes....

It's Complicated

         Tell about the writer in me? There are so many people plodding along inside of me, tripping, ricocheting, blundering. Not one of them is an expert, but several insist they are qualified and experienced. They've been with me since the beginning and they demand respect. They also tend to pull the seniority card. As would be expected they are not the quiet wallflower types. At times their ruckus is quite distracting. Their communication style is direct and often times shared immediately. Why put off until tomorrow and all that.

         The take charge writer in me has been lurking since I first learned to write my name. She discovered that letters were not at all random and they served a purpose. With the proper wherewithal letters can be manipulated, manoeuvered, into magnificence. They form incredible words that dance and sing. Words that caress or sting. Words that toy with innuendo or whimsy, humour or mystery. With these words stories may be created.

         My memory has chosen to store so much personal history, and experiences. It's always available as fodder for the writer. Another persona enjoys unabashed people watching and the observations are offered up for inspiration. The mother in me revels in a treasure trove of child-rearing shenanigans to fuel much of my scribbling.

         Apparently, the writer in me never sleeps. She never hesitates to force me awake with her ideas, her perfect dialogues, her explicit details. She will nag. She will repeat herself if necessary. She will interrupt until I ris          e from slumber to put pen to paper.

         Sometimes a bit of writing is spontaneous. It flows effortlessly. It is plotted and perceived without planning.At those moments I cannot scribe or type quickly enough.

         Are we cautious and conservative? What are those exactly? We understand and appreciate humour. Romance is not our forte. Horror is an unknown. Mystery as a genre is appealing. When we attempt to create poetry we tend to write with rhymes. That in itself is a mystery. Why?

         Myselves do not entertain allusions to grandeur. We just like to write whatever, whenever.          347 words