Rambling

"Write!" says my mind. You have stories to tell, you have experiences to share, you aren't getting any younger! You could do it once, making the words paint pictures of emotions that crowded your tender heart! Life is holding you back, and you are letting it! Yes, there are dishes to wash, YES, there is laundry to do! YES, you are in a terrible marriage and you have no gainful employment! Are these points not exactly the inspirations needed to initiate moving, informative and comprehensible memoirs?? But no, no, the world is crowded with writers, musicians, artists of greater proportion than I could ever aspire to be. Why should I write, as I did in my pre-motherhood years? Are you blaming, is that what I hear? You are not allowed to throw blame for your not being creative on your children! If there is one thing children are good for, it's being exempt from guilt! The children are totally innocent and shall not be regarded as anything else whatsoever in this particular instance, including inspiration! Now, back to the rant...why am I not letting the stories find their words and the words find their places on the paper? That is the question!



Reasons, reasons to NOT CREATE! Well, there's the horrible marriage to such a creature as has no notice of me as a human being. But still no legitimate reason. Such as that is the inspiration for many fellows. I am allowing it, along with many of its counterparts, to keep all their little greedy fingers stuck in the dike. And their little friends scurrying here and there making sure there is no leak. Those little reason friends that are not feasible if not accompanied.



Bad grammar, oh, yes, reminds me of my longing to write in my native Southern slang, to hell with grammar! It is but a thorn in my side. Besides, I never mastered it, so if there ever were a sentence of gigantic creative word flow, it would probably only exist with bad grammar! Spelling, well, I got that. I can spell words of my native tongue so that any reader could master it.



Ideas, oh, my absolute existence is a story idea. My memoirs, a collection of short stories in my native tongue, the spelling as such that the southern drawl is quickly learned. History, heritage, children's stories, how to grow gourds, how to break horses...the list is most likely infinite. But still, no words, only jumbles of attempts.



So...why don't I write? I cannot see the forest for the trees...