Where Will The Next Step Take Me?

It all started for me on the night that Betty my sister died in my arms. I usually turn to writing poetry when I am very happy, frightened or very sad. Betty died at 23.45 on 9th January 2004 and I wrote my first 'public' poem at 03.00 on 10th January.

The next morning I started the day by feeling scared, almost terrified. What had I done? What was I letting myself in for? These were questions that I asked myself. I was so shocked, too shocked even to grieve, I was numbed by events, otherwise I do not think that I would have posted that first poem "Holding Hands (Now with image and audio)" 

I kept thinking that perhaps I was making a mistake. I didn't want to be laughed at, didn't want people to make assumptions about me. They don't know me. I thought, do I want them to know me? I do not think that I thought much at that time who 'they' were. Above all I did not want anyone to rubbish my poem which I had dedicated to my sister. All these things ran through my mind. I almost thought myself out of continuing.

As I wrote more I felt more vulnerable. Every time I wrote I felt that I let my guard slip and another bit of me was revealed to a wider world. A scary place, the wide world, so full of prejudice and people assuming they know what I am thinking, that they know why I am doing what I am doing. Some think I am writing for self gratification. Well I'm not! I wasn't then and I'm not now. I was writing because I had to, it is like the breath of life to me. Hang on, what's wrong with self gratification?

As I progressed with my poems and received reviews of them I was amazed that people liked them. I read about the reviewer's feelings and learned about their lives and I felt very humble. I had been provided with new threads to weave into my rich tapestry of life and maybe also providing inspiration for future writing. Gradually despite my grief I started to enjoy myself, and I didn't feel guilty for taking time for myself. So often in the past I have felt anxious, threatened, intimidated and above all guilty.

I wear guilt like a cloak around my shoulders,
Make my own cliffs, made up from the boulders
Of insecurity, and I'm scared to let go and try,
Scared to open the door to a wider public's pry.
I might break down if my deep thoughts I reveal,
I'm a private person, my hurts I try to conceal.
I don't want people to see how weak is my inside,
Once I start I won't be able to stop the slide
Into whirlpools of emotion that might swamp me,
Again, the guilt I feel just trying to be free.

Gradually whenever I logged on to writing.com I started to feel that I was in a safe place. I started to set my sights higher. I began to read other's work and enjoyed reading their talented writings. I read their reviews and paid close attention to constructive criticism. By taking notice of advice, I developed and grew in my writing ability. I started to formulate my code of behaviour, began to respect others and tried to support them. They in their turn supported me. Encouraged, I grew in confidence and entered a contest. It made my day, my life, when I won.

Somehow by writing my poems and releasing them for review on the internet I have been able to pour all my emotions into my writing. Betty dying opened the floodgates of my memory. I think that I have almost drowned in emotions so long forgotten that they came with a startling stab, jostling for supremacy. Events lined up in the order of how much I was hurt by them. Scars reopened and gashed darkly against the light of my thinking. How could I have known all these inner torments lay hidden waiting to spring, not from my breast, but from my pen? Trusty friend that has betrayed my privacy and opened the abyss of personal grief, so deep that I cannot see the bottom. I hung my feelings ragged on the rocks to open up to the sun, as a rose opens up its petals in the light.

Why did I write "The Ones Not Meant To Be." ? I did not know that was what I was going to write when I began to write it. When it came out of my soul it surprised me like the jolt that makes you jump when a knife slips and slices through skin to the bone. I felt sick, overcome with long forgotten feelings, but not forgotten for I do know they are always there, lurking, waiting to rise to the surface, to show themselves and take me unawares. So what now? I feel afraid and yet excited. Where will the next step take me?

To be continued: "An Excursion into Creative Writing"