Featured image (c) 2018 Lisa Ramsey, Mushroomizing, acrylic on canvas.
There was a time when all I wanted to do was write.
I wrote poetry – poem after poem of love, angst, and confessions – during my high school years and into my twenties. Geez Louise, the crap I was churning out….
My live-in boyfriend at the time cheated on me to no end. I wouldn’t leave him yet, not for a long time, but I wrote poems about his lovers. I wrote poems about my own lover when I decided to cheat on him, so he could feel the burn. I don’t think he noticed.
Nope. I wasn’t going to leave him or Alabama, and then Florida. I traveled 1100+ miles to rebel against my abusive childhood, leaving behind my first ex-husband and my two small children.
I had a point to make – that I was better than the low-life child molesters I had known growing up, as well as the well-to-do and popular classmates I’d known since Kindergarten.
I was determined to stay well away from my homestate of Wisconsin, this particularly desirable need to ESCAPE, deep in my soul, since I could remember.
I excelled, I flourished, I wrote. Wisconsin had been so restrictive, and I knew that from early on.
I started writing short stories and character pieces around the time I was in college. I had many writing assignments from my classes, and I wrote them with the experience of a well-worn writer already under my belt. And my grades showed it.
After graduation, I continued to take at least one class a semester for several years, and I finally made it to a Screenplay writing class. From this, I have two-thirds of a screenplay completed with ‘A’s that I could never figure out how to write the middle.
I have loads of partial stories, character pieces, and short stories. I’ve rummaged through them this morning. They all could use a workover, but I think I’ve retired from that kind of writing.
After twenty years, I began to really find myself. Writing or not.
I used to have a Great American Novel in me. Now, I’m lucky if I can write an entire blog post.
Any writers out there who feel the same? Any pointers on how to get my muse to stop eating so much and to start hitting the typewriter, instead?
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