I kind of always wanted to say that and so it does begin.
I tried to blog a couple of years ago, but couldn’t seem to focus, find a direction or even post regularly. I have a very wide range of interests and an incessant curiosity and when I couldn’t decide what to write about I usually gave up. But I have so much filling my mind all the time I really do need an outlet for my thoughts and ideas. I’m not an expert on anything in particular. I’m open-minded but do have definite opinions on some things, yet I’m not afraid to approach topics that might upset some people, such as Gay Marriage and the Black Lives Matter movement [ALL Lives Matter].
When I was in junior high I discovered, due to an English assignment, that I had inherited my mother’s writing talent. I wrote articles for the school newspapers at both Floydada High School and Lorenzo High School. I won a UIL award for best news article in the AAA division while at Floydada and worked my way up to features editor for the LHS Hornet’s Nest. Back then we published the school papers using a mimeograph machine. Oh, how I loved the smell of ink then and when I would visit our local newspaper office!
I wanted to study journalism at Texas Women’s University, but being tenant farmers my family couldn’t help at all and I didn’t feel I was able to work part-time and do justice to the classes. I decided that I would join the WACs (Women’s Air Corps) so that I could get my college education. I passed all the Air Force tests with flying colors. However, at the last moment, my stepfather refused to sign the papers; at that time a woman had to be 21 to join without parental permission.
Now, when I look back I can see a couple of reasons why it was a good thing that didn’t happen. The primary reason is that had I joined the Air Force and gotten my journalism degree I might have ended up at a firebase in Vietnam – a point brought home to me watching an episode of “China Beach” – and I believe that my heart and mind would not have been able to deal with the horrors of war. The second reason is that the state of journalistic ethics today is horrid, sometimes non-existent.
That writing talent is also possessed by a second cousin who is a published author. When we had a private family forum years ago, I sometimes shared family stories and Peggy kept encouraging me to start writing again, and she’s still encouraging me. I proofed one of her books just for the brain exercise while I was laid up from neck surgery. As I write this, a copy of her newest book is on my computer for proofing. I don’t make money from these jobs for Peggy; I ask only for a copy of the book when it’s published. I figure it’s good experience that will serve me well in the future.
I had many occasions to use my writing skills in my work as Administrative Assistant, and as editor/co-writer of an in-house newsletter. Again, others encouraged me to start writing again and publish something. But fear took the lead and I never followed through. Then today I was watching a video in which one of the characters stated that fear stands for False Evidence Appearing Real. That gave me a slight epiphany that I hope I remember the next time fear approaches.
Now I’m hoping it’s not too late to try to really be a writer. For that I need the practice and the discipline of blogging. Blogging will, hopefully, give me some feedback on my writing skills and topics, as well as connect with people who feel the same way I do about some things.
Having said all of that, sometimes the thoughts in my head are not always pleasant due to the fact that I am a survivor of childhood sexual, physical and emotional abuse. Although I was in psychological therapy on and off over the years, there are still moments when I get thrown back into a memory by a voice, a word, a sound or a smell. Those thoughts I don’t want to write in a private journal; I want people to read them and maybe recognize their own situation or past and know that they are not the only ones who have been through something like that. I don’t want people to read one of those stories and feel sorry for me, instead I hope my stories will help others who are or were in a similar situation find a way out, a way past the memories and the feelings of guilt and shame.
Ultimately, I hope that in sharing my thoughts and feelings on assorted topics I will have an impact on people. Maybe that impact will be enough to stir people to comment, whether they agree or disagree. And maybe, just maybe, I’ll finally figure out what I’m supposed to be doing with God’s gift to me.