Sonntag, 7. Juni 2015

on writing

When I started my first diary I used a beautiful chinese blank book. I still remember the red and gold and black and the case it came with. I loved it.

Well, until my sister went into my room, looked around -  found it and told my mother everything she had read in it (good was I had only written for three days) laughing out loud about the things I had written.

Now I miss having no proof for my memories. Am I remembering everything right? Or do I get everything wrong?

Books were during that part of time my only room for privacy. I had a room for my own since the age of 7, but I had to let the door open during the day. All thirty minutes my mother or my granny payed me visits to look if I did learn and behave well.

I am happy I learned to love books during that time - I still love to open a book frish from the press - the smell, the places, the people....

But writing? It took a long time until I started writing again - here in 2008.
I am still sometimes not sure if I get the words and meanings right - if if get the so called truth right.
I know I can not capture a whole moment in writing - it will alltimes be only a part of the puzzle I can write about.



1 Kommentar:

Sandra Dunn hat gesagt…

Writing from the heart is such a freeing experience. :)