I write to explain how I feel about life. I remember being a tongue-tied youngster, but I could write letters. So whenever I was going through a difficult patch, often with my current beau, I would write about that and he would read my letter carefully and with real attention. He, and many others in my family, enthused about my letters, so, in being grateful for that praise, I understood that I can and should write, to honour my small but honest ability.

I often write to ponder and reflect about Life, the Universe and the unfolding of plans, to learn about how the world works, and, most importantly, to develop empathy. I have often been that woman in the room who got the joke last. So writing helps me to take my time, and make sense of the world slowly. Writing is a silent, dignified medium which allows us to air subject matter that makes us cringe….with relative dignity, in peace. We can mourn our losses privately, and some of that feeds to the page.


I write so that I am empowered to accept my life. With all its apparent pitfalls and limitations, it would be so easy to allow a negative mind-set to take over. But, armed with the time I need to devote to writing – thank you, husband! – I see the beauty and satisfaction in a task taken to completion, by progress in small steps. Having had an unusual, some would say un-promising start, it helps me to turn all uncertainty and misery to good account when I realise I can turn all my mistakes into opportunities to write about life’s absurdities.

I don’t write alone, despite it being a solitary occupation. While writing, I can feel thoughts and ideas nudging to gain expression, as my fingers hover over the keys. I can feel the encouragement of a dozen predecessors who wish the best for me, who know what I can achieve when I set my mind to it, and want me to be happy. If I am to express the love I feel for those who have given me so much, it behoves me – as it behoves all of us – to honour our gifts and give them full expression.

Thanks for reading.

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