photo by kimberlycarol.com Prologue
Texas, January 2006
The will to write my story has come and gone over the years, but occasionally, the strength to tell it peeks out like a sliver of the moon and I dance in the force of it, briefly transformed by my own fearlessness. I used to tell small parts of the story in the soft lilt of my Mississippi home to my closest friends, and they sat and listened to my offerings without judgment. They encouraged me to write it all down, but instead I held it close to me and handed out tantalizing excerpts to stir up conversation like a novelty in a curiosity shop. And today? What has caused me to stir? I feel the pull. Today I will write again.
Adjusting my position in my chair, I take a deep breath and keep writing. Tell the truth, you can do it.
As a writer I control the world with a stroke or the tap, tap, tap of my long fingers, and sometimes as my involvement with the past gathers energy and the words become a substitute for the memories, I am able to let them go and stay there, resting on the page. That feels good, yes that is it…the memories can stay there.
To be truthful, I am always excited at first by the power of it, and I write for days, sometimes weeks. Then some interruption will come, and I am distracted. When I finally sit again to write, I find myself hesitant, fearful to let go again of filters, tell the truth and get release through the writing of the story. Choked and stifled, gradually I begin to drift along with a slower current, and wind down like a clock with a weak battery, until the silent, stagnant flatness takes over.
Cycles come and wane of write and wallow, live and mourn, feel, then shut down, heading towards a no return point. I can feel it. When once again I find myself dull and numb, in a place where I lose the capacity to desire, I fade. It is easier to hide from the truth.
Looking back, I can’t tell you the exact point in time I stopped really living my life. It was more like a slow drain than any one particular moment. So with this moment of want to as I reread what I have written, I am determined to move past the past. I am forty-one and tired of waiting for the next phase of my life to begin, and at the same time, I am deeply aware that there is no dress rehearsal. “This is it,” I tell my best friend. “You don’t get a second chance to go back and do it all over. This is your life now.”
c.kimberlycarol.com 2005
about the author
You may also enjoy: no longer stuck in chapter nine, what my book is about
to share this post and photo by kimberlycarol.com click on the post TITLE and then choose facebook or other icon at the bottom of post
Texas, January 2006
The will to write my story has come and gone over the years, but occasionally, the strength to tell it peeks out like a sliver of the moon and I dance in the force of it, briefly transformed by my own fearlessness. I used to tell small parts of the story in the soft lilt of my Mississippi home to my closest friends, and they sat and listened to my offerings without judgment. They encouraged me to write it all down, but instead I held it close to me and handed out tantalizing excerpts to stir up conversation like a novelty in a curiosity shop. And today? What has caused me to stir? I feel the pull. Today I will write again.
Adjusting my position in my chair, I take a deep breath and keep writing. Tell the truth, you can do it.
As a writer I control the world with a stroke or the tap, tap, tap of my long fingers, and sometimes as my involvement with the past gathers energy and the words become a substitute for the memories, I am able to let them go and stay there, resting on the page. That feels good, yes that is it…the memories can stay there.
To be truthful, I am always excited at first by the power of it, and I write for days, sometimes weeks. Then some interruption will come, and I am distracted. When I finally sit again to write, I find myself hesitant, fearful to let go again of filters, tell the truth and get release through the writing of the story. Choked and stifled, gradually I begin to drift along with a slower current, and wind down like a clock with a weak battery, until the silent, stagnant flatness takes over.
Cycles come and wane of write and wallow, live and mourn, feel, then shut down, heading towards a no return point. I can feel it. When once again I find myself dull and numb, in a place where I lose the capacity to desire, I fade. It is easier to hide from the truth.
Looking back, I can’t tell you the exact point in time I stopped really living my life. It was more like a slow drain than any one particular moment. So with this moment of want to as I reread what I have written, I am determined to move past the past. I am forty-one and tired of waiting for the next phase of my life to begin, and at the same time, I am deeply aware that there is no dress rehearsal. “This is it,” I tell my best friend. “You don’t get a second chance to go back and do it all over. This is your life now.”
c.kimberlycarol.com 2005
about the author
You may also enjoy: no longer stuck in chapter nine, what my book is about
to share this post and photo by kimberlycarol.com click on the post TITLE and then choose facebook or other icon at the bottom of post
