Writing

I have always enjoyed writing. I loved words, stories, characters, descriptions.....
I was fascinated with the idea of writing down silently all that no one cared to hear if it was spoken.

When you write a mere moment can last forever, you have the chance to freeze time and explain everything you can feel, hear, taste, fear, dread, hope, love and learn in that moment, and when you have recorded it all you can `press play` and continue....
I loved English at school, a teacher wrote in one of my English books `You have a tendency to over elaborate, this is however a positive tendency`  I always over elaborate ! It may be compensation from never being heard as a child or in later relationships with people who neither listen or remembered. I wanted to tell stories of other lives, some happier, some sadder and now I am telling my own.

I would always be either reading or writing, sometimes colouring but hardly ever drawing, I had no flare for Art as my children do, that comes from their Dads side.
  I was a dreamer and a writer, some little detail either seen, heard or felt would spark something that had to be written down. I spent long, long hours in my room and writing was an escape, I could make anything happen when I wrote, and those long hours passed in a far better place...my head full of stories. I remember my Mother sneering at me "Up in ya room all the time doin them saft bits a writing" {saft is a Black Country way of saying soft } Sometimes her words drift back to me and I feel a bit of a fool for a moment. But the fact she didn`t understand just made writing more special, more mine and mine alone. Odd she should say that really when she absorbed the characters in the books she read so easily. I liked to write myself another world to live in. She wasn`t there.

 I love to learn a new word, if I hear one I don`t understand I look it up, google has replaced my dictionary now though. I wrote a letter to an Ex`s Mom once, we had grown close and when the relationship ended I missed her. I got interrupted and hid the half finished letter away, you could never be open about the most innocent of things in our house, I would of got `What ya writing that for`. I made the mistake of including I`m afraid Mom`s just the same. I found out later she had gone through my room and found it, telling my Aunt Iris I had been bad mouthing her. She also told her the letter was tucked behind the bedroom curtains and fell out as she opened them {like she ever opened my curtains !} more lies, the letter was in fact deep inside the lining of an unused bag, tucked away, you would of had to have been pretty thorough to find it, which she did.

Then there was my English school book which for years was in a sideboard in the living room. I had work in it that meant a lot to me. One exercise being a WWI Trench story we had to write. It was broken down into segments, the noise and smells of the trenches, a soldiers fear, No Man`s Land, the rats living along side both the living and the dead and a few other parts, then we had to link it all together. I was pleased with mine, it was out of my comfort zone and I`d had to push myself, I got a good mark too. I would of liked to have kept that. But I left it there for too long and one day, when I went to rescue it, it was gone. Thrown away no doubt though they both denied even knowing it was in there. I know it was as it was covered in garish 70`s orange floral leftover wallpaper, it was quite visible in there.
  I have just 2 or 3 things from my childhood. No story I wrote was ever kept, or drawing, or school book...nothing at all. 

 I went to journal in a notebook I had once, when I was living in yet another rented room, it was neatly bound and as I opened it I saw that a page had been torn from the front. I never tore pages from books {other than my Bible that time}

I was always very careful with them, as I looked closer I could make out some words on the page, you know when you write and press very hard and the page beneath shows the indentation of the pen and you can read what it says....well it was like that..I could make out some of the words...I Hate you....I could hardly believe my eyes..I took a pencil and gently shaded over the page, making the pressed in writing stand out as it stayed unshaded, it read.. I hate you  I`ll be glad when you are gone.. It was written in my Mothers handwriting. After writing it, full of spite I`m sure, she must of realised she had left some evidence behind so tore it out. I held the book in my hands and processed the hate for me, her daughter, she had written of in it. I felt cold from the inside out. I looked around my little, shabby rented room and felt so very alone.