- On 14/03/2019
- In Mindfulness
- 0 comments
Writing appeases me and takes me away…
For a long time, I felt I did not belong in that role, so I used to hide to write little things, like a thief. I used to mainly write to people close to me, using this correspondence as an excuse in order to enjoy this pleasure.
To her big disappointment, my grandmother had to leave school at the age of 12. But she carried on reading and writing as she enjoyed this a lot. She used to write all the time and everywhere. Not novels, not essays, not even short stories… she used to write everything that she was thinking about, on anything she could get her hands on; a newspaper, loose bits of paper, writing paper… you could feel that sense of studiousness coupled with jubilation of being able to communicate with her close ones. Each week, we used to receive a long letter. She used to go into details describing her week as well as her reading recommendations. Often, she would turn over the paper to carry on writing and sometimes it ended up looking more like a treasure hunt than a letter. She unvaryingly ended with this phrase: “I do apologise, I make mistakes”. My love of writing was born when I was very young thanks to the exchanges with my grandmother and her enthusiasm.
Now, I allow myself to write poems, articles on my blog as well as writing long emails to people around me. I have understood that writing is the only time in my life when I can be myself.
I have had the desire to write a book for a long time. I dare mention this idea with affection and passion with the objective to one day, pass on to my children and grandchildren all the things I have in my soul and therefore carry on what my grandmother initiated in me.