Every few days I will get a familiar anxious, excited feeling. I feel that the creation of something is imminent, but not yet fully present. I get the urge to write.
My thoughts will transition from basic commands and ideas such as “Must consume chocolate,” “Nature calls” and “A nap is afoot,” to the place where my every thought is formed as if I were writing it down, better yet saying it for a captive crowd anticipating my every word.
I look for the mundane, the drudge of each day to transform. The thought “Quiet these noisy teenagers down” transforms into the following:
“I, aware that the students around me are creating quite a ruckus, begin to balance my options for calming these children down. Do I (a) Give a quick chirpy yell, often referring to their grade, with a tone of disappointment. It sounds something like ‘Grade 7’s, mind your volume’ or (b) Simple give a death stare, that really is just a copied trick from my mother, until they see my disapproval and hopefully feel it a bit too. The most important element here is the ability to hold said stare until each and every student is aware of its cold presence in the room”
When my thoughts start to meander this way and my fingers get a little antsy I know its time to transfer my thoughts to a permanent record in any form.
Then I go and go and go until I am satisfied with what I have created. I’ve always processed my deeper thoughts and experiences in this narrative way.
When I was home last week Mom commented a few times that out of all her children she would least expect me to be a writer.
I did not take offense to her comment for I knew exactly why she felt this way. Jennifer, Emily, and Jeffrey all consumed literature like I would a chocolate marshmallow bar from Purdy’s. I, on the other hand was always indifferent to reading. However, I could listen all day long to story after story via book on tape. I listened to Jane of Lantern Hill by L.M. Montgomery almost every night for a good 4-8 years from mid-childhood into adolescence. The first words of the story are permanently impressed in my mind. “Gay street, so Jane always thought, did not live up to its name.” These words are like old friends to me.
I would also listen to as many Agatha Christie Miss Marple and Hercule Poirot murder mysteries as I could get my hands on. I loved the intrigue of who the killer may or may not be. Hercule Poirot amazed me time after time with his silly little ways that resulted in the most brilliant denouements you can imagine. It was not until my University years that I could truly appreciate Miss Marple and her sneaky ways. Her sharp mind and ability to gently, but forcibly extrapolate information from any unsuspecting person goes unmatched.
In the worlds of Agatha Christie and L.M. Montgomery I would accomplish my chores that would be brushed aside for other pursuits. My bedroom would be cleaned that would otherwise remain disastrous. I would then move on to clean toilets, sanitize showers, vacuum floors, reorganize and sort all my clothing and occasionally even do the dishes. I stress occasionally. This is a practice that I maintain to this day. I can feast on the words and worlds of others, while I myself make a feast for dinner.
The benefit of all these years of listening has allowed me to learn to attend to my own inner thoughts. It has enabled me to take my narrative habit and rather than it becoming the major annoying crutch of my mind where I spend hours deciding whether what I have to say is of value, I have instead been able to comprehend and decipher the world around me through my ruminations in this medium of writing.
Now, perhaps more than ever, I feel I am giving my thoughts and impressions the priority they deserve.
However, What I really want to say is Thank YOU.
Thank YOU for coming here and reading my thoughts.
Thank YOU for taking the time out of your day to spend a few moments with me.
It means oh so much.
I am no L.M. Montgomery or Agatha Christie.
I’m just me, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.