Writing has always been one of my passions. I notice writing, and I love to read the thought recordings of other writers. In FB, there are many articulate, meaningful writers and I immensely enjoy each one of them.
My signature writing style is clearly identified as narration. Or maybe clearly identified as unclear. My quest for the perfectly descriptive adjective sometimes amounts to an obsession. Unfortunately, I typically use too many subordinating conjunctions, run-on sentences, and dangling modifiers that reduce clarity. I seek an explicit writing style.
From an early age, I have used writing as a substitute for speech. I envied my young contemporaries who demonstrated their thoughts with the use of voice. It seemed a natural, logical, and convenient way to communicate. However, my thoughts took a detour via my hand, attached to a pen, and the process usually involved a delayed time factor. As a result, I was thought to be uncommunicative, unresponsive, and “withdrawn.” It seemed so unfair to dismiss the wealth of words held captive in my mind as shyness. Oh, how I yearned to marshal the jumble of words that rattled in my head and allow them to exit in single file through my mouth to express myself!
The need to connect to other human beings necessitated communication, but I practiced safely within my own intimate circle of younger sisters by reciting family lore and creating memories. This collection of memories, sewn together with imagination and love, became a comforting quilt that kept out the cold of reality in our dysfunctional family.
When I told my younger siblings about the gown Mother designed especially for me for my first prom, they could feel the swish of silk against knobby knees; see the transformation of a plain little girl to a princess. They could taste the red, juicy flavor of the sun-ripened tomatoes we sampled from the field across the dirt road from our house. They could experience the thrill of fear of near discovery as we stole not-quite-ripe apples from the neighbor’s tree by the alley and the puckering tartness they left on our tongues. They rubbed their cheeks and laughed in remembrance at Gramma Viola’s famous big sticky kisses that left wet red imprints on tiny smooth faces. They groaned in collective agreement, as they visualized all of us placed in stair-stepped formation in the pew at Sunday Mass, when Mother stilled kicking legs with her disapproving glares and silent pinches. The quilt of narrative memories has served well as entertainment and a kind of protection.
I am writing a book; it is not yet finished. I only started it in 1975.
