When I was in my late teens a few years ago, who am I kidding, a decade or three ago, I began to write childrens stories. Nothing fancy, not even very good, they were for my own amusement, occasionally I allowed friends to see them.
In October 1983 a very important lady left my world. I was devastated to say the least, that sunday morning I walked from one end of town to the other and back again, finally ending up at a friend's family home. Even at such an eary hour on an Autumn Sunday, my grief stopped me from staying wrapped up in my warm cosy bed, the bed I had only got into a few brief hours earlier. I felt selfish, I was so wrapped up in my own distress that I was not ready to comfort my mother in her hour of need. I had sat on the stairs and sobbed even before the news was passed on. I knew without being told you see.
The very fact that the phone had rung at 6am on a sunday was warning enough, but hearing his voice on the line, cracking up as he asked to speak to my mother. There was only one thing this unexpected call could mean. Like many men, especially in those days, he didn't like to talk on the phone, preferring to let his wife do this for him. But on this sad occasion he had no choice, his wife was gone, taken from him in the night, he was the only one who could do this. It was his duty and his need to be the one to tell his daughter that her mother was nolonger by his side.
My sadness was so consuming that it tainted my joy in writing, I could no longer continue to amuse myself by writing. Over the years I wished I could again pick up my pen, but it just was not to be. Then in January 2007 it began. I wrote a fantasy, I enjoyed writing it. My friends enjoyed reading it so I wrote more. Over the past 18 months I have written a number of pieces. Not as much as I would like although I have a growing store of beginnings, locked away in a file called creative writing. Last September I joined a creative writing class and really enjoyed it. I stopped going at Christmas when I began to work full time hours, I needed to give myself time to get used to working longer hours. I enjoy my work so the longer hours don't worry me but I do get tired.
I had been pondering whether to go back to my writing classes. I have now made my decision with the help of my grandpa. One of the pices I wrote for the class last year was inspired by the retirement home where he was living at the time. I enjoy that piece which was so different to anything else I had written. Now that my Grandpa has died I could give up writing as I did when my Granny died but instead I am going to write more than ever.
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