One of the most hurtful actions that a partner can inflict is to ignore or grow callous to pain in their partner. We should all know what pain looks like and how it manifests in our partners.
But all the anxiety slipped away when we made eye contact and embraced each other. There was an instant connection that we all felt. I can only say it was like love at first sight. I felt in my gut that this was a good man, and a good family. And that our meeting was the right thing in the right time.
Look, Hillary Clinton is not the devil. And in all fairness, Donald Trump is not the anti-Christ. Both of these flawed human beings have ideas that appeal to me, and both of them have moral shortcomings that leave me appalled. But regardless of my feelings, one of them will be leading this country for the next four years.
As writers, we must take time to self-evaluate. Do we know where we are going, and do we know why we want to get there? Perhaps your goals are lofty and grandiose, or maybe they are just tiny little baby steps. Either way, goals should be spoken out loud, written down, and then evaluated for progress.
It is not our accolades and accomplishments that make us great storytellers. It is in remembering when Grandma Hazel peeled a double-yolk Easter egg, when Dad bought me a pair of Lee jeans and red leg warmers so I would fit in with the other girls in 7th grade, when my younger brother got hit in the back with a firecracker, and when my mother made vegetable beef soup in her black, speckled roasting pan. It is remembering the day I met my beautiful sister, the day my sophomore English teacher gave me permission to do a project on Madonna, and the day my older brother defended me on the school bus. These are not earth-shattering events, but they are my stories.
I remember being charged a penny every time I said ‘ain’t’ in Mrs. Sheesley’s class, and earning a trip to the mall in Oskaloosa to see Santa with my classmates. I also remember Mrs. Sheesley making the rounds to every student’s home before the year ended, to meet our parents. I can still see her sitting at our kitchen table drinking coffee with my mom.
Regardless of what you want to write and why you want to write, you will find inspiration in keeping a journal. The process of reflecting on the day’s events, no matter how mundane they may seem, gets you into the habit of a regular writing cycle. Here are some tips that you fill find helpful as you begin the journaling process.
Whether we write for a living or for ourselves, we often do much of what we do in isolation. The camaraderie with fellow writers is difficult to achieve. As the supervisor of a college writing center, my staff and I are somewhat of our own island. We have fascinating conversations amongst ourselves that no one else on campus would give two shakes of a stick to listen to. And in terms of my personal writing, there are very few people I trust to share it with, so that circle of collaboration is even smaller, tighter, and harder to break through.
I had always wanted a library in the house where I could keep all of my beloved books, especially those school books. I just wanted to be surrounded by them and the memories that they brought back to me when I pulled each one of the shelf. Some had notes in them from lectures, some had special places dog-eared for memory. But now here I was sending some of them away.
Perhaps Friday would have preferred to have returned to his village. Perhaps he would have preferred to have been the one giving the orders. We will never know, because Friday did not have much of a voice. Once those rose-colored glasses are crushed into the ground by Friday’s black, calloused heel, I can see much more clearly.
This morning, I so, so long for civil debate. I’m tired of hearing about affairs, possible affairs, emails, secretly taped conversations, and radical Black Panther ties. I’m tired of listening to candidates dodge the questions of substance they are given and instead marching out their tv dinner, pre-prepared rants and ravings. I’m tired of devisive, biased news coverage that proves that journalism is no longer a craft, but a vintage, forgotten art form.