Dormant- About My Writing Voice
From the time I was quite young, I recall making up stories in my head and acting out plays in my backyard. I’d swing under the open Kansas sky and imagine flying creatures which painted clouds upon a blue canvas. I’d weave weeds together into jewelry and lord over ladybugs. I’d pack a satchel of snacks, head for the back acre, and wait for the train to come by. Surely one day I’d be big enough and brave enough to hop the Santa Fe and ride it all the way to Disneyland.
These days I don’t make up stories. I relive trauma and transcribe the present. Gone are the days of unicorns and rainbow-painters. This is the time of mindfully telling. My throat is tight. My feet sink in grass. My hands are stiff. The day has passed. This is the way I write in my journal and on my blog. An interesting transition from Angie at six to Angie at thirty-six.
Perhaps my magical voice is just dormant, waiting for an eventual Spring when my PTSD symptoms are less acute, and there is time again for singing sunbeams. Until then, I’ll keep with my three-part writing plan, as seen on my bulletin board-