Free write. to me the words go together like bread and butter. Freedom to me is writing, expressing myself with words. Beautiful words. I used to love reading these very old encycolopedias we have, the certainties they contained became less certain as I grew up. Today much of what they contain is now known to be untrue- but the language they contained, in it’s firm and proper turn of the century puritanism, makes me ache inside to this day.
Imagine, a time when thoughts about electricity powering the globe were fresh. A time when the descriptions of prehistoric creatures were as close as the majority of people would ever get to seeing a real dinosaur. When people depended on prose to win hearts, to secure jobs, to set their dreams free.
I get woozy when I hear people discussing whether to teach the art of writing in school. How I loved to watch the march of little letters across the lined page. I was SO determined to make mine look like the teachers’. The day we were introduced to cursive script was the day I found true bliss. I would scrawl across the page, over and over again. Rushing home for Mommy to see the mind blowing “s” that occured not only once, but twice in my name.
My journals became my lifeline to sanity, writing my innermost thoughts in secret. All the things I needed to tell someone, but couldn’t- this is what my journal was for. I started writing religiously in my journals in 1976, when I was 12. I lost many of them in the move to Florida, but many I still have, and I can now comfort that lost little girl who wrote to no one. I can read her words late into the night, and tell her not to be afraid anymore.
I can hear her calling out in those dog eared pages, all those years ago. This is my answer: You made it, Lillie..