Writing to me is an expression of self, a call to communicate, to send a message out there, to throw a pebble in the pond and watch the ripples. To see if something comes back. It's not like I'm talking to myself, I hope. When I write, my fingers do the talking, but the words come from the ripples in the pond. They splash across the screen, unfettered. There are days when the pond is calm, pondering, so to speak. Then like a seismic shift, a switch turns on, words bubble up until all the air escapes and the ripples subside until another day.
An example: A few years back, one of my sisters suggested I write a story about a pig. (When I was growing up, my mom had nicknames for us all, and mine was Petunia. According to her, a pretty flower, but according to my brothers a PIG. Grrrr. But I've overcome the stigma.) Anyhow, it took a long time, but a pig story eventually emerged. I called it "First and Fast, Little Pat's Story" - a parody on my childhood, and of course it had to be bilingual, so at the behest of some high school students, I wrote it in Pig Latin and included a guide for the reluctant Pig Latin reader. Lots of fun. But it didn't end there. I translated it to Spanish also because the message was important. I called it "Think Big! * ¡Piensa en grande!" and left out the Pig Latin guide. So much for pigs, I thought.
However, a few pebbles ago, my fingers moved across the keyboard, and a new pig emerged. His name was Squealer. There was lots of pondering in between, but slowly and deliberately my fingers wrote Squealer's story. I've called it "Squealer, A Pig's Tail." If you'd like to read the first chapter, email me and I will send you a pdf. Hopefully, you will be "amused" too.
May 2, 2024
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