Virginia Fair's Mental Musings

The years that I did not write were painful. For as a writer I found my desire not to be of my choosing but something I has been born to do. Just like air I needed to fill my lungs, stories clamored to be told. When I decided to finally give in to my torments and dabble once again at writing I had hoped to return to writing on two novels that I had begun in my youth. Each Time I tried to write on either novel, clumsily trying to define my plots, my subplots, and breath live into the characters I continually failed. Between these failures I wrote brief scenes for my on line writing classes, some decent while others should have been trashed before I even let my fellow writers read them. Of all the writings that were deemed decent by my "critters" they all said something appeared missing from writing. My heart. Purposely in those first few months I intentionally left out the "heart" and "soul" of my writing abilities. I left it out for many reasons. One...

I have started this to record my journey of returning to writing. I started to write as most children do with poetry. I remember well in first grade when most children were writing poems for there mom's on mothers day, they always started out with "Roses are Red..." I did not do this. I can't quite recall exactly what words I used on that first mother days card, I just remember my refusal to start a card that way, instead using a different format that impressed my teacher. I remember that year and consecutive years until I reached junior high my parents always received a letter from the instructor and principal of my school outlining my writing talent and encouraging my parents to encourage my talent. As time continued on I wrote my poems.. The first poem I remember writing had been during the winter of my fourth grade year. Winter is ugly and mean It locks children in their grave And they cry very long For a beautiful song That's why we...