I’ve started doing timed writings. Just type for 10-20 minutes no editing, no backspacing (I just messed that up), nothing . . . just keep typing, force myself to write.
I do better writing by hand. The typing causes me to go back and edit. But I’m going to leave this. So, if you’re here and find a lto of mistakes, forgive me. In fact, you might want to pass up reading this article if mistakes bother you too much. I will correct some . . . i can’t help myself, but I’m going to try to leave them.
A big problem with this timed writing is deciding what to write about. I’d really like to start sharing some of my childhood, but it seems so boring. It was wonderful, don’t get me wrong. But without conflict, a story is dull . . . yep, that’s my life.
I guess boring is really a blessing. If I had something worth writing about it would mean I had trauma in my life.
Part of the problem is that the trauma I did have just seemed a part of life. No one made a big deal about it It happens . . . we just dealt with it.
Kind of like the day my dad carried me down to the pen next to the barn. He showed me a brand new calf. This tiny red heifer was born a couple of months early, but that meant it was near my birthday. So Daddy allowed me to name it and made me think it was mine. I called it Brownie.
Here’s the part that city folks think is strange. I knew Brownie would only get to live a few years, and I was OK with that, even as a very young child. Killing livestock for food was part of life. we didn’t think a thing about it.
I told my story to a bunch of teens one day. One of them in particular was really freaked out. She didn’t understand how we could possibly name an animal and then eat it a few years later. Even an old dog dying was traumatic to her. But on a farm death is as much a part of life as birth. We don’t stress about it, and don’t think about it being traumatic. There isn’t excitement in it. It’s not really worth writing about.
Unless perhaps you’re a city person. If you’re anti-hunting and against eating meat, I can see how that could be an exciting, over-the-top story for you. But for me, it’s just the story of an other day of my life.
The stories of my grandparents on my mother’s side are much the same. Both were very ill most of my life. Each went to live with Jesus before they were sixty. But I never thought it was strange to see my grandfather’s toes all black with cotton between them. At seven, I assumed everyone visited their grandparents in the hospital and got birthday gifts that had been purchased in the hospital gift shops. I was devestated when they died. They practically lived iwth us most of the time. However, I think I always knew they’d be gone early. They were always so sick. So what may seem traumatic to some, seemed like normal life to me. It wasn’t pleasant, but no one ever promised me a perfect and pleasant life.
So, i’m oing to try to find somethings to write about in these timed messages . . . Maybe if you’re reading this, you could make a suggestion below. I’m writing something everyday, either here or in my journal. I’ll probably end up sharing some of my relatively boring life . . . but for some maybe it won’t be so boring.