From the first significant reading to personal words
Why do I write? Ah! this so intimate reflection of the author’s motivation. Talking about the work of literary creation is difficult, so much it impregnates an unconscious, the motor of a research that is often quite personal at the beginning.
For my part, there was a key, a book – my first reading – a writing of poems for children, of an author then much read in school in my French speaking Belgium, Maurice Carême. This poet, whose works I still read as an adult, opened the door to words, in their simplicity and meaning; musical and emotional images, between reading aloud and whispering.
As a child, I too kept a flower, a diary, like many little girls of my time in the 80s. Each page was an adventure, a burst of soul, a new shoot of life. With each word, a path opened between imagination and experience, childhood and becoming. Running the pen over his dreams, his questions, his worries; these little and big things that are everything… This happiness of the pen still lasts.
So, is it a selfish pleasure? I think so less and less. Shared writings are islands of encounter, bridges between two experiences, two sensibilities, two views. A text, a poem, a letter, a book no longer belong to us when they leave us for new chances, passengers of words.
There is nothing more revealing than writing after midnight
Some people think that writing is above all a search for recognition, for notoriety, for newspaper articles, for literary prizes, for inflated egos. For me, all that is secondary. I take the time to write and to share, according to my moods and my impulses. I sometimes reread my articles and other publications, during annual rankings or site redesigns, and I remain completely in tune with my writing. I find a coherence in my life that goes far beyond an instantaneous and ephemeral flash of the pen. There is depth in these abysses.
We live in an interconnected world where everything is possible, each pen having its place in the heart of the reader who takes a look at the intimacy of our words: there is nothing more revealing than an after midnight writing. Why do I write? Simply because I am a writer and you are a mirror, in all your subtlety as a reader.
In all freedom of the pen
After this free reflection, like all the air of my writings, I return to my muses Prose or Poetry, in these fertile lands and hills where still sleep my next steps of moon. Born a poet and eager for beauty, I will still be for a long time the writer of my vast movements of human woman. It is obviously difficult for me to close this post without this touch of poetry which illuminates our beings…
If you take the pen, if you handle the words :
- What seed germinated one day and how?
- Why do you write? What motor, what enthusiasm, for what vertigo or support?
- What deep meaning was expressed?
- How has writing made you better?
- What unsuspected part of your being has been offered to your eyes, through the magic of words?