Date: Wed, 11 Jan 2012 15:09:08 -0500
From: nabooko
Subject: Creative writing . . .
After publication of my Chatlist post “A Row of Begonias”, someone emailed me and suggested I sign up for a creative writing course at our local college. . . I wouldn’t dream of it. To put myself in a position that others would have the chance to see and read all my inner thoughts, desires and memories- scares the life out of me. When you start writing stuff for others to read and you actually express yourself, your opinions- you are leaving yourself wide open for criticism, ridicule and such.
Some have described creative writing to me as having a set formular for your works- maybe start out with a laugh and end with a tear-jerker- Always let the blond lady win the beauty pagent- The freckle faced kid inverably gives the teacher an apple. The rushed Christmas shopper gets to the store seconds before closing time.
Over the past couple of years, I have written on many different topics for the Chatlist. About little eggs that turn into little sankes, cacoon that becomes a moth, bean vines that grow 16ft tall, fear of bright moonlight, sad and happy Christmas times, adventure of mysterious zucchini squash- Miss Piggy united with the green one- Events and happenings in Chatham County- I related how I was attacked by a Robotic Killer Potato- Memories of my Chocolate Fudge Pudding, lugging around stained glass samples for 50 years, black socks turning blue and Danny disappearing. Hardly creative.
Years ago, before the Chatlist, I wrote for publication located in Henderson- I wrote about the then new to this area Mark Hewitt, Jean Vollrath and other local “stars” that went on to fame and fortune.
But when it comes to putting words out there- for others to read- you take your chances. Somebody is always gonna find fault with what it is, how it is written and what it is about. I would just as soon take my knocks without getting creative . . . .
But I donno’ – when I started this piece, I was just fixing to be creative without anyone realizing. . .
N.A. Booko