I could not say that I have always known I wanted to be a
writer. I dabbled at around the age of
30 penning lyrics to a song and commencing a novel, my life story, but the
wounds were too deep and the process too painful and so it was shelved.
Scribblings filed, life went on – marriage, child, divorce, partnered,
betrayed, partnered, abused and then finally, at age 50, chosen time alone –
chosen being the key. Many strange
events took place over the first twelve months, unexplainable things that I
will not go into but suffice to say, one day I was literally guided to pick up
a pen and write. And so began the hours;
it just came by itself, I would see a photograph and the words would appear; a
flower and a thought about life; a breeze would hold a poem and words would
come to me in the middle of the night.
I never thought to criticise my writing – everything else,
but not my writing - because I did not consider myself a writer; I had no
training just an unstoppable need to release the words, a love of expression
and a growing desire to write more and more.
And then one of my poems reached a girl who had been abused
as a child and she wrote me, thanking me as she finally felt she was not alone,
someone understood, and she had wept for she had been granted freedom from the
pain. And I knew.
© Dianne Traynor
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