When I was a child, there was one constant in my life that I poured my heart and soul into. It was an a5 binder with sheets of stark white paper and a pen.
That little binder contained my poetry.
To me, writing poetry was life. I wrote my poems in my room or in my secret place in the attic. I didn’t care where, as long as I was alone.
Poetry has been the one constant in my life from the moment I could write more than one word at a time.
That poetry was what kept me together, what made me whole. That was life.
I became stupid at one time, the time where all limbs go gangly and the body feels like an alien. I destroyed most of my poems.
And then, a couple of years later, I started to write poetry again, and a couple of years after that, it became natural to write my poems in English.
That is when I finally caved in to something I’d always wanted to do: write a short story.
I had grown up with the belief that I could never write short stories because having an imagination was, to my child’s mind, something alien.
I read books by the dozens but writing one felt so far from me.
Until that one day when I wrote a short story about a couple of world war 2 survivors I had seen in the park.
And the day when I wrote a mystery about a murderer on a motorcycle and a cop chasing him.
All of the stories I wrote when I became a writer of short stories have one thing in common. They are clunky (to put it mildly), and they were the seeds of me as a writer. They were the first steps to learning my craft.
I try to resist being a writer so much at times, but the truth is, I only truly come alive when I write.
And through all, my poetry has remained. To me, there is a difference between writing poetry and writing fiction/non-fiction/blog posts. And there isn’t.
There is a difference because writing poetry feels like breathing to me. Most of my poems were born in around ten minutes, less if I write my beloved short poetry forms (haiku and elfjes) and a little more if I write longhand.
Writing anything else than poetry is more like learning how to walk, and then run and then…
I am waiting for what comes next… I might fly.
In that, all forms of writing, for me, are one and the same. The bird that is poetry is already soaring, it always did. The bird that is writing fiction is still caring for her wings, making them stronger until she too can take flight.
The bird that is a blogger has taken flight during these last month or so, in my daily blog posts.
I can feel the strength of the bird’s wings as I write this, as I let this blog soar like my poetry already does.