The Evolution of Style and Voice

     My writing is simple.  Way too simple.  I am not daring enough, and I don't always use my own voice, which I find did not change much over the summer.  I think that it

my writing has changed , but I believe what might be holding me back is a fear of opening up too much raw pain in my writing.  in the past all of my writing has been journal writing which my husband hopes I burn before I die.  There was a lot of angst in those journals and not a lot of joy.  I believe I used them as a tool to survive being a young mother without a lot of money or love in my life.  I spend a lot of time angry at my husband for the situation I found myself in.  There were pure moments of joy, but more often sadness.  I believe that the writing that we were asked to do this summer was based on wonderful exercises and prompts, but I feel that I may have holding back because I didn't want to let go.

     My style is in it's infancy and I need to make it grow up, I note that I have a terrible time with making sure that I am using consistent tense.  This is odd since I spend a lot of time instructing students in how to avoid confusing tenses in their writing.  As far as conventions of writing go, I don't have a hard time with spelling or vocabulary, but I do flounder a bit with grammar and that is very embarrassing for a teacher to admit. 

     Words just fly right out of me, but when I stop to look at what I have written it's disappointing and I judge myself harshly.

     I am going to make a huge effort to continue writing and blogging and getting over these issues.

Writing That Scrapes the Heart

Writing That Scrapes the Heart

     Dark outside, raining, dinner finished and the phone rings.  My daughter, on the phone, informs me that she is in Lebanon at the hospital with a baby that she doesn't know what to do with.

     My daughter is a sophomore at Miami University and should be in her dorm studying or something.

     "What baby?" I ask. "And why are you at the hospital?"

     "Belinda went balistic and overdosed on crack and I am at the hospital with the baby and the social worker is talking at me about what to do with Savannah" said my torqued up daughter.

     "Ok, who is Belinda for starters?"  I quickly ask.

     "I have been travelling back and forth to Lebanon since I ran into her in a Subway there ?  She doesn't have any money, or a house, she's a crackhead, and she has a baby.  I just help her with the baby and get her food now and then."  is her breathless response.

     "But, you don't have any money either." I reply.

     "Could you just get Dad and come over here and help me?" she cried.

     "On the way."

     Driving over to the hospital my husband told me in no uncertain terms that we were not going to take a baby home.  As if that was my intention.

      At the hospital we were greeted by a desperate looking Alison holding a baby, Savannah.  With authority we asked to see the social worker that had spoken with Alison about the baby.

     A youngish woman with brown hair appeared and explained to us that Belinda had quite a history and they were going to have to go to trial and try to have Savannah removed from her care.  When I asked her why she had questioned Alison, she said that they just needed to get as much information about the events of the evening as they could.

      That evening I saw a side of my daughter that every mother of teen girls hopes to one day see.  She was caring and kind to the baby and Belinda and respectful to the social worker.  She had grown up.