As a young teen, journalling was writing unleashed, a means to try to make sense of the confusion that came from living in a family functioning on half-truths and unshared motives. No one was going to read what I wrote. Consequently ideas were free to flow independent of a censuring inner-editor.
In Grade 11 my English Lit teacher assigned a poem using personification. My bitter self rose to the challenge.
Mr. School is one of the better citizens of this fair town of ours;
Keeping students busy throughout the day, and in general out of the way.
Sarcasm dripped, but Mrs Moar was gracious. “Well written” she scribbled on the page in red, “but I hope this isn’t how you really feel.”
It was, but that was irrelevant. I held her ‘Well written’ in my heart.
In most areas of my life, I was perceived as a failure, a troubled youth, a disappointment. My writing was private, though. People critiqued me, but never my writing. Was God protecting it, a seed he would begin to grow when the environment changed? Looking back, I think there's truth in that. My creative spirit and it’s expression through writing was his gift to me. My desire now is that I honour him and all he’s done as I exercise that gift.