Writing, by Lewis

There are probably more classifications of writing than there are fingers on the hands and toes on the feet.  I have never been a fan of fiction, which is a very broad classification, instead preferring non-fiction.  Call it snobbery, but I find that I generally have little to learn or gain from reading fiction.  Fiction, even fantasy, is fine in the movies.  Movies take a couple hours of our time.  A novel takes much longer, perhaps measured in terms of days.  That’s a huge investment of time on something which may add nothing to my range of knowledge or, even better, my understanding of the human condition.  Of course, fiction works can pass the time, engage the emotions, perhaps even edify and enlighten.  But not knowing whether the characters and events were based upon actual people or happenings means that, while I may learn something about their world, I have no idea how to relate that to the world I experience.

Therefore, I prefer to roam the domain of non-fiction.  In particular, I find myself engrossed in the world recorded by my late husband in his journals.  For a decade, his world was my world, for we were, to borrow an expression, joined at the hip.  To read his journals is like watching a faded, scratchy, black-and-white home movie of our adventures together.  He and I are the actors in scenes which I may have long forgotten and the memories now come flooding back in waves of tears and reverie.  I can fill in gaps in my knowledge of his early life—names, dates, addresses, impressions.  I can sense what motivated him to do, to be, and to desire to be the person he was.  It affords me a level of connection with Laurin that is far more than a longing or lustful glance can convey.  His written word gives me a window into his heart that was never so clear in life and that is an immeasurable gift.

I am thus inspired to begin to journal myself.  Not exactly as he had done.  I will leave some things out and, perhaps, add something in.  But I will attempt to make my journal be something like a mind-dump, so that someday, hopefully, my own children, lovers, friends will have the chance to know me in a way that I am far too shy to share openly face-to-face.  The best writing, fiction or non, should give the reader the thrill of knowing the author up close and personal.  It should seek not to teach but to enlighten, not to wow but to soften, not to impress but to shine a light on the path to self-discovery.

© 12 May 2013  

About the Author 

I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and I came to the beautiful state of Colorado out of my native Kansas by way of Michigan, the state where I married and had two children while working as an engineer for the Ford Motor Company. I was married to a wonderful woman for 26 happy years and suddenly realized that life was passing me by. I figured that I should make a change, as our offspring were basically on their own and I wasn't getting any younger. Luckily, a very attractive and personable man just happened to be crossing my path at that time, so the change-over was both fortuitous and smooth.

Soon after, I retired and we moved to Denver, my husband's home town. He passed away after 13 blissful years together in October of 2012. I am left to find a new path to fulfillment. One possibility is through writing. Thank goodness, the SAGE Creative Writing Group was there to light the way.