To quote the famous...

...Nathaniel Hawthorne, "Easy reading is damn hard writing."


What did I get myself into? Didn't I say a few entries ago that I obsess? I obsess about everything and I'm completely aware but fed up with it. This time, I have put myself out here, have created this blog that I can't wait to decorate with cool pics and bright colors and lots and lots of writing. I didn't say cool writing or good writing. I'm not going to even say decent writing. Just paint and spread lots of flowing words. It is my daily activity now. If I don't put something on here one day, it is guaranteed that I will use my pretty little pink journal with the soft orange flower delicately placed on top. There is even a satin orange tie that goes around it so as if to say, "Please keep private. It is for non-blogging purposes only". But, this task hasn't been easy at all.
When I was 10 or 11, my mother bought me my first diary. I couldn't wait to fill its shimmery pink pages decorated with light blue stars and use different color pens. It had a little lock on it and it came with 2 keys. My mother encouraged me to write and respected the fact that I wanted this to be private. I was really worried that my brother, with whom I shared a bedroom, would snoop around and read my diary. Of course, he couldn't have cared less what his annoying little sister could be writing about. He was off in his own world and I really had nothing to fear. But because even at this young age I was obsessed and paranoid that I couldn't be good enough, after just one entry, I took a look at what I had written and could clearly see that I sucked. I knew that I would never write again.
What I wrote about was an observation I had made that day in our little neighborhood of 26th Street (Little Village) in Chicago. There was a police chase. A gang member was been chased down the block of 24th and Drake, where we lived and I played with my best friend, Fela. All the kids of the block were out there playing. Some of us were on roller skates, some playing baseball and others on the steps with Barbie dolls or G.I Joes. It was as noisy as a public park would be. We didn't go to the park; all of our moms would watch us through the windows as they finished making dinner. So during this moment of the chase, it was a bit louder than usual. We could hear voices getting closer and closer. Not Spanish voices, English, manly voices and lots of yelling. Behind me I could hear footsteps approaching louder and louder. Literally 2 steps away from me, to my left, I see a young guy, maybe in his 20's being tackled, American-football style, by an enormous police man and a shiny black object catapulting in the air, over my head and landing in la Señora Ofelia's bushes.
Everything else after that happened very fast. There were policemen everywhere and mothers and fathers came quickly to gather all of us kids but we all watched on our porch a gun being collected (all so official) from behind our neighbor's bushes. All I could think about was how fortunate for me that I just had a super cool thing happen-I almost died!!! And it was very exciting because I didn't die and I had a shiny new diary waiting for interesting entries describing my fascinating life and this particular entry would be an excellent way to start!!
Boy, was I wrong. I couldn't put on paper the rush, the emotions, the elation of the day. I just couldn't do it and when I read what I managed to write I was so disappointed. You see I was an avid reader at this age. I wanted to sound like the Judy Blume’s of the world. Very desperately I wanted to be good at writing. Without any understanding of the process, I just gave up.
Now, 20 years later, I have let some people in on my love/hate interest so I can't give up. It is a way to make me sit here during Diego's daily nap and for an hour or so I must write. I'll let people in on the "why" of writing on another day. Gotta save some material for the next time :-)For 20 years I have had this little nagging voice inside my head, during spelling bee competitions, during A.P English class, during Shakespeare seminars, during teaching literature and I would just push it away and say, no way.
So even if it sucks, here you have it. I hear a little voice coming from a little bedroom down the hall...THAT definitely cannot wait. :-)
Besos,
Betty