Within me resides this beauty. She stands 5 foot 10 1/2 inches tall. Her skin is caramelized by the warmth of the sun that she spends the majority of her time in. But by birth it is more pale than bridal sheets. This woman has cheekbones that could cut a suitor, her eyes an ocean’s depth of green. Her lips are sculpted perfectly whether curved in smile or pursed in disdain.
She stands tall and accepts the dues that belong to her. And she wants out. She has been banging away and making subtle appearances in my dreams. I now understand the dream where I was fighting bad guys (it was a dream) and I had lost my shaft which now that I think about it was like my walking stick, my staff. And I couldn’t…..never mind, that was her saying ‘hello you dumb fuck where the hell did you go? We had been having a pretty good friendship there, you had some small part of my littlier self well written and than pouf one day you were gone!’
Apparently she is a little pissed off with me right now because I went away.
I am afraid to write. The crushing blow came when I was 18. I wrote what I thought was an exceptional novel all through high school. It went through four drafts all of which were typed out on a typewriter gasP! and I sent it off to an agency in New York. Back story short I sent in first chapters they thought interesting and off goes my novel to be read for a fee.
I waited and waited. I began my next novel and than came the envelope. And it was not fat with a contract but rather a single sheet bleakly typed stating ‘that while I showed progressive talent I would benefit from creative writing courses. That my novel was just to unwielding.’
I shut down. Writing was the only thing I was good at. The only way that I had of expressing myself and it felt to me as though that choice was now gone. Once more Uncle Morty arrived and I packed away all my writing instruments and began to read. And read and read and read and read.
Became involved with a man who did not understand creativity. Reading was alright but he could not quite understanding of my compulsion to read. Never once asked to read a poem.
When he and me ended a cycle in my life it was as though I was a butterfly emerging from the chrysalid, and the words flowed. I spoke so many different emotions and desires and allowed my vision to expand. I became strong, I decided that I would never allow the banishment of my creativity again.
That was her. Crying to get out. Crying to be released. Banging at the iron doors I had installed as she knew what was to come. And the people I surrounded myself with were just as beautifully talented as I was and we worked together, not tearing each other apart.
But I met someone. Someone my friends did not like. Someone who disdained my desires, my personality, me. And I subjucated myself. I stoppered up that beautiful woman and became what I was meant to be. Not an artist, not a writer, just a mom sitting in the back yard scribbling out notes that no one will see.
I have gone through several places. I have redirected my desire to create, to write, and obsessed with the reading of others. But now I no longer can for she stands at the forefront of my mind. I have the sweet beginnings of her tale and she is a warrior.
Copper blonde hair streaked from the sun is pulled haphazardly to the side. She shields her eyes seeking……across the abyss her eyes met mine and she raises a challenge.
She holds her weapon of choice, a sword that I could never shift never mind thrust into the air. And I hold mine. A keyboard, a bourgeouing belief that I can do this. She wears the Lion’s Crown….bestowed upon her at the young age…..marriage to an elder man….She deserves to have her tale told. And I finally think that I am ready to tell it.
©Jay-lyn Doerksen March 2017