Sunday Scribblings -~ Chance Encounter.

I've been flummoxed with this prompt. Will I, won't I, contribute this week? You see I don't believe in chance encounters. I believe mysterious, sudden and unexplained events happen in my life for a reason. For me there's no such thing as a coincidence or a chance encounter ... it's synchronicity, it's meant to be, it's planned to possibly teach me something, to maybe connect or lighten my soul, to give me strength for something greater.

Even in the face of a trauma for me it makes no sense to dwell on the negative, to look to blame, what's done is done and who suffers by going on about it? Life is too precious. What happens happens. Of course everything in life isn't going to be peaches and cream. Whether good or not so good it's better to learn from the experience, the catastrophe, the encounter? From a bad situation make the necessary changes to not repeat what might have caused that particular drama ... and get on with life!

Wonderful things happen to me every day. Recently on a new writers site I wrote I was enthused about getting back to writing and contemplated beginning another writing dedicated blog. I took a break, trawled round the net, found a site where a free blog template competition was offered, I entered, I won. I put it out there. My problem with the original blog description was solved, my motivation was given a new spark, it wasn't a chance encounter it was meant to be.

It's happened not facing this screen too. We've lived across the road from each other for yonks, we're so alike it's scarey, we're like two peas in a pod, totally independent, totally content with our lots, we don't suffer fools, our cats are our darlings, we're both writers, collectors, scroungers, cynics, with no excess baggage, not looking for a new friend ... but kindred spirits have collided ... not by a chance encounter ... it's synchonicity it's meant to be! I'm blessed.

#76 Sunday Scribblings - WRITING.

Mmmm, what comes up when I think writing? Feelings of frustration at the time I’ve wasted, cheesed off at myself for not having used the talent I’ve been told I have and as I ponder the opportunities I’ve let pass by I could raise a high pitched scream at the amount of research, creative writing classes and writing groups to which I’ve belonged benefits of which I’ve not fully utilized. The genuine desire to further hone my writing skill remains, as yet, unfulfilled. Around me oodles of writing as therapy await editing for publication where insights that no doubt will enthral a reader amount’s to reams of paper filed as, works in progress. Frustrated isn’t a sufficient analysis … nah, angry is what I should be.

But without giving myself a really hard time, that’s me, the perpetual procrastinator. I dabble. My ever-growing folder of published works somehow grows. I contribute to a monthly column, deadline a quarterly submission plus keep my blog alive but the dreaded memoir, nothing! Gutsy writing required … not happening!

Initially rehashing the past was too distressing. Most of it I’d forgotten. Locked in a place in the deep dark regions of my mind, safe where no-one, especially me, could be harmed or tempted anymore. Being an avid scribe whether in diaries or brightly coloured spiral bound books with practically nothing barred, re-reading became too confronting, too hard, too destructive. These cathartic tomes saved my sanity. Re-reading, re-living, much of which made me predominantly sad, did my head in, who was that person?

I’m undisciplined. No way do I have time to live the writer’s life, to set aside a certain time to compose. My chosen serene, satisfied, reclusive, less ordered life gets in the way. The lack of a set routine inhibits any writing commitment. Well, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Excuses of enjoying life, exploring other creative pursuits, being undisciplined, sound familiar … Ah Ha … now, as I write the questions arise … could it simply be I’m still not ready to face that glorious, herendous, outrageous, tumultuous past?