Writing seems to be the only way to throw words and emotions out of myself. It is my therapy; if you are a regular reader here, you would have heard that before.
Many years ago I lived with a very nasty, horrible and cruel man. Unfortunately, that man was to be called “Daddy.” I know the question on your mind right now, and I’ll answer straight away, yes he was and is my real flesh and blood father.
You’ll understand if I don’t have the inclination to go into much detail about the abuse right now, because as I write today, I am suffering from yet another bout of a very deep and haunting depression. These bouts of ongoing depression can be directly attributed to the abusive behavior of this horrible man. I don’t want to call him Dad, not father, so from here on he will be referred to as Gert. But this post is not about Gert and his psychopathic behavior, although I do have to mention him as the subject is relevant to what made me start writing.
On the occasions that he was employed, he would work shifts. I would be very scared on the days that I knew he would be home when I got home from school. I took my time walking to our house. When I got there, I tried my best to sneak in quietly and put my school bag down. I quickly took what I needed for homework and would leave as soon as possible, just to miss him. If confronted later that evening as to why I did not come and greet him, I would say that I thought he was sleeping and didn’t want to wake him. It was necessary to feign a really concerned as well as humble expression whilst uttering those words.
“It is the brain, the little gray cells on which one must rely. One must seek the truth within–not without.” ~ Poirot”
― Agatha Christie
Anyway, I would find myself a spot at the library and after doing my homework; I would spend the whole afternoon reading, until I knew mom would be home. You may wonder what I did when we did not live near a library, well, I’ll tell you about that in another post and more than likely on a blog with another name.
My hideaway at the local library was brilliant; it was a place that he would never ever have dreamt of looking for me. We moved often and when we were in walking distance to the library, well, that was a great blessing.
At first I read all the” Famous five” and “Secret Seven” books. I had many a chuckle reading The “Just William” books by Richmal Crompton. After that I moved on to Nancy Drew, and later, whilst all the other girls were reading soppy love stories, I had found a great treasure, and a new best friend, Agatha Christie.(Above is a photo of one of my very old Agatha Christies, which I just can’t part with)
I read every Miss Marple and every Hercule Poirot book I could find, and from there on, I tried to write my own short mysteries. Sadly, I threw them away as I did not think that I was a good writer at all, and also, I wanted to be able to concoct a plot the way Ms Christie did – which naturally I couldn’t.
Of course, I now have many more favourite authors and many more “book friends.” I have kept all the copies of my old books which were purchased at second hand stores. I have kept those books for many years. Do you also wonder about the people who held that very second hand book that you have at times held and read? I think of people who have read the same second hand, third or fourth hand book as kindred spirits…
I only really started writing again as an adult when a friend suggested I start a blog. I am now busy with (actually for a while now) the writing of a story, my story as a fictional story. Perhaps you will read it one day.
“You start into it, inflamed by an idea, full of hope, full indeed of confidence. If you are properly modest, you will never write it at all, so there has to be one delicious moment when you have thought of something, know just how you are going to write it, rush for a pencil, and start buoyed up with exaltation. You then get into difficulties, don’t see your way out, and finally manage to accomplish more or less what you first meant to accomplish, though losing confidence all the time. Having finished it, you know it is absolutely rotten. A couple of months later, you wonder if it may not be all right after all.”
― Agatha Christie