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February 28, 2018
Over the years this writer has developed what is known as a ‘voice’. A style unique to what and how pieces are written. Anyone who writes evolves a style. Part of this voice began with the writing of letters while in the Air Force, stationed in Germany. Neu Ulm, just across the river from Ulm, the old city.
It was a productive pastime, and a welcome release valve for pent-up emotions, worrisome ideas, and a need for connection with friends and relatives. My dad usually responded. He knew the need for connection, and understood how important contact with those we love and cherish can be at such times.
I had several friends, mostly young ladies in college who were kind enough to respond. Of course, a girl friend who would soon spiral my world into a tail spin. On one leave home I confronted her. She refused any explanation when I asked her ‘why?’
The look on her face of defiance told everything. No answer would ever be forthcoming. The open door, and her request for me to leave were her last words.
When my return home brought me to Fort Atkinson, and then to Madison, I looked her up but did not accost her. That was useless. My consternation lasted for years after my discharge.
The memory lingered until the sting of rejection was lost like a key to a lock that no longer worked. Finally, I released my hold on this memory like a helium balloon, and let it drift away. Moved on.
This writing style while in Germany was a conversational tone still used, though language, sentence structure, and presentation have changed and grown with experience. Much reading and many authors later, writing with a poetic style has evolved into a unique voice.
Images appear in the writing so those who read these articles have a concrete setting and may grasp more fully whatever it is this writer manages to score. Editing on the fly has also become a mainstay of this style.
Percolating in the mind like a crock pot an idea flows after a simmering of time has cooked it into a decent account. The editing takes place as the page fills the blank white space with words, here and there, as needed. Each narrative has its own expected tone, angle, and offering. Some relevant to those who accept each rendering, some not.
Not everyone has the same experience and either relate to the subject at hand or skip the substance and move on to something more. More fulfilling, more thoughtful, more apropos to their life, your life. Those of our generation might linger on such articles while others find no connection and wonder why.
Too late the writing. Too long between time. Each account is summoned by reading, by an apparent coincident of time that flicks a memory on, or by a need tugging for expression.
Sometimes, pulling words from the mind seems like a gardener pulling weeds from hard packed clay. These attempts laugh the face, cause long pauses, and discourage further the idea of writing anything. Cultivating a persistent presence enables a writer who occasionally finds the clay a deep disturbance of purpose.
One cannot bow to these whimsical moments of doubt and pain. Only writing cures the ill, no matter if each attempt fails. Write. It is the only response.
Find your vehicle. Find your expression. Explore it. Rewards, satisfaction, and peace of mind wait in the folds and furrows of our gardens.
Thank you. I am grateful for your visit.