I’m not quite sure how to answer this, but I suppose I can interpret it however I like.
My wish for my writing is to touch people. Whether it is to make them laugh π, ponder π€ the world π, feel angry π‘ at a different opinion, or just open their eyes π to something new, I am happy.
Sure, like any writer who calls themselves such, I would like to be published more and sell well a novel. However, it doesn’t need to be a bestseller – though if I could be on Ellen or Oprah for it I wouldn’t complain. π
Mostly, I write for myself and hope that in doing so at least one other person out there connects with my words enough to know they are not alone in their experiences and walk on this planet we all share. π
Everyone who know me knows that being in the kitchen is not my favorite place to be. If given a choice, I’d rather be eating the food than making it. π
Growing up with my family, the kitchen was a generally happy place. I would sit on a bar stool and chat with my mom or dad as they made dinner or baked something. Despite my father’s best efforts to get me to help him, I worked hard to find ways to avoid helping. Even his ultimatums to force me to make dinners didn’t last since it was such a drama for me. I told him early on that I would marry someone who can cook so that I did not have to.
Baking was another story. I didn’t mind that so much, for some reason. Still, I did not do it that often. Plus, most of the time, my mom would make the dough of cookies and I merely had to put them in or take them out of the oven. π
It wasn’t until I moved to Abu Dhabi and really lived on my own for the first time in my adult life that I came to understand the probable reason for why I had such an issue with the kitchen.
My realization came with panic attacks every time I was in my ‘small’ kitchen. I mean, I had been in small kitchens before with our tiny New York and Japan apartments. However, I had never really been alone in them.
After some professional help and my own analysis, it dawned on me that remnants of trauma from my second adoptive family was triggered by being in the kitchen.
The kitchen was the place where I would stand in the corner for what seemed like hours (to a 5-year-oldβs mind) on my own contemplating what exactly I had done wrong. When I couldnβt piece it together, I developed the art of emptying the mind. Who knew then that today I would call it meditation π§π½ββοΈ!
The kitchen was the place where I would get yelled out no matter what I did. The wooden spoons from the kitchen were used to spank me. My first mental breakdown and screaming match at my adoptive mother was in a kitchen.
Even though it is just a room in the house and I do not always associate it with these negative memories, being alone in a kitchen is generally NOT my idea of fun. Over the years, I have developed many happy memories in my kitchens, so it’s not all bad. π
Still, these days, I prefer open kitchens rather than rooms where the lingering memories can grow like mold in the walls unnoticed until a breakdown occurs. Most importantly, I am more than content to let anyone and everyone else be in the kitchen (open or not) if it means that I don’t have to be! π
In fact, despite the social phenomenon of people always somehow ending up gathering in the kitchen at parties, I tend to avoid it as much as possible.
However, there are occasions when I feel an urge to step into the kitchen to bake or make meals. Recently, this has been happening more often (though summer has started so it might lessen again!).
First bread loaf
Apple Day – pie and sauce
Tortillas from scratch
Second bread loaf
These are just a few pics of kitchen adventures some months back!
Age is a funny thing as I’m finding I can start to let go of the traumas of the past and enjoy the world of edible creations. Still, if you want to feed me without me having to be in the kitchen, I will never prevent you from doing so!
This picture connects to Day 25 and the reality of my editing. Actually, I don’t edit that much, but to be fair I haven’t completed a full manuscript that I have had to edit. π
My published pieces were edited by the publication editors, so I was able to pass the responsibility on to them. π
When I do need to edit my own work, I do not really feel it a cumbersome task because I tend to write once I have outlined what I want to say. This is why I can be slow in getting something out.
Of course, this is not always the case and there are plenty of times when I write something that is complete gibberish. In those cases, rather than edit, I tend to just start over and rework the parts that can be used into the new piece. Perhaps one would just simply call that editing, though? π€·π½ββοΈ
In any case, with the help of furry friends, I generally avoid it altogether. ππ€£
Cats π are my spirit animal even though I identify with eagles π¦ .
For as long as I can remember I have had cats despite never really staying in one place long enough to see them grow old. My parents kept my childhood kitty and throughout my life kitties have come and gone in my home as I’ve moved country to country.
Recently, my husband was starting to feel the empty nest and suggested we take on some cats with the promise that this time we keep them forever. π»
Since I have never paid for cats, with so many out there in need of homes – maybe it’s my adoption issue -, we waited until the timing was right. Well, the universe provided us with some new kits.
This is one of the three. He is actually only staying with this until he can go overseas to join his original family. However, he’s also the friendliest after just a couple of weeks.
The other two are ours and they are sweet though more camera shy. π
So, at the moment they kindly leave me alone when I want to do some writing, but they also bring me joy when I need a bit of a distraction. π»π»π»
Rather than the notebook itself, I’ve shown my leather cover, which was a bit of a splurge from one of my favorite stationery stores in Tokyo. However, the red makes me happy π to write in each day.
Recently, I’ve been migrating to a bullet journal style of journaling as I also like to collect ticket stubs and note about my experiences, etc. Also, it suits my listing and organizing inclinations. π
I haven’t quite moved to the bullet style πnotebook yet as I have many blank books on my shelf that are waiting to be filled.
So, when those are used up, then I’ll likely be on the search for the best notebook π with the eternal question of lines, bullets, or blank pages… π€·π½ββοΈ
I’m not actually sure what this prompt is asking. Is it asking for a story that is mine which I have not yet written, but wish I had? Is it asking for a story that is published that I wish I had written and published myself?
If it is the latter, that seems rather strange as it’s not my story, so why would I wish to have written it myself?
If it is the former, by sharing the story then does that mean I’ve made my wish come true? Hm…
In any case, the safer and more optimistic choice is the former. However, I don’t have enough time at this moment to share a full story. Rather, I shall do as I more often do – commentary on my thoughts around this. π
There are many stories that I wish I had written, but there are none that I can not yet write. Thus, my wish can always come true. For example, I still plan to share the stories of my final years in the desert. Or, I am working on how to share the story of my birth family search. Plus, I’ve got stories of my travels around the world.
In the future, I hope to tell other stories. The stories of my grandmothers are worth sharing as they fascinated me when they told them to me or I later heard about them. Very different women who still made a mark on their worlds.
So, there is no story that I wish to have written as I still can and will. There is no story that I wish to steal to say that it was mine because, well, it’d be a different story.
Hope that doesn’t ruin the prompt in any way… a cynic’s mind can never just make one clear-cut decision. π
