This coming weekend I have decided to spend three days in solitude in an apartment borrowed from a friend. It´s part of my writingcourse at Uni. Deadline on friday and from then reading the texts from my fellow students will be my main goal.
During this stay I will also go for walks in the nearby naturepark, go running and making good meals. I will be very disciplined and start and stop writing at a set time.
Watching TV is forbidden. Sharing time with anyone else then my self also prohibited.
My only friend will be my computer, my bed will be my rescue and the outside will be an energycatcher.
Good luck to me. 🙂
Today I read on a blogg, that I follow, that she had the ambition to be a writer since she was a young, young girl. She had great storytellers around and she used to sit at their feet and listen. To stories, poetry. That’s the context she grow up in and formed her writing life.
I try to campare my life with hers. My context as young and I find it very different. I come from a silent family. Yes, we spoke, but not much storytelling. Book reading to some extent. My mother read me childrens books (dont remember wich though) and I have a strong memory of goodnight singing. I also remember looking in “One Thousand and One Nights” with great interrest. The pictures if decapitated heads and barebreasted woman. But. My grandparents I remember as silent. My parents not quite as silent. Me growing up as number three, playing a lot by myself, practicing solitude. Where does my need for writingcome from? Why do I love the words? And why does it come to me late in life? Im glad for it, but I wonder from where the need and ambition comes from. There is also a need to share my written words with others, though I consider myself, and is beeing considered as a shy person. Where does it come from?
I enjoy solitude. I enjoy solitude among people. Being in a citycrowd, watching and listening, is a great joy. Being in a wood on my own watching and listening is another great joy. In the woods or being in the open landscape I watch and listen to my self. I discover my self. I enjoy the solitude. I realize its not a fully accepted standpoint among society. The normality is to be with, talk to, speak with others. Words. Words don’t always come easy. Words have a way of shrinking thoughts. My self don’t come out in a satisfactory way with the words. They come out in my actions. In the way I choose to live my life. The things I choose to do. The way I choose to live my life, in my concious or unconcious decicions, directs my path. The path I’m creating as I do the walk. The walk of life comes clearer in the writing process. In talking to my self. Expressing my self to my self. Giving my self words, expressions and sentences. In writing I can find patterns, expressions and formulations describing events hard to depict in spoken word. When I’m in the writingprocess I find the time I need to explore the nuances in language which enables me to find expressions describing what I really mean. Writing is a work in solitude. Exploring ideas. Exploring views. Exploring my self. To little of solitude unbalances me wich gives me a feeling of lack and I’m being untrue to myself. Solitude is as important as togetherness.