Drawing A Blinkity Blank And The Place I Call Home

When I was a young child I LOVED to write. I believed that I would grow up to become a writer. Sadly, I had many negative writing experiences that spanned my entire secondary education. It left me feeling bitter, terrified, and voiceless. I believed that I would never be capable of fulfilling my lifelong goals and aspirations. With this false notion of myself, I have tried to deny what I truly am. Over the past fifteen years I have been miserable as I have tried to be anything and everything, except what I truly wanted to be, a writer. Last semester I took a career and life planning course, I learned so much about myself. One of the most important things I learned is that I must overcome my writing fears. I have been miserable as I have tried to become something that I am not. I must now be true to myself and pursue my own dreams and aspirations despite what others may have told me. I have also come to the huge realization that it is I who ultimately decides for myself what I can become. I thought that one thing I could do to challenge myself was to share my most recent paper here on our family blog. I feel like by sharing some of my writing here on our blog, I can do exactly that. I recently wrote a paper for an English class that I was really proud of, I thought that I would post it here for anyone who is interested in seeing what I have been up to these last few days. What you are about to read is a double narrative paper. I am sharing my writing process with the reader and then they get to read what I wrote. The italicized text is my thought process and the regular text is what I was writing. I hope you enjoy reading my double narrative, any feedback is greatly appreciated. Thanks,Moana

Drawing A Blinkity Blank And The Place I Call Home

BLINK...BLINK…BLINK…the cursor of my word processor annoyingly taunts me as I try to search for the words that I want to express. I stare into the rhythmic blinking vertical line and I desperately try to generate something fresh and interesting. NOTHING. Nada, zero, zilch my mind is drawing a total and complete BLANK.

BLINK…BLINK...BLINK…the cursor continues its perpetual dance as I dive into the comforts of my imagination to try and recover something worthwhile for my impending English paper. What I find there doesn’t hold much promise and I again stare into the void of the blank word processors screen with its BLINK…BLINK…BLINKING cursor.

In desperation, I decide that I should set a timer for one minute and write a list of words, ideas, or phrases that come to me. I tentatively set the timer on my phone and I begin the mad dash to put the blinking cursor to work. I generate phrases like: “what it was like being an awkward and socially backwards sixth grader,” “the social outcast that wanted to be a great writer,” “the curious child that always had a notebook tucked under her arm.” I anxiously peek at how much time I have remaining and I am in awe of how fast a minute can go by. I try to continue writing but the distraction of the blinking light of the cursor distracts me and I am again enveloped into an abyss of nothingness. Suddenly I feel the warm glow of a light bulb as it begins to illuminate the dark chasm of my blank mind. I have an idea of what I would like to write about. The question, “ where do I consider to be home and why” suddenly reverberates through the quiet corridors of my mind.

I have lived in many places, thirty houses to be exact. I have lived in a wide array of houses: a sprawling palatial house, a quaint starter house, an antiquated farmhouse, and even three houses internationally. Each of these houses has been special to me, however; the place that I call home is an itsy bitsy teeny tiny apartment. The square footage of my home has forced me to live modestly with only the necessities. The walls are made of cinderblock and each winter we are challenged to find ways to keep warm. The hall is poky, the rooms are tiny, and the bathroom is miniscule. However, it is not the trappings of my meager apartment that has captured my heart. Rather it is all that the tiny space has come to represent that has made it, home.

I pause here to read over what I have written. I find a few worrisome lines and I begin reworking them. I am trying to keep the description of my house simple. I am trying to write only what is necessary.

In this diminutive space, I have spent ten of fifteen years married to my high school sweetheart. We have cried tears of joy, tears of anger, and tears of reconciliation. We have loved here, fought here, and worked for equilibrium in our relationship here. Our humble abode has been a gathering place for celebrations as well as a hospital for hurting souls. It has been a respite from life’s various storms and a launching pad to a far off and distant future.

I again stop here and read aloud what I have written to my husband to see if I am making sense and if I need to rework anything. He gives me some helpful feedback and wishes me a good night. He has an early morning and he knows I will be up late into the night writing.

Within the confines of this tiny home, a miracle occurred when I conceived a child after nine years of unexplainable infertility. We brought our infant son home to this tiny space where he would learn to sit, to crawl, and to walk here. He has grown from tender infant into precocious schoolboy. Each room bares evidence of his existence and I lovingly look up each token as a reminder of all the joy he has brought to my life. From the smudges of his fingerprints on the windowpanes, to his toothpaste stains on the bathroom sink, to the infantile scribbles of his name on the back door, each is a loving reminder of all that my home has come to represent.

Now for the closing paragraph, I hope I can tie in all the ideas and thoughts here I always find the closing paragraph to be the most challenging. I am sure that this paragraph will take time and require thoughtfulness to give it justice.

I do not live in a sprawling palatial house, or a quaint starter house, or an antiquated farmhouse, or even three houses internationally. But rather, I live in an itsy bitsy teeny tiny apartment that I lovingly refer to as, home. It has been the hosting place for joyful celebrations and somber occasions. It has been the bedrock, the cornerstone, and the safe harbor that has claimed me each day. It has been the setting of the majority of my married life and the only place my child has known as home. It is minute in size and yet it is large in spirit. I have wept here, I have cried here, I have loved here, and I have anguished here. My heart will forever be linked to this special space and will forever be known as, home.

BLINK…BLINK…BLINK… instead of NOTHING. Nada, zero, zilch my mind is now FILLED with many memories of living here in this modest apartment. I am lulled into a wonderful oblivion crowded with the fleeting images of a full and wonderful life lived here in Aggie Village. BLINK…BLINK…BLINK… the alluring rhythm of the cursors dance soothes me into quiet contemplation. BLINK…BLINK…BLINK…I am lost in my peaceful reverie…BLINK…BLINK…BLANK.