Why Lisa C Writes

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I began writing when I was in junior high school. Then in high school I began to really understand my interest in writing. I struggled in all other subjects except literature. I was an “A” student. When I was studying Shakespeare during my 9-10th grades it was one of my happiest times in my life. I remember conversing with my teacher on things none of the other kids would understand. It was a moment to shine in something I had an immense amount of pleasure doing. I would run home to share with my dad, a literary major and educator of literature himself, all that I was learning. We would study together. Me, equipped with my study book from school, he equipped with his study book from many, many, many years ago. We would laugh, smile, play different characters as we recited Julius Caesar. There were also intense moments when he would push me to rise above my comfort level to grow into a greater understanding for this art.  

When we discovered that not much had changed in the books he and I both held, we agreed that I should take his to school with me and use both just so that I could have an extra weapon. (We both believe that books are weapons of creation to worlds of imagination. Isn’t that brilliant! I pass this knowledge unto my children now.) It did give me an advantage, one that I was grateful for.

Do any of you remember the movie Poetic Justice starring Janet Jackson? That movie had a major part in me discovering my gift of writing poetry as well Dr. Maya Angelou. However, it was because of that movie I started my first poetry journal, and became, once again, an “A” student in my literature class during my 11th year in high school. This was during my private school years when my Japanese teacher was also my literature teacher. I loved them both - the teacher and the classes. I spoke a little bit of Japanese really well. I don't know where all of that knowledge went. I chuckle at myself when I'm trying to regurgitate those memories by making a sorry attempt to say something in Japanese. He was another one of my teachers that I had a special connection with. We had a language that no other student could relate to. I believe it had to be my love and passion for my studies that allowed this to happen. I was eager. I was willing. I was teachable. I was light. I had fun. I was open. (This is exactly how I flowed with my Dad.)

I was on a roll, flowing freely with my newly discovered passion, and then something went awry. It happened during my 11th year in school. Things started to take a turn with me and my Dad. We weren’t flowing as I would have liked and needed. My grades began to slip, and I became very distant from everyone. I also became distant from my writing and literature studies. Looking back on it now I understand what was happening. My father had played an integral part in my literature life. He was my life line. He was my supporter and number one fan. 

As I was getting older fear started to set in for him. Daddy's little girl was growing up and my interest for boys was becoming known. His fears started to grow as a result (which was one of the reasons I ended up in private school during my last years of high school. Private school was supposed to somehow "save me"). Fear began to seep into our relationship. He was afraid of losing his little girl. At the time I couldn't see this, I didn't know. We studied less and less together. We spoke less as well. There was more yelling, slamming of doors, and sometimes plenty of silence which hurt the most. What I didn't know, what I missed completely, what could have saved me from things unseen that I wasn't able to see was my ability to write through the pain. If I wouldn’t have put down my pen, my books, my journal, all writing tools because of the hurt, I would have had an outlet to release my hurt. I would have been able to pour out all of my confusing feelings, thoughts, hopes, dreams, and aspirations. I would have had someone to talk to even if it were the blank pages in my notebook. I wouldn't have been so alone. I would have always had a friend. (Do you writers call your journals your friend as well? Boy oh boy, how dear to me they are.) 

"What I've learned since then is that healing through the use of my pen is REAL for me."

Now when I'm hurting, I write. When I'm joyful, I write. When I need to remember something, I write. When a song comes from the fire within, I write.

I write poems, short stories, pages of my books, letters, blog posts, emails, articles, proposals. 

No matter what, I'm going to write. If and when fear arises, I write. 

(via Pinterest)

Sadly, my Dad and I never did recover. We spoke but could never speak clearly to one another again. Our relationship suffered and became tense. We spoke a different language. Every now and again I would pick up my Shakespearean literature and secretly smile to myself as I pictured my Dad playing Julius Caesar, falling down on the floor after being stabbed by Brutus (also played by Dad.) He was the best at it all. 

Memories are bitter and sweet. Memories help me to create beautiful masterpieces as they are fuel to my soulful writing. I'm a writer, and as a seasoned writer I know now to keep on writing no matter what. Some of the best writing a writer will ever do in their lives is the writing that is motivated by pain. At least this is how it is for me. 

Writing don't stop!