SUCCINCTLY YOURS

In response to Grandma Goulash's weekly micro-fiction challenge, I submit:

I used to hate this shed where he came to drink while he worked the wood. Now he was gone and I’d become as he had been.

I've been a writer since I first picked up a fat pencil in my chubby little hand and carefully drew out my name.

At five, I wrote down a prayer when my grandfather died and read it at his funeral. At eight, I had a poem published in a church newsletter, and in Jr. High my teacher dissuaded me from writing poems because of my use of archaic expressions such as "days of yore" (influence of the TV program Dark Shadows, no doubt). I moved on to short stories, longer stories, and even a couple of novels. I earned my living by writing very short personality sketches. Then, the lights went out.

My department was downsized and I was part of the flotsam and jetsam that was jettisoned into the world of unemployed workers of advanced age. I had so much to say, that I dared not say it, for fear that letting it out would somehow destroy me. The thoughts inside me were at times dark, sad, self-demeaning, vitriolic, and acrid. To let that out would burn me, I feared, as surely as vomiting acid.

Therefore, I stayed quiet and retreated from the world of words for several months. I stewed in a pot of self-reproach and sat for days in my own dirty diapers, metaphorically speaking, of course. When the stew pot boiled over, I realized it was time to clean up the mess and move out of the kitchen.

I tried to resurrect old projects and to get interested in new ones, but I couldn't find enough energy to focus on words. So I switched to my other passion - art. Oil painting freed me up from constrictions...from thinking too much. Taking a pallet knife and swirling thick paint on a canvas, like liberally frosting one's own birthday cake, was cathartic. There's no right or wrong in art. There are no grammar rules to follow. Beauty really is in the eye of the beholder, and the only important beholder is oneself!

After attending an art retreat with dear friends, I returned home opened up. Ready to share my words with others. Ready to be vulnerable again. Projects are racing through my head and I can hardly contain the excitement. God has spoken to me--given me a germ of an idea of how I can turn my untimely "retirement" experiences into a blessing for others by sharing them.

The paints are temporarily packed away, as they have done their job for now. My writing muse has returned. I invite you to come back again for more insights into the life of the retired-too-soon-but-not-out-of-work world of Sue Davis. Come along for the ride.