Why I Write

I know that many of you who know me in my other guises as shop owner, acquaintance, or customer, may find my ramblings rather odd.
Shall I make you laugh?
I asked Louise our fabulous manager what she thought of my Blog. She answered that she "got it because she knows me", but that her husband wondered what I was on. That's not the funny bit. She then suggested that my customers may be put off buying from Therapy if they thought that the buyer was a complete lunatic! Too funny. Thank you Lou!


Of course, Louise may well be right, I write and my customers walk. I rather suspect though that, after an initial charitable glance, most of them will see there's nothing about our shop and not refer to it again.
Now I blame my public spewing on my dear friend Cara. Yes, if you have any complaints or queries about my writing, then ask Cara - it's all her fault. You see Cara laughs at my stories, Cara tells me to write it down, start a Blog, make her laugh. She's very demanding is my friend Cara. Cara is my equivalent of "bad boys did it and ran away".


At least Cara is my excuse for writing. I love to write, just as I love fashion. Everything is a book to me. I have all sorts in my head - from children's books to erotic novels (ok, rude).


I read a very interesting article in You magazine last summer (another reason I'm here). It was about women of my age (mid forties) suddenly benefitting from a change in hormone levels, being inspired to do something for themselves for the first time in their lives. Apparently as levels of our reproductive hormones Oestrogen and Progesterone drop we move on from our role as bearers and raisers of children. Simultaneously our Testosterone levels increase making us more motivated to concentrate on ourselves and our own personal desires. Hey at last, there is some justice in the world!


As examples of this, the article interviewed a number of women who had put this theory into action. One of them was an author. She talked about the years she'd spent being envious of every writer she saw interviewed and how determined she'd had to be to follow her dream, how her family suffered while she hid herself away and wrote. I was envious, I wanted to be her, to be writing. I felt an ache reading her short interview. I couldn't bear never knowing whether I could do it.


I was that 13 year old, mortified and puce with embarrassment, cringing while my critics discussed the merits of writing about what you know and the correct grammatical use of the word "myriad" (something I have never forgotten). 
The event was a rather charming and earnest writers workshop organised by my school and set in an idyllic thatched village somewhere in the wilds of Scotland. I had been asked to attend and thrilled to be spending time with my older and wiser peers. Eager to appear grown up, I wrote about a 16 year old girl discovering she's pregnant. Ok, so it was a little ambitious for a barely pubescent school girl who's own sexual experiences consisted of one snog with my best friend's brother. (I must admit the whole tongue thing came as a bit of a shock.)


And I was stopped in my tracks, my writing was halted, I halted it myself. I became a margin artist: A shadow artist too afraid to make my voice heard, content to hone my writing skills
on marketing documents and private therapeutic outpourings.


Well enough already! I'm hoping I now have enough "stuff that I know" to have something interesting to say, and enough wisdom and hindsight to do something positive with it. Perhaps you can let me know.


I'm going to be away from my computer until Thursday now so please enjoy a well-earned rest.
Thank you.
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