No more, no less. Just me.

As a variation on a famous statement by Descartes I would like to say “I write, therefore I am”. It is the best way I know how to express myself. Grammatically it’s terrible, this I have been made painfully aware of by various people (you know who you are). Punctuation is not my thing. Eats shoots and leaves who? I am not hooked on phonics by any means. But I have been writing in a diary since I was about nine years old, yes nine. I had a lot to write about at such a ripe age, sadly not so innocent and short of the one that just got stolen in South Africa, I have every single one of them, stored in boxes spread out amongst different family members like a squirrel hiding it’s nuts all over the place to return to at a later time. I am verbally challenged when it comes to communicating what I want to say clearly. That is not to say I don’t try. I do, but it never comes out the way I want it to and the message I am trying to convey always ends up falling on the ears of the receiver incorrectly. It’s often why I get caesar salad when I want the drink and vice versa. Of course this analogy runs much deeper than salads and drinks.

And so I’ve come to write a lot of letters in my time. Many past boyfriends have received such letters of declaration from me. Yes I have kissed a few frogs. Those reading this are likely grinning/grimacing hoping they threw them out before their wives/girlfriends find them. And some, one I know cherishes a poem close to his heart. I’ve written equally as many letters and never mailed them, some exist in said stolen diary so I suppose they’ve now been sent out to the universe as I am sure whomever stole it does not care. It was therapeutic to just write them so then their loss shouldn’t matter right?

It’s what has kept me sane (relatively) during times of great torment. And allowed me to celebrate those silent victories and what I did non stop in the weeks (and still) after my father died so as to not burden anyone. It was what amplified feelings of uniqueness, and writing was always there when I needed it. When no one else was. I write entirely to find out what I am thinking otherwise I would have no idea. I write what I see and what I fear it’s the only way I know how to get it all out into a way I can understand myself.



For the longest time it was something that I kept to myself (other than those fortunate boyfriends to receive said letters) I didn’t really ever share it. Once my father read some of my poems, written at the tumultuous age of 14-16 he said they were rather dark (I am sure this was about the time that he really started to worry about me) and he was sure they would brighten with age, but that I had something and should write more. That meant the world to me, but I still felt it so private and that is was such a window into me that I didn’t dare share with anyone ever again. I wore many masks then, one was the facade that I was an eternally and perpetually happy person. Giddy with anticipation every day and confident beyond the mountains strength. Which reminds me of something my aunt Wynanne said to me when I was about 19, and like her have tried since to pass on this wisdom to the youth (to no avail) that comes with women as they age. You will change again, and again and again. Who you are now is not even close to who you will be at 23, 25, 29, 33 and so on. (I just realized I stopped at 33 thinking that was how old I am. Indeed I am not, I am 34, hrmph!) I didn’t believe her, I knew exactly who I was and what I wanted at 19. I was so sure of myself. When my poems reveled that I was just a scared little girl, so unsure and uncertain and unaware.



Until now when I write here. And even now it’s not so deep. Feelings get withheld here in this forum, they really only dance on the water line like a far off buoy warning the on coming sailor to stay port side. Because we all fear judgement don’t we?

To steal again “why I write” from George Orwell and from Joan Didion who stole it from George. More specifically why I write this post now. It’s a bit of a rant actually, being told blogging, more specifically that my blog is self indulgent. Well yes, it is I suppose. Writing in itself is self indulgent. It’s a way of saying I. To quote Joan “there’s no getting around the fact that setting words on paper is the tactic of a secret bully, an invasion, an imposition of the writers sensibility on the readers most private space”

As is any artist, photographer, marketer, musicians/song writers. Anyone who imposes their vision, their ideas, or their thoughts onto anyone else. I suppose merely existing socially is somewhat self indulgent. I just chose mine in this way, in this forum. I can’t paint or draw so this is my self portrait so to speak.

It’s been said that blogs are the media phenomenon responsible for the publication of more self-indulgent nonsense than any other in the history of the world. I have to agree with it. And most blogs that I have seen are written by people that don’t write very well (myself included). But this is a bit like walking into a party and complaining that the conversations there don’t live up to the standards of a room full of professors or a newsroom. Never mind that you stand a good chance of finding at least one conversation that’s better at the party. The bulk of blogs aren’t meant to be polished or professional writing, and we (you) shouldn’t be concerned that they aren’t.

The truth is I am, as I’ve always been perfectly in fashion and on Que. with the latest trend. In 2008 websters new world dictionary introduced a new word and made it word of the year in 2008.

Overshare : to divulge excessive personal information as in a blog or broadcast interview, promoting reactions ranging from alarmed discomfort to approval.

Many ponder where this narcissistic urge to self revelation comes from and then suddenly find themselves with Facebook pages, or blogs. It’s true, I was one who for a long time refused to sign up for facebook, let alone find myself writing a blog. And now look at me. Sharing it all with the world in both forums, why I even have people from facebook following my blog on facebook, 22 followers to be precise. Thank you all 22!

I guess my point in this rant is, I am not a scholar nor do I pretend to be. I am not an intellectual either. I am not articulate when I speak or when I write. I am not a good, nor bad writer. I just write. And it’s how I communicate not only with others when the need to get something really deep across arises, but how I communicate with myself. I would be completely lost (more so then I am) if I didn’t write.

I enjoy it, now more than ever. And as I write more I become more confident. And so to you I say and quote a dear friend Jess, “I am who I am, no more no less”. And part of who I am is this. Take it or leave it. But if you take it, you must embrace it as part of me and who I am. Is this a self indulgent attention getting device or my sole connection to the outside world from deep in the african bush? How well you know me is that answer to that.