Epiphanies on Writing

Isn't it strange what shape and form epiphanies can take?

I've had a few in my life: moments of revelation where you see situations and opportunities so very clearly. One was when I was going through a horrible time in my personal life. In my darkest hour I was walking down my street, crying, and a pink rose fell out of a neighbour's bush and landed right in front of me on the sidewalk. It looked like it had been perfectly sheered through the stem with a pair of scissors, although I knew that was not possible as there was nobody around. I picked it up and carried it with me that day, choosing to see it as a sign that everything would be okay. And it was. Just a few hours later everything resolved itself, but I kept that rose alive as long as I could as a reminder of the power of positive thinking, and what it meant to me on that day when I’d completely lost the ability to be objective about my situation.

My most recent epiphany was about writing. You see, I've always wanted to be a writer, as a little girl I used to go through mountains of notebooks writing what was for the most part gibberish. I still have books that I "self published" as an eight year old, rambling stories about unicorns, complete with illustrations and held together with yellowing sticky-tape.  As a teenager I excelled in English and Literature, and was even known on the odd occasion to complete assignments for friends and siblings purely for the pleasure of it (although one time I did get busted writing a Shakespeare essay for my sister - we had the same English teacher who unfortunately recognised my writing when compared to what my near illiterate sister had produced for previous assignments. Luckily she had a sense of humour). My penchant for reading and writing was something I most certainly inherited from my father, whose obsession with writing poetry and lyrics drives my mother insane to this very day.

My choice of reading material as a child also raised eyebrows. My father, the avid horror/thriller reader had an amazing collection of hundreds of books. None captured my imagination more than Stephen King, and at age ten I remember the teacher asking my parents if they were comfortable with my choice of book in class: Stephen King's "IT." Her concern was related to the extreme horror, sex scenes and adult content. The fact that a ten year old was comfortably tackling a book upwards of 1100 pages didn't seem to phase her. Dad admitted that while he wasn't happy about it, all attempts to stop me had simply encouraged me further, so instead of preventing me from reading, he had tried to censor my access to his collection. So he took a selection of his more intense novels and moved them.

Naturally, when I noticed that Thomas Harris' "The Silence of the Lambs" and Bret Easton Ellis' "American Psycho" had been relegated to the top shelf along with a few others, it was like waving a red flag to a bull. I took several precarious trips up that bookshelf to retrieve them, with great success. My first choice was The Silence of the Lambs, and I had that confiscated several times before dad gave up. My attempts to read American Psycho (the only book in Dad's collection with a RATED "R" sign on the cover) ended in serious trouble. Dad caught me reading it once as I curled up under his desk. He tore it out of my hands and said if he EVER saw me with it again I'd cop a hiding. Since Dad had only ever smacked me once in living memory and it was not a pleasant experience, I took him seriously and it was many, many years later that I attempted it again. Once I read it, I understood why Dad was so concerned.

Around the same time, in recognition of my "blossoming talents," my father also presented me with an old-fashioned ink-ribbon typewriter that he'd picked up at the Sunday market for a steal. On the same trip my mother had also found a full collection of second hand Sweet Valley High novels that they both agreed was more age appropriate for me. I fell in love with both gifts but was especially enthusiastic about the typewriter. Ink-ribbons were hard to come by and while I used them until they wore through, mum and dad were gracious about keeping me in good supply. Reams of paper were churned through as I mastered the ancient typewriter. It was, as my little brother would say, "old school," you really had to PUNCH down on the buttons like you were angry with them, and it took my little wrists some weeks to get used to it. The letter "A" didn't work, so I would leave a space and hand write it in later, and the "Y" button landed half a line below the rest of the letters, giving the text a wonky look. That being said it was still with pride that I handed in my school assignments in typewritten format, in the age just before computers, that was certainly a novelty.

Amazingly, I got so proficient with the old typewriter that I could touch-type at a fantastic speed; so fast in fact that the letters would jam up and I'd need to slow down. The clickety-clack of the keys drove mum to distraction, although years later when I started playing the Piccolo, practicing for hours after school, I think she secretly wished for the return of the clickety-clack! So in case I haven't articulated myself clearly, as a child reading and writing were my obsessions, and I'd spend hours creating fantastical stories which were, in my eyes, absolutely brilliant - not that I'd let anyone read them!

I never knew what happened to that typewriter, it was replaced by an electronic model a few years later (again, found at the good old Sunday Market) and I literally used it to death. I am not overly sentimental, but it would've been nice to keep that old manual typewriter, it was in great condition and would probably be a collectors’ item by now. More than that though, it would be a reminder of one of the happiest times of my childhood, in that stage between innocence and the realization that things around you are not as trouble free as they once seemed. If I asked my mother what happened to the typewriter, she'd probably know, but I suspect it went to the tip, and if that is the answer I don't want to hear it.

But back to epiphanies! The older I got the less writing I did, it was a gradual decline that started around the age of thirteen, and once I hit my senior high school years and had a job, a boyfriend, band practice etc it completely dropped off the radar. That was until a period about five years ago when I became extremely unwell. The extra time in bed afforded me the leisure of concentrating on it, but once I recovered it faded again as a priority.

A few weeks ago my grandmother sadly passed away, and my family packed up and headed to my mother's hometown four hours away for the funeral and essential pre-arrangements. I was reading in my hotel room (shocking I know) when my mum rang and told me that they'd written the eulogy but couldn't get it right, and could I please come over and see what I could do with it?

They presented me with what they'd done, and while I had to be highly respectful of the original content, I made enough changes to ensure it flowed beautifully, and by the time I'd finished all present gave it their seal of approval.

The next day the eulogy was read out at the funeral, and while it was incredibly sad, what I was not prepared for was the thrill I received hearing the funeral director read my words to the audience. I hung on every word, cringed when sentences were not delivered with the intended rhythm, noticed when certain key words were not emphasized, and relished the sentences that were delivered with the appropriate pace. When people laughed I felt a sense of satisfaction, and although short and respectful, I hoped that all involved were pleased with my work. It was after she'd finished, when I was headed home that evening, that I had my epiphany: I'd do anything for that thrill again, of hearing my writing being read to a captive audience, and its played on mind ever since... hence the creation of this blog.

So is that a tale I should tell? That a re-written eulogy was my inspiration for finally making a commitment to my writing? It's amazing the form in which messages can come, but maybe it was my grandmother's way of putting me back on what had always been my intended track? I’m not sure, however I intend to use this opportunity and capitalize on it, in any way that I can.

Have you had any epiphanies lately (beside the one where you realised I am extremely long winded?),

Signing Off,

Tripping Tipsy