The writer you were
I recently read a blog article by a friend of mine, Retro Chick about how to create your own personal style. One of the tips it mentioned was looking back at old photos of the younger you to see what you used to wear and how your fashion style has evolved.
Since moving house a few weeks' ago, I've unpacked an immense number of boxes and in the process of doing so, have come across files and books of my writing dating back over two decades.
Not all of it is good. Some of it is delightful. Other pieces bring back memories of their context. What they all do, however, is provide an invaluable insight into how my writing style has evolved over that time.
I'm not the best of poets - prose always comes to me more easily - but I found this poem about my late father.
Father
He is like a quiet corner shelf,
his role not to step into the circle
but to remain outside, observing in silence.
He is the narrator who whispers our storyline,
his kindly tone remaining as a cello's hum.
He enters our lives gently as an easy autumn,
leaving a fond memory of a favourite scarf,
a forgotten jazz song that lingers on.
Don't be afraid to look back over your younger self's work. Don't dismiss it as being lesser than what you write now. The seed of our talent is a precious thing. Your oak tree may have branched out, up and skyward but that seed provided the roots that will support your writing in the years to come.
Since moving house a few weeks' ago, I've unpacked an immense number of boxes and in the process of doing so, have come across files and books of my writing dating back over two decades.
Not all of it is good. Some of it is delightful. Other pieces bring back memories of their context. What they all do, however, is provide an invaluable insight into how my writing style has evolved over that time.
I'm not the best of poets - prose always comes to me more easily - but I found this poem about my late father.
Father
He is like a quiet corner shelf,
his role not to step into the circle
but to remain outside, observing in silence.
He is the narrator who whispers our storyline,
his kindly tone remaining as a cello's hum.
He enters our lives gently as an easy autumn,
leaving a fond memory of a favourite scarf,
a forgotten jazz song that lingers on.
Don't be afraid to look back over your younger self's work. Don't dismiss it as being lesser than what you write now. The seed of our talent is a precious thing. Your oak tree may have branched out, up and skyward but that seed provided the roots that will support your writing in the years to come.
That's lovely Fi.
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