Writing, Writing
I've abandoned my blog this month. This doesn't mean I haven't thought about things to write; I have some ideas in my head, and at least one in draft. Rather, I've been using my energy in other endeavors.
It's been a year of transition, really, which has affected me strangely, in a way I can't describe because I'm not sure yet of the effect. It's been my first full year trying to avoid salt (bwaa-ha-ha!), and of trying to walk every day (but not in the rain), of turning the half century mark (!), and of watching my daughter trying to find her way, post university (it's no country for young people).
I've been to some places this year. I've returned to Porto, my husband and I went to various different places within Galicia, including taking his mother to San Andrés de Teixido, where, according to the legend, if you don't go in life, you will go in death, reincarnated as anything, including a bug. Which is why you shouldn't kill any bugs if you go. I took the three hour trip down to Coimbra, in Portugal, and visited its beautiful university buildings (I must return some day.). Then, in September, my husband and I took our second vacation in twenty-five years, and went for a few days to Cantabria, where we revelled in the mountains.
We've been to concerts. We saw Mark Knopfler on his farewell tour, Bonnie Tyler, Iggy Pop, Patti Smith, and TamTamGo!. We already have tickets to see Viva Suecia, a Spanish indie group, next month, and José Luís Perales on his farewell tour, in June. I couldn't get tickets to see Judas Priest in Viveiro at the Resurrection Fest in July, because they play on a Thursday, and we work the next day (bummer!). But let's see who plays at the Festival do Noroeste in A Coruña in August, and at the Son do Camiño in Santiago in June. If they're interesting, we'll try to go.
Artistically speaking, I've evolved this year, though I don't know if for the better. At the beginning, I was continuing with my pastel paintings. Until this fall. I still have two unfinished paintings, one, a portrait. I know exactly where I want to go with them, and have the pastels I'd been using on them in their little boxes on my desk, awaiting their finish. But something else caught my attention this past July.
One morning, as I was doing my daily walk, passing through my village, I was reflecting on how little or how much it must have changed since my mother was a little girl. Which got me thinking about the Spanish Civil War, which began when my mother was seven years old. Which got me thinking about the stories that were hushed and never made it to the present, but were deliberately forgotten through the years. Which got me thinking that probably my mother knew more than she had told me about her childhood, but didn't want to tell me. And a story poppped into my head.
I argued with myself for a couple of days. I'd tried to write stories in the past, but had never gotten anywhere. I wasn't sure of how to write this idea, nor where to begin, nor where to continue with it. In the end, I decided to just start writing. As I wrote, the story evolved in my head. There were days I despaired, and days I triumphed. The writing took the time away from my painting, but I was too involved in the story to stop.
I'm still writing and getting closer to the end, but I'm not there yet. As I have been writing, the story has been changing to the point where I have to go back and rewrite the beginning, because it's been taking its own direction without asking me for permission. I have been looking up history and stories within that history. I have realized that our Civil War was bloodier behind the front lines than I had ever thought. Though Galicia was subjugated by the Nationalists on the first days, retribution was carried out throughout the three years the war lasted, and beyond that. There may have been little fighting beyond the first days in the area of Vigo, and few bombs dropped, but I discovered that many people suffered the consequences. And that those consequences were hushed up. People became too scared to even tell their grandchildren anything about the war. Even after Franco died, and, supposedly, democracy came into being, those stories were not told, and many of them died with their witnesses.
So, that burning desire to tell the story that popped into my head one summer's day is wreaking havoc with all my other artistic outlets, including my blog. I have rediscovered the history bug lying within me, and my childhood desire to become a writer. Where will it end in the new year? Hopefully with a well-written story finished, and with new paintings that won't just sit around on easels, waiting for me. And, perhaps, some more ideas for stories.
It's been a year of transition, really, which has affected me strangely, in a way I can't describe because I'm not sure yet of the effect. It's been my first full year trying to avoid salt (bwaa-ha-ha!), and of trying to walk every day (but not in the rain), of turning the half century mark (!), and of watching my daughter trying to find her way, post university (it's no country for young people).
I've been to some places this year. I've returned to Porto, my husband and I went to various different places within Galicia, including taking his mother to San Andrés de Teixido, where, according to the legend, if you don't go in life, you will go in death, reincarnated as anything, including a bug. Which is why you shouldn't kill any bugs if you go. I took the three hour trip down to Coimbra, in Portugal, and visited its beautiful university buildings (I must return some day.). Then, in September, my husband and I took our second vacation in twenty-five years, and went for a few days to Cantabria, where we revelled in the mountains.
We've been to concerts. We saw Mark Knopfler on his farewell tour, Bonnie Tyler, Iggy Pop, Patti Smith, and TamTamGo!. We already have tickets to see Viva Suecia, a Spanish indie group, next month, and José Luís Perales on his farewell tour, in June. I couldn't get tickets to see Judas Priest in Viveiro at the Resurrection Fest in July, because they play on a Thursday, and we work the next day (bummer!). But let's see who plays at the Festival do Noroeste in A Coruña in August, and at the Son do Camiño in Santiago in June. If they're interesting, we'll try to go.
Artistically speaking, I've evolved this year, though I don't know if for the better. At the beginning, I was continuing with my pastel paintings. Until this fall. I still have two unfinished paintings, one, a portrait. I know exactly where I want to go with them, and have the pastels I'd been using on them in their little boxes on my desk, awaiting their finish. But something else caught my attention this past July.
One morning, as I was doing my daily walk, passing through my village, I was reflecting on how little or how much it must have changed since my mother was a little girl. Which got me thinking about the Spanish Civil War, which began when my mother was seven years old. Which got me thinking about the stories that were hushed and never made it to the present, but were deliberately forgotten through the years. Which got me thinking that probably my mother knew more than she had told me about her childhood, but didn't want to tell me. And a story poppped into my head.
I argued with myself for a couple of days. I'd tried to write stories in the past, but had never gotten anywhere. I wasn't sure of how to write this idea, nor where to begin, nor where to continue with it. In the end, I decided to just start writing. As I wrote, the story evolved in my head. There were days I despaired, and days I triumphed. The writing took the time away from my painting, but I was too involved in the story to stop.
I'm still writing and getting closer to the end, but I'm not there yet. As I have been writing, the story has been changing to the point where I have to go back and rewrite the beginning, because it's been taking its own direction without asking me for permission. I have been looking up history and stories within that history. I have realized that our Civil War was bloodier behind the front lines than I had ever thought. Though Galicia was subjugated by the Nationalists on the first days, retribution was carried out throughout the three years the war lasted, and beyond that. There may have been little fighting beyond the first days in the area of Vigo, and few bombs dropped, but I discovered that many people suffered the consequences. And that those consequences were hushed up. People became too scared to even tell their grandchildren anything about the war. Even after Franco died, and, supposedly, democracy came into being, those stories were not told, and many of them died with their witnesses.
So, that burning desire to tell the story that popped into my head one summer's day is wreaking havoc with all my other artistic outlets, including my blog. I have rediscovered the history bug lying within me, and my childhood desire to become a writer. Where will it end in the new year? Hopefully with a well-written story finished, and with new paintings that won't just sit around on easels, waiting for me. And, perhaps, some more ideas for stories.
As a writer I find many surprises. One murder mystery the murdered turned out to be different than I thought until the end. A walk woman metamorphosed into a major character and a sub plot that turned out to be almost a major plot. Surprised me.
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