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Why I Write
When I write, I draw on my experiences as a woman with a painful past, a rapturous wife and mother, a world traveler, and a spiritualist. For me, writing is an art form. Like an artist, the work becomes more than I imagined it would be. When I set out to write a story with a particular idea or character in mind, words I cannot claim as my own flow from a magical and mysterious place through me and onto paper. The work takes on a life of its own; it is living art. The process fascinates me, satiates me, and makes my life more meaningful.
Please read my stories! If you would like to offer me feedback on my work, please click here and sign up for a free membership: https://heftynicki.Writing.com
I hope to see you there!
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Blog, Blog, Blog #665917 added August 31, 2009 at 2:59pm
Restrictions: None
The People's Princess
A quick look at events of the past can take your imagination on some fabulous journeys. Take a peek at any 'this day in history' page on the web….Write: Does one of the events capture your imagination? See where/when your imagination takes you!
I’ve been reviewing all day, fulfilling auction packages that were won over the weekend, and my muse is fried. I wanted to write a little, and reading Acme   ’s daily exercise prompt got me thinking about this date.
I didn’t have to visit a “this day in history” site to remember. August 31st is my father-in-law’s birthday, and I my husband and I were spending the weekend at his parent’s house in Cusset, France, to celebrate. We were still newlyweds at the time; our first wedding anniversary wasn’t for another two weeks. (Note to self: your wedding anniversary is in two weeks.  ). We came down the narrow wooden stairs from my husband’s childhood bedroom at a leisurely hour: 8:00 a.m. By that time, my in-laws had already had breakfast, fed the chickens, tended the sheep and rabbits, weeded the garden, planted two rows of winter lettuce, gone into town to the boulangerie for the daily bread, and pulled up potatoes and begun peeling them for homemade “French fries” (did you know the Belgians, not the French, came up with French fries?) for lunch.
We left the staircase and entered the living room where My mother-in-law greeted us with a kiss on each cheek and the words that sent a chill across my skin: La Princesse Diana est morte.
I couldn’t believe my ears. How could Lady Diana be dead? She was so young, beautiful, and an angel amongst us. The whole world mourned her, but the French were deeply affected by her passing, perhaps because she died in their country. It was all we talked about for weeks afterward. I remember crying easily and often; it seemed all I had to do was think about her, her life, her children, and the tears flowed. What a terrible loss.
I admired Lady Di for her humanitarian work. She recognized, long before it was in fashion, the incredible hardships in sub-Saharan Africa, and I will always remember her more for her work with the suffering children there than her elegance or her turbulent years with Prince Charles.
Rest in peace, Princess of the People.
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