Today, while I was reading another blog, my daughter told me I should begin my own blog. I’ve thought of it. I even began one a couple of years ago on my own website, but it was a lot of work to write something, put it in html format, and then upload it to my website. I enjoyed the freeform writing and it did spur me to write other things, but the mechanics slowed me down and it’s been too long since I even looked at that first blog.
I named my first blog “The Writing Well” and I almost named this one the same. Here’s the very first entry from “The Writing Well:”
- March 1, 2003
Why “The Writing Well” you ask? Because I am a well of writing that needs priming. I know I have writing ideas and material just waiting to be brought to the surface, waiting to be put on paper, but for some reason they are just not coming to the surface.
When I was a young girl, my grandmother’s home was the most magical place. Even though it has been over fifteen years since I was last there, I can still smell and almost taste the unique perfume of Grammy’s house: molasses cookies, fresh wildflowers, and that musty, damp smell that comes from a house that is closed up all winter. Outside her flowerbeds were in colorful bloom, the grass always needed mowing, the maple trees spun their helicopter seeds, and the profusion of lilacs scented the air for weeks.
What I remember the most, though, was the water well and its pump, an area conversely fraught with danger and delight, fear and fulfillment. The well pump was on a small shady knoll. As I would walk up the path to the well, I had to be careful not to slip on the moss covered stones that surrounded the well’s wooden platform. Even more dangerous to me, though, was the possibility of snakes. On any day there could be several snakes enjoying the cool shade and dampness of the well platform. They were nothing more than green garter snakes, but for a child petrified of any snake they might as well have been boa constrictors or rattlesnakes. The mere sight of them would cause me to freeze with fright, back away slowly, and run for the house. And the next time around I would be doubly apprehensive about going to the well. And yet, go I would, because there was nothing better on a hot summer day than a drink of cold well water!
Some days, though, the water didn’t come simply by moving the pump handle up and down. It needed priming, which meant that I had to go back down the slippery stone path, keeping an eagle eye out for snakes, get a glass of water from Grammy’s house, make my way back to the well, and then pour the water down the pump while moving the pump handle up and down. If I was lucky, one glass of water would do the trick and I’d cup my hands to catch the cool, sweet water. If not, I would have to run back inside and get another glass of water and prime it again!
You might wonder why I didn’t just drink the water from the house instead of going through all that effort to get the well water. After all, it was the very same water! As a child, though, I knew there was a difference. The well water from the pump was sweeter and colder, more refreshing. Or maybe it was just that the danger and excitement, the sense of accomplishment, made the water taste sweeter and feel colder.
My writing needs priming … a few common words trickling down the well to get the steady flow of cool, sweet words flowing again. Ahhh …how welcome that would be!
We’ll see if this blog fulfills it’s purpose better than my first effort. Quite honestly, I’ve not written much in the past couple of years other than lots of e-mails. Maybe I should spend less of my energy on the homeschool e-mail lists and more on my own writing!