The Aspiring Bard

For the sake of brutal honesty, I should probably just state here and now that I'm not a real writer.  I value sleep and a social life over word counts, and I haven't done any serious work on my novel in several months. But I'm doing a writer's tag, anyway, because America's a free country (even though I don't live there), and also because Cait and Jenny  and Mirriam made it look like such fun. Read on at your own risk. 1. WHAT GENRES, STYLES, AND TOPICS DO YOU WRITE ABOUT? Genres: I would love to write historical fiction, but the idea of that scares me because I have so much respect for getting every single tiny detail 100% correct when it comes to history. So, I write what is, essentially, historical fiction with wiggle room (meaning, it doesn't take place in history as we know it, so therefore, it's ok if I bend the facts). I also write a great many bits and bobs of non-fiction, poetry, etc.  Styles

This week's Art Stew prompt was to do something inspired by International Children's Book Day. Today is also Dia da Mulher Moçambicana (Mozambican Woman's Day).  So, I'm incorporating them both to write a little something about two of the women who've had a tremendous influence on my life: My mother, and Laura Ingalls Wilder (even though neither of them are Mozambican, but I live in Mozambique, so it works. Somehow). Legacy I leaned against the curve of my mother's belly, Unborn feet pummeling my back, And heard, yet again, the invitation of those opening lines: 'Once upon a time, sixty years ago,  A little girl lived in the Big Woods of Wisconsin,  In a little gray house made of logs.' And no-one knew, there, in that pregnant space Of warm hearth and lamp glow, All that those simple words would one day bring to pass. Of the traveling to see The wide, unknown places of this world. From wagon beds to airplane wings,

I want to let the words out. My hands tremble above the black and white keys, My tongue seems tethered tight within my mouth, Fast and furious, my thoughts are tangled - snarled up together - don't make sense even to me. Especially to me.  I want to let the words out. I can slip through life without anyone taking much notice. And that's a real relief. But then, sometimes, I think, isn't life meant to be shared? And then the other question; but how to begin? How do I evade the restraints that keep me inarticulate? How do I find phrases to explain the vastness of things I barely understand? I want to let the words out. But, while we're being honest here, I'll admit that I'm afraid. I'm afraid of being too dramatic. Too loud. Too happy. Too sad. I'm afraid of embarrassing you with my tears. Or my frankness. Or the fact that I usually don't know what's going on inside my head, 'Til it's all out there in sh