I was a late bloomer. I was still naïve about what 16 year olds today have known for years. I remember sitting up and taking notice—of the world, my body, others—in a way never before experienced. I noticed boys, or rather they noticed me, at 16.
Chila WoychikTags: writing coming-of-age late-bloomer
I wish I could say he was a French professor, a French chef, or even a bilingual tutor, but I can’t. He worked in a factory and spent his summer evenings at a reenactment village as a blacksmith or something equally masculine. But it didn’t really matter. He was the kind of man I had dreamt of, one who could bring a touch of the exotic to my small-town existence. (No doubt he would make love as passionately as he spoke French.)
Chila WoychikTags: love writing french rats exotic beret
Middle-age should be shot. Things about it gall me. First, that those younger despise the thought of getting old, and, hence, me. Second, that those older despise the thought of me being younger, and, hence, me. So here I am, pressed from both sides, forced to wear blinders—FULL SPEED AHEAD!
Chila WoychikTags: writing middle-age rats fifty
sunset and evening star hunching and bending sleeping and slipping virus pneumonia coughing and crying hope in the small things heaven looks brighter aching and falling earth is still darkness slip into sleeping sleepings of death dead now and buried cold now and crumbling dust now and hope-filled heaven is hope (and loneliness lingers in those left behind)
Chila WoychikTags: life writing loneliness rats hard-times stream-of-consciousness
Texting is a sex toy: pleasurable but a substitute for the real thing. Love has a face. Video chatting is good, but who’s comfortable enough to share their “bed hair”? Love isn’t about pat answers.
Chila WoychikTags: love writing rats sex-toy texting skype
I don’t want to believe in boxes or one-way relationships; I’m naïve, you see. I’d rather moon the moon than flip off a friend, but sometimes I flip so I don’t get flipped. And I still think I’m misunderstanding the Golden Rule.
Chila WoychikTags: friendship friends writing relationships golden-rule rats
I know more about Emily Bronte than anyone I know. I know enough about her family to have been a part. I’ve walked with her on her damp luscious lonely moors, watched her strain to write on miniscule scraps of paper, seen her hide her works from prying eyes.
I’ve brooded alongside her and participated in her taciturnity. Before her death at the ripe old age of 30, I nursed her from the things that ultimately killed her: tuberculosis with a side order of Victorian thinking.
Tags: writing rats emily-bronte tuberculosis moors victorian-age
Only seconds slip by without me scrambling for the aid of someone better, more knowledgeable, to walk beside. Writers are good for that. They like nothing more than to tell you what they know.
Dorothy Sayers, with all her essays and treatises, was good for that. Are women human? What constitutes the mind of the Maker? How did Dante survive the Inferno? Ask Dorothy; she’ll tell you and gladly.
Tags: writing inferno dante rats dorothy-sayers are-women-human mind-of-the-maker
I think that’s why I write—the not knowing and the blasted good feeling I get out of it all.
Chila WoychikTags: writing writing-life rats
Nonfiction. I didn’t choose it as much as it chose me. It squatted and birthed me one raw winter day then jerked me up and set me to scribing.
Chila WoychikTags: writing nonfiction writing-life rats writing-process
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