Tag Archives: woman

Why I Blog? (New “About”)

I have realized that my previous “About” text is not sufficient to explain why I am here, blogging… So here is why I blog…

Have you ever had one of those boxes when you were a kid where you kept your “valuables” neatly? I used to have a cupboard where I stored all the trinkets I had gotten my hands on… Artsy stuff, collections, tickets, symbols or reminders of events I perceived to be thresholds or poignant moments in my then much shorter life along with some notebooks where I jotted down stories I crafted. I imagine, if I had ever been religious, that cupboard could have been my altar…

I liked to organize it, to watch it, to make new additions to it and especially dream in it. I felt ownership and pride through that cupboard, and it provided a private area only I was allowed into. It was a place where with bits and pieces, I was building my personality by identifying what my likes and dislikes were.

That is the feeling I get here at Tattered Stamp; I am rediscovering me. I am trying to shake off the laziness of a writer’s block that lasted about 15 years following one negative comment I had received from someone I cared for.

Now, after so many years, I am finally formulating an idea about the train of thoughts that brought on the 15 years of stagnancy. The comment, though was nothing but a smile, made me think what I was able to write was petty. I thought if I wanted my ‘work’ to matter, I had to write about politics or social injustice from a western point of view and it had to be either genderless or appealing primarily to a male audience. Therefore, the sentences I put together had to be sarcastic, smart and definitely free of any emotional load.

So for a while I did everything I could to change my writing ways, which felt — awkward. The fulfillment I used to get out of writing diminished until it came to a standstill, because I was a female living in Turkey with a keenness for emotions, psychology and the individual.

Finally, to regain the habit of writing, I decided to write on this blog and publish whatever I could produce no matter how much I hated it and how severely I criticized it. I made up my mind to make this my hiding place where I could insert whatever I had in me: fiction, thoughts about life, getting used to Canada, other people, fears, weaknesses, strengths sometimes I might be too shy to mention…

So now, this blog has become much more than my initial starting point, “letters I write but do not dare to send”. Now, this blog has turned into my cupboard where I rediscover in posts and pages who the real “me” is.

So far, I have learned that I like to write about women because male points of view are far too prevalent, especially in texts about Turkey, AND I am a woman! I also love to borrow instances from my past experiences and deconstruct every sensation pertaining to that moment, a smell, a sound, a touch, a color to spring that moment back to life and weave it into flash fiction.

Another one of my discoveries is that I love changes. I do not care for being a “stable” person, if you like. That is why the tone and the content I upload tends to change frequently, together with the blog layout. Just like the cupboard I used to have, I love reshuffling and redecorating my blog.

Even if every post I put here sounds silly, unappealing or tacky – three words I fear most-, I will do my best to remain as sincere as possible to showcase what words I might have wobbled up my head.

And a quick note, if next time you find a completely new blog here, you can bet I was in the mood for some new theme decorations.

Advertisements

Some things are best forgotten

He kissed her lips and slowly made his way down to her neck and planted soft pecks below her ear. She felt her cheeks flushing with read heat under the familiar smell of his skin. She let his safe warmth carry her breath to a faster pace, and enjoyed her body tingling with eagerness as his touches lost their softness and became more lustful. The blood their bodies pumped filtered all sounds, and only left the fast beat of their hearts echoing in their ears. One by one they forgot their surroundings, their pasts, their regrets, their sorrows…

Then he sighed, letting out a slight sound, reminiscent of a possum threatening an enemy in the darkness of the night and she remembered…

She remembered the rainy day when her friends were away on vacation and she had gathered her toys to play alone in the abandoned little house where neighborhood kids used to get together and pretend to be royalty holding dinners for lords and duchesses. She was surprised to see a man working on the soil right outside in the garden, but she continued to the house, thinking he was the uncle of one of her friends planting flowers for the kids to pick in summer.

She set up the tiny broken plates with the sticks the kids pretended to be valuable silver cutlery. She went on to prepare the delicious invisible food for her guests, who for the lack of her real friends that day, had to be invisible, too. Every one of her select invitees seated around the gold plated table, sipping the soup under the crystal chandelier, were baffled with the perfection she had attained in her cooking. She accepted the quiet praises of her guests, while keeping up with the talks about the dark enemy that lingered around the premises of the castle. She ascertained her dear friends that everyone was safe within the tall strong walls.

Carried away in her imaginary talks with her refined guests, she did not notice the dark figure watching her by the gate of her castle. She was startled when she saw the man working on the soil outside dripping wet in the same room as her.

He smiled, she smiled back. He approached her, walking through the unseeable gold plated table, dispersing the lords and duchesses dressed in tulle and taffeta into fumes and grabbed her by the arm, but his hands being wet, she managed to slip away. She felt an urge to get away from him and stand by the few guests he had not yet walked over. He was in the mood to play tag. She did not want to be rude but she wanted to go back to her game under the shiny crystal chandeliers with her dreamy friends.

He was faster though, and he caught her. He towered behind her, and hugged her small body, but tighter than her parents had ever done. He smelled her hair, but fiercer than anyone who had ever smelled her and squeezed her yet completely flat chest, and let out a deep sigh with a sound that made her think of angry possums at night.

She did not like this strange game she had never played before.

The rainy day helped her win the tag game. She slipped one last time from his wet and cold possum snare and ran out of the deserted house never to return there again.

She never had the heart to invite her tulle and taffeta clothed friends because the castle with the strong walls and shiny chandeliers no longer seemed plausible, no matter how hard she tried.

In the silence of the bedroom, she heard her neighbor play his nostalgic music, “look for the girl with the sun in her eyes”, and she realized that the last time she had the sun shining in her eyes was on that rainy day, just before the dark enemy made its way through the castle walls.

Her lover held her tightly in the bed, and slowly dozed off. In his affectionate embrace, she felt small, like she had on that day in the man’s grip, and she thought, “Some things can’t be forgotten…”

Thank you my dear friend Priscilla for your extremely helpful review.

Knowledge in Guts

Based on the daily creative writing prompt by Sarah Selecky (http://www.sarahselecky.com/, Nov. 28, 2013) and the stories of hundreds of lonely women.

The pain in my abdomen was gradually growing. I thought “I wanted something growing in me.” I still hoped that the pain was due to the external impacts and not the tiny being I was trying to protect showing its restlessness… By contrast, I was still hoping it was contained enough life in it to show its discomfort. I was not even holding it in my arms yet but already I was failing at protecting it.

The situation I was in struck me as ironical. I had always believed that people wishing to have babies should be put through some tests. If they were not prepared, they should not be allowed to go through labor. Only parents who were fully prepared and willing to become good caretakers should get the right to have children. And I was so sure the man I was in love with was the perfect candidate for a good father. For some reason, it had never occurred to me to doubt myself in the same manner I had been untrusting of others. For some reason, I had always believed that when the time was right, I would make a perfect mother and that the man I would choose would be ideal… and loving…

That is why, when I got pregnant during the second year of our relationship, I was certain that we were on the right track of becoming a perfect little family. Even when he became more and more temperamental with the growing financial tension we had been feeling, I was confident it would be temporary, that after a while, he would realize we can make it work and that he would become affectionate again.

The pain in my guts told me otherwise. I had always wondered what people meant when they said they knew things in their guts… I finally knew that the man I was with, the man who had helped me conceive was the wrong choice through the pain in my guts… The pain that he had caused… The man that I had chosen…

Thus, with the pain in my abdomen, holding onto a tiny life in there that I wished to watch flourish, I went for a medical examination. Lying on the hospital bed, I knew I was being judged… I was being judged for the choices I had made, for being with a man I allowed to hurt me and the innocent being in me, for having such low self-esteem, for acting irresponsibly…

As the tiny beam of light in me faded, I felt the growing futility of seeking breath to formulate the words to shout that my presence there in the company of police was me taking responsibility. It was my being responsible for the baby I wished to hold, the future I wanted to see… Only too late…