03 : Linbido april 2004

The True Story

How does one start? Let's start it simple. It gets complicated soon, but that's how life is.

Hello. The name is Lin. I'm a 25 years old soon-to-be mother* from Stavanger, Norway. I currently live in Stockholm, Sweden, where I work and live (in still unwed sin) with the soon-to-be father. I love him, I love this city, I love my life and by god, I love to write.

But that was not always the case. (This is where it starts to get complicated.)

I used to hate words. I used to shun them, back away from all things written.

I was a stupid girl. A stupid, retarded idiot. At least, that's what they used to call me in school, the floaters and easy-goers, who pointed and laughed, because the stupid girl never did right, never learned. My teachers and my friends kept telling me not to listen. It's quite common, they said. It's just dyslexia, many people have that, you can get help. But it didn't stop me from hearing those words, and the words kept burning holes in my head, until they broke through, and I started believing them myself.

Finally, I gave up, decided that I was indeed an idiot, and stopped caring. Much of my poetry dwells on events from the following four years. Much of it still neatly tucked away in unpublished files on my computer, where they will remain.

Let's just say that there are lines in my face, even if they are not visible on the outside. I have lived out loud, dumb and dangerous enough for a lifetime, and now I'm feeling old. Now, old is not something that a regular 25-year-old woman is supposed to feel. But I'm glad I do, because the option would have been a plethora of other things, much more unpleasant.

All because of words. Words can do pretty mean things. But they can also do the opposite.

This brings us to poetry, and to the reason why I write. Somewhere along the line, I finally snapped out of my self-image of Stupid and began to look at it all with sober eyes. It was not me, it was just an organ in my body that didn't quite function right: my brain. And the brain is a wonderful thing. With bad eyesight, it develops better hearing. Some can solve advanced calculations in there, others can write symphonies, and yet others paint pictures.

My brain was not good with the content of text, but I soon found out that the look of text was an entirely different turkey. Such an entirely different turkey that, just four months after my return from my lengthy self-inflicted fuckup, I managed to get myself hired as a junior art director. A new life, a new job, new confidence in me, both from myself and others. And a normal, quiet life.

With the love and support of a few people close to me, I decided, once and for all, that I would not let a mere handicap hold me down, one that I actually could work myself out of. So I started to write. It went slow at first, frustrating, but in my own pace I managed to find new tricks to it.

It's kind of hard to explain. If you drive a car, you don't have to think of all the gears and wheels and fuel injection all the time, those things take care of themselves most of the time. When I read and write, I have to keep those things in mind, or it will stop working. But with enough practice, it was not at all impossible.

In time, I also found those great supportive muses out on the Internet, and Lauren is one of the more prominent. They, and my poetizing man, opened my eyes to the language beyond prose. This was my ballpark, here I could do what the devil I pleased with language, and no one would judge me. The perfect place to refine the mechanics.

I've beaten my demon, and made language my bitch. And I intend to make the most of that. So I write, I bend words to my will, instead of the other way around. I abuse language before it has the chance to abuse me. I've got a lot of catching up to do, and although the poems themselves span from pitch black to Teletubbies merry, this is my personal catharsis. If it makes anyone happy to read what I do unto language, and I manage to light just a tiny spark somewhere, it all just might have been worth it.


* Note: In the time that took for this feature to be ready for online publishing, the mother-to-be status has changed into real mama-hood. (LH)

Lin's author page at Literotica.com


01 : Angeline
02 : Eve
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