His post inspired me this morning!
I started to tell stories… like fairy tales… My imagination in my early ages was dancing in my little own stories. Then I started to write on walls or everywhere whenever I found a pencil. I was just a little girl. Then papers took place instead of my father’s book pages or my mother’s magazine pages! (you can guess how I made them angry)
Then I had my own journal, it was a lovely notebook with a key. I discovered how amazing and beautiful to write on pages of a notebook! Many notebooks followed each others…
I wrote and wrote… I never gave up to keep a journal… My childhood days, my teenage years, and yes, my feelings and my sad memories, everything was on these journals…
One day my father noticed that my writing, it was amazing according to him. And he supported me always. It was a big surprise to receive a typewriter as a new year gift! He was always so thoughtful about gifts… He knew what I wished or needed…
But in times… my mother, as all other things, she never appreciated my books, my notebooks, my paintings, and yes, my type writer. She threw them all after the death of my father. Now there is nothing from my memories… just in my mind.
Anyway… My love, one day made me a surprise. When I opened the package I cried, because he bought a new typewriter to me, I was so happy like a child…
But everything changes… and one day I met with a new technology. It was again my love’s surprise, he brought a computer to the home. I was crazy… I remember. It took time to learn and then my typewriter had been put in its bag. Still there. Of course you can guess, in time, computers changed, there was always a traffic in the home, one comes, the other one goes… and now I am typing on my labtop! But….
Yes, but, still I write on papers, on notebooks with my pencil…. This one never changed and will never change. Writing is writing for me with a pencil on a paper… I feel myself better with them… I can’t change anything to paper and pencil,….
delectamentum memorias 
Reblogged this on photographyofnia.
hi Nia, you inspired me with “Then I started to write on walls or everywhere whenever I found a pencil…” – when I was aged 8, I scratched on hundred houses my name in my hometown, because my parents went to another city hundred miles away. When I had my first car, aged 18, I came back to my old hometown, and still found some of the old initials on the walls!
This is unbelievable 🙂 you did great! I mean when you were aged 8… made me smile too. Thank you, have a nice day, love, nia
Nia sent me!
….. 🙂 Love you dear Julie. Angels, muses, and beauties be with you always. nia
A very personal post. Have you ever wondered what was at the core of your mother not appreciating your passion for writing? And what would have made her throw out all your stuff?
Shakti
This is my sad and tragic story. I had a mother but I had never had a real mother. I grew up without a mother. Usually I don’t like to talk about this. And I know it is strage when I touch in words… I wished to get your notice far from this. Thank you, love, nia
Hi Nia,
I can sense your pain. But till you drill down to your pain points and shine the light on them, you will never be able to come to terms and make peace. Pardon me if I seem intrusive but that is the reason I asked.
Blessings
Shakti
Wonderful post .. I wish I had saved everything I wrote .. as a child.
How does someone throw out the journals of someone still living without asking them if they want them????? very sad nia.
There was my childhood days and also teenage years into the words. My feelings, my thoughts but most of them were my tears… Who wants to see him/herself as a guilty in this pages…. a scream of a girl. It was the only way for me to write. It kept me alive in my tragic story. Thank you dear Christina, love, nia
that makes perfect sense nia, I am so sorry you had to go through that. I am sure it has contributed to how you are such a caring and beautiful person today. love to you, xoxo
When I was growing up I was too fearful to put into words how I felt about the things I experienced. How very brave you were to let them out onto paper. I love that your father supported your endeavors, and weep that your mother could be so uncaring.
Yet, she did not silence your pen.
Thank you, with my love, nia