Diana Kurniawan

As I practice self-quarantine at home, I picked up P.L. Tavers's Mary Poppins. It revitalized me.

Her writing has a lesson and learning tool attached to it, from the dialogues, attitudes and the voice. The story was meant to be entertaining and this urban fantasy classic was so dear to my heart. 

Her writing gave me a way to reflect on my own craft, of how I attached attitude and voice to create a memorable character for my stories. Both as an entertainment and as a tool for children to relate back into their lives, Mary Poppins gave us a disciplinarian in a book, and fun in a story. Mary Poppin's attitude revitalized my self-quarantine life at this moment, and it was fun.

From now on, I will learn to attach not just voice to our palate but attitude to the character. Not just for kicks, but for children to see the characters come alive. 

P.L.Tavers has always been one of my favorites, and she will remain to be one of my greatest teachers.

Just Write.

As I feel the solitude from self-quarantine, I can't help but to pick up a book. This time, Andy Mulligan's Trash, written in a first person multiple points of views. I remind myself that it is not as bad as it seems, the situation the world is in. But, I know it is worse than I believe for the children across the world who are impoverished. 

When I start to think of the children in Behala, where the story is set, I know there is a lot more suffering in the world than just Coronavirus. Written works helps me to empathize and builds up my knowledge, and even reaches out with compassion to me. 

The children in this book never show self-pity, but they show their suffering through their actions and thoughts. I lean on the understanding of Mulligan's subject matter to empathize and learn. I am enlightened by it.

Maybe, I should write not to educate or spread knowledge or attempt to preach to children. From now on, I shall show through the actions of my characters of the things they go through, of what someone in the other side of the world feels, just as Rat went through in Mulligan's exceptional work, Trash. From now on, I will write for pleasure and to show stories of beautiful things, without motive. Perhaps someone will relate and someone who will read my writing will empathize with me.

I will just write to reach out towards compassion and as a gesture of kindness, and thus, empathizing with those who understand my characters in my writings. I think I will, from now on.

Just tell stories. Just write.

Coming through a week full of Coronavirus fears made me anxious. But, in the middle of Tuesday last week, I attended Peter Reynolds's talk on his new picture book, Be You. It was an education.

His theory of how everyone was an author of life, made me realize that my writing made me an author. Perhaps I was grandiose in dreams, but no one could stop me. 

In Be You, I was educated. Peter Reynolds's writing educated me.

I was born to be so many things, yet, I became who I have been thus far, and it was okay.

Writing taught me so many things, and it never stopped teaching. I found new things to be thankful for, from my own writing, as well as others. 

From Peter's book, I realized that he was my kindred spirit, and my adventurous side soared with us. I was not afraid to live a big life, inside my book, and slowly but surely in reality, too. I was always reserved, but with my writing, my voice and resilience showed. It taught me to Be Me.

Just Write.

Secretly, I love the travel time. The talking to strangers inside the plane, the drive to the destinations, the scenery and the drawn out rides. It gives me time to think about what ideas can come. 

Secretly, I love writing them out. To understand myself, and my attributes. Writing out my secrets heals me. It may even become a story. It is a form of exhale from the overwhelming fears inside, that someone might find out. Instead, I write them out and let the heavens know. 

Secretly, I loathe politics and I hate every inch of writing about them. I seldom read about politics, yet it shapes so many of us. It eats me alive at times because of the secrecy behind it. Secrets being secretive, in the walls of politics.

I don't write my secrets out to let the world know, but I do write them out to change stories of what tragedies may come. Sometimes I see a human being with a life less desireable, and I secretly write about them, changing their lives and their futures. Perhaps, there is justice on their behalf. 

Secretly, I write because I need the help in writing. That's the truth.

Just write.

There was never a formula, but I found one for myself. No need to follow, just humor me. 

There would be a point in time when harmony coalesced into your routine in life, that one couldn't ignore it. Just do it!

With me, I found the homeless care work I dedicated my whole life to, became a journey of transformation and love. The healing was irreplaceable that I won't be able to give it up. Slowly, the racism that I was subjected to dissipated with the many hours of loving others of diverse races, religions, cultures and backgrounds. With the homeless, the reciprocity of love became a cycle, as the suffocation and traumas disappeared. The burden lifted itself up as I lifted up the burdens of others. Serving healed me.

The breathing came next as I helped myself, exhaling in and out, tuning in with the presence of my belief and my faith. I meditated with breathing, living with breathing, healing through it. I won't be able to get on without it. Breathing in,...peace be with me, ....exhaling out....peace be with my life. Breathing served its purpose synergistically with my need to serve others while helping others gain solace and wisdom. I took those sentiments from others, their gratitude, their sorrows, their perspectives and experiences as they worked itself through me and empathized with my heartaches. The divine thrusted a spirit of wholeness within me. Breathing blessed me.

Writing paced me. It created a tempo that wounds in cycles each day, routinely, without judgements or confusion. It was as organic as the cycle of the day and time. Writing kept me alive as my whole life faced forward and I won't fall down to the negativities and pessimisms that often bombarded my mind so brutally. The illness subsided as providence entered into my mind, heart, soul, spirit, and life. The impurities excreted on paper as the ink touched the grains of fibers, so my soul's sufferings came out with it. My tears often followed as I understood the origin of my creative process. I gained consciousness, stories, ideas as writing kept me alive.

Serving, breathing, writing. Just write....forever.

I thought it would be easy, but it was excruciating. I tried to not write but the condensation from the day's activities created a mind that was stressed and frugal with optimism. I couldn't do anything else but write. To myself, telling stories, to God...everything.

I had to write, because it was from my need to become healthy. I needed to write until my life ceases to exist, because it was the only way I can live. I didn't know any other way. I always wrote my heart out and it evolved from therapy to life, from emotional cushion to transformative healing, from gaining confidence to soul esteem.

I won't be able to live any longer if I was never allowed to write. It was my soul's expressions and my heart. One could say I was all heart and irrationality, but truly, would you want me to write about everything that was sane and constricting? Let the crazies out!

Writing is life and I write not because I wanted to document anything, but for the delight of my soul for the purpose of my life. I was to write stories, and I knew it since birth. 

I fumbled along the way, and I fell utterly bitter to the ground that my conscience tragically felt shamed as the skin on my body felt uncomfortable and sick. I realized that I had to write it out. Everything, from the depth of my soul. 

I write because I was meant to, and it was a calling, forever. I followed it because my soul craved it since I was in the womb. Just write.

I woke up post-Valentine's Day and it felt serene. The sudden urges to write that came in the middle of the night, upon Valerian induced dreams about pugs, honey bees, and Jane Austen, fueled me. Still working on reading her novels while rummaging through the moving boxes inside my house. Loveland/Berthoud, Colorado, is now home. Never been here before, but after writing much about lost loves, violence, non-profit organizations and public health prevention, I found writing about the unknown was the first step of writing for life. 

Ramifications and recoveries of doubts and fears, I shall call it. Writing helps and heals. 

Write scared, I was once told, by Vanessa-Brantley Newton, a dear friend and fellow SCBWI member. Thus, writing about love, life, and everything in between, for me, for children, for adults, for every part of myself that I wanted  to explore. I didn't know anything about writing, until I wrote. Letting go of the fears of fumbling and failing were some steps. The fears of losing, the fears of not being published, who cares....I will write. While working, while dreaming, while eating, while crying, while everything...just write. Being paid is a perk, being loved is nostalgic, being healed, is bliss.