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  • June 15, 2025

The Gift of Written Language

January 19, 2010 by Karen Swim

A multi-volume Latin dictionary (Egidio Forcel...
Image via Wikipedia

I attended a missions conference last week and the guest speaker was an Engineer serving as a Bible translator. As a lover of words and people, I was rapt with attention as he shared stories of both. To translate a language, you must have an alphabet, the building block of the written word. Many languages do not have an alphabet so translators must work with native speakers to define letters and words.

Language is our identity, our heritage. Having a language that can be written enables us to share and pass down our history and stories. We can educate and learn because we have language.

Those who do not possess this wonderful gift proudly embrace the opportunity to own their language by writing it. My eyes teared up at photos of happy faces now able to pass on their stories through the written word.

We take so much for granted in literate nations. We complain about reading and writing. We are lazy and sloppy in our communications. We opt out of mastery of our own languages because we don’t like it or don’t believe we have a natural talent for it.

Perhaps its time to rethink the written word and make more of an effort to honor this gift.

What do you think? Are basic writing skills important?

Resources:

199 Ways to Write with Confidence – In this book, Joanna Young has compiled the best of her writing wisdom from her blog, Confident Writing. I bought the book as soon as it was published and it sits on my shelf for quick reference. This is not an affiliate link, just a good old fashioned recommendation for a great resource.

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Filed Under: Writing Tagged With: Add new tag, Language, Writing

Thankful Reflection and Learning

November 23, 2009 by Karen Swim

Reflection (physics)
Image via Wikipedia

In the US we will celebrate Thanksgiving on Thursday. Already, things are slowing down a bit as people travel to spend time with their families or hunker down to get everything done in this three day work week. I like this time of year. It is a quiet time for reflecting and giving thanks before the holiday retail frenzy grabs hold and unleashes a flurry of stressful buying and gift giving.

It is a perfect time to reflect, learn and begin to implement new habits and actions.  Writing has been an integral part of my own reflection.  It has been eye opening to explore the process of writing and learning over at Joyful Jubilant Learning this month. I encourage you to check out the posts there and consider joining in on the Group Writing Project . One of my favorite posts there this month was Opening a Vein by Káren Wallace. Filled with raw emotion, the piece was haunting, poetic and so aptly described many of my own feelings about writing.

My own journal has chronicled my fears, frustrations and fantasies about the months ahead. As I pour it all out upon the pages, I am able to clearly see paths and patterns. The task of writing it all down frequently leaves me spent but satisfied. There is a sense of space and calm as I let the thoughts tumble from my head to the page.

I must admit that not everything is clear but I have learned to be okay with that too.  I am embracing carving out a road that is straight and squiggly and veers off in unexpected directions. I believe that is one of the reasons why Joanna Young’s revealing post, The Search for the Rosetta Stone or Confessions of a Serial Blogger ,  struck me so deeply.

This week I will be reflecting on these lessons and catching up on my reading. Of course, there will also be pie involved because it is Thanksgiving week.  🙂 I also want to take a moment to say Thank You. Whether you pop in on occasion or show up faithfully, whether you read in silence or offer comments, I am so thankful for YOU! Every single person that subscribes, reads, shares is so valued by me.

So, what’ s in store for you this week? If pie is involved, please share. 🙂

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Filed Under: Writing Tagged With: holidays, self-reflection, Thanksgiving

Naked Trees and Wild Eyed Murderers

November 16, 2009 by Karen Swim

I stood aimlessly looking out the window while waiting for the water to boil for my tea. It was an odd sort of day. The skies were grey but the temperatures were warm. Some of the trees were completely bare and their naked branches clutched at the sky like scraggly fingers. Other trees were full with fall color having survived the few bits of rain and wind of the season.

As I watched the odd little pattern the naked and full trees made, a silver SUV pulled into a slot across the street. The tires bumped the curb making a soft thud. The driver then backed up a bit lopsided and once again hit the curb, as though he were trying to drive over it. My spine tingled as I moved a bit closer to the glass to investigate.

The car was not moving but the taillights were on. I squinted in an effort to see the license plate. Another minute passed and I was certain that the driver was a crazy, inebriated ex who was planning to drive his car through my neighbor’s front door. My mind raced ahead as I mentally planned grabbing my shoes running down the stairs and out the door to save my neighbor from disaster. “Oh no, what if one of the children goes running by,” I thought with panic rising. I would have to move fast but I was sure I could do it.

I moved a little to the side watching the unmoving car. A few moments later the door opened. My mind raced wildly with dizzying questions – Should I call 911? Should I get my bat? I kept watching the car as I plotted to take down the murderer or at the very least call the police.

The minutes ticked away and by now the kettle was boiling. I ignored the sound and kept watching. The door was still open and I saw a shoulder emerge and then disappear back inside the car. Several moments passed and then the figure slowly emerged. I held my breath, watching and waiting. Finally, the door began to close and I drew in my breath, waiting to see the crazed mad man whom I would soon have to take down.

He was hunched over and moving slowly, shuffling really, using his cane to find the ground in front of him before taking a step. My crazed mad man was a sweet little old man who clearly had a little trouble with his eyesight!

Filed Under: Writing Tagged With: imagination, true stories, Writing

140 Characters from Darkness to Light

November 2, 2009 by Karen Swim

Tastatur einer defekten Schreibmaschine unbeka...
Image via Wikipedia

Regret clings to my soul like cobwebs in a dusty attic. It seems that all that is left of me are memories of what was as hope drains from my heart leaving me empty and lifeless. With head bowed and shoulders intent on  greeting each other in sorrow, I sigh deeply and turn on the machine that taunts me as it boots up. Mindlessly I click on Twitter and my eyes capture a flicker, a quote that wraps around my chilled heart and shakes me from my coma of hopelessness.

@GrantThomson A man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams.- John Barrymore

I do not want to warm myself on chilly nights with fading memories of my past accomplishments playing like a scratched album with the needle stuck in the grooves. A small piece of my old fighting spirit rises to the surface and a longing to make new “bests” that are in the present and now. I fight through the fog that has enshrined me to bring my fingers to the keyboard defiantly tapping out words, ramblings that may or may not become sentences but determined nevertheless to find my way again to life. The fog holds on with a tight grip releasing vapors as I struggle to climb above it, to see the sun that I know exists above the dark clouds. A tiny spark emerges, barely enough to light the way but I focus on the pinprick of light and tap, tap, tap my way from the cave of darkness.

I tap like a madwoman, possessed by the journey, barely seeing, not thinking but suddenly with a fierce need a single minded mission to break free fro the prison of despair. I hear nothing but the tap, tap, tap slowly rising to a crescendo as I battle my way to the light. My furrowed brow is beaded with sweat from the effort of fighting against the enemy of my soul. Tap, tap, tap, shards of remembrance break through, memories of past effort. A tiny voice whispers and I strain to hear it. It does not have to be perfect, just do it.

I tap, tap, tap to drown out the ugly screams of fear as it tries in vain to beat back the flame that threatens to extinguish its presence. Then with racing heart and waning energy I see…the light. I open my eyes wide and drink in the blessed sight of the light gulping it hungrily as one who has wandered in without water in the desert for days on end.

I turn my face toward the warmth as a deep, throaty laugh passes through my parched lips. A tear slips down my cheek and slowly falls to the page, blurring the words that dragged me from the darkness that threatened to silence me forever. I am here and I am thankful.

Have you ever been gripped by discouragement? How did you work your way through?

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Filed Under: Writing Tagged With: Twitter, writers block, Writing, writing inspiration

Bad Writing, Spinach and Mid Week Musings

September 16, 2009 by Karen Swim

Have you ever had an idea that was brilliant in your head but completely worthless once it left that comfy incubator between your ears? I heard something that inspired me and my brain cells began to fire as I mentally formulated a brilliant post.  I was excited and could barely wait to sit down and write.

Twenty minutes later, I sat at my keyboard tapping out my idea. I wrote two paragraphs and read in horror a jumbled, confusing mush of ideas that made me want to weep with embarrassment. I tried in earnest to fix it, and several mixed metaphors and half formed ideas later, I decided to close the document and walk away.

I had a bowl of spinach, which cured my brain fog and mood. An hour later, I returned to the post and declared it a horrible, depressing mess.

I learned two things:

  1. Spinach is magical (for me at least)
  2. Sometimes what you write really does stink, admit it and move on.

What have you learned this week?

For some decidely non-stinky writing, check out these posts by writers who clearly eat their spinach:

  • Trees of Gestures – Amy Palko sees beauty in what some describe urban blight.
  • The Sound of Rain – Janice Cartier’s writing always sings.  Somehow she even makes melancholy magical.
  • Love Conkers All – A beautiful post by published author Stephen Fry.
  • Stories to Pave the Path to Dreams – Emma Newman is a writer to watch, this post captures that restless feeling we all experience on the road to change.

Filed Under: Writing Tagged With: amy palko, emma newman, janice cartier, stephen fry, Writing

Painting by Numbers

August 10, 2009 by Karen Swim

A watercolour painting set.
Image via Wikipedia

Written by Karen D. Swim

When I was 10 my mother took me to the art store. I was not exactly artsy; I could not even draw a straight line. Therefore, it never occurred to me that this trip was anything more than another outing with my mom.

We traveled through the aisles and my eyes could not drink in the array of artistic tools fast enough. Paper, easels, brushes and paints seemed to dance and dazzle before my eyes. The blood rushed to my head as I excitedly took in the adventure. We finished shopping and I stood at the checkout counter as the kaleidoscope of images flashed through my mind. When I finally came down from my art candy rush, we were home and I was the proud owner of a paint-by-numbers set.

I stared at the box and read the description. I put it on my desk and stared at the picture of what my final masterpiece would resemble. For several weeks, the box sat unopened, ripe with possibilities. I peered at it sometimes with a mixture of anger as it taunted me to go ahead and mess it up. Some days, I even wore my beret and spoke in French around it to capture the mood of true artiste. Mom patiently encouraged me in her sweet way until I finally mustered the courage to open the box.

I laid out my materials and imagined that I was in a French countryside. I began to follow the numbering system to bring my sailboats alive on the canvass. I dipped my brush in the watercolors, tongue firmly planted to one side of my mouth to steady my hand. I checked my progress against the picture on the box unconvinced that I could pull it off but refusing to give up. After a day of blue paint here, grey paint there I began to drift from the “rules.” The waves had so many colors and I tired of the tedious and constricting process so I painted on my own, swirling paints in my best Monet impression. I went back and forth between the rules and my own way until the painting was completed.

I signed it at the bottom carefully making cursive letters with and showed my mom. There were spots where bits of paint had gathered in a little clump creating bumpy places on the smooth canvas. Mom seemed not to notice and beamed as if I had painted the Sistine Chapel. She framed it and proudly hung it on the wall. Every visitor to our home was taken to my “wall” where mother would proudly point and exclaim, “K painted that.” Each would dutifully smile and mutter an appropriate platitude as I hid from view completely mortified.

I should have known then that I would somehow always have a love-hate relationship with structure. I felt guilty for abandoning the numbering system and cheating the rules. Would the paint-by-numbers people come after me and label me a fraud? Was it really a painting if I didn’t do it their way?

Yet, I also felt constricted by boundaries that seemed only to fit for a little while. I liked order but found myself equally drawn to disorder. Perhaps it was a mirror of my own doubt about my capabilities. Could a girl who could not draw a straight line and frequently bumped into things really possess talent?

I continued to bounce in and out of the lines somehow finding my way. I never broke real rules but frequently used guidelines as a base from which I created my own course. As an adult, I have come to realize that those boundaries may have been like the training wheels on my big girls bike. I only needed them until I did not.

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Filed Under: Writing Tagged With: breaking boundaries, Learning, short story

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