I used to wonder why writing is – and has always been – very important to me. Expressing myself on paper has been vital for my very existence. It has kept me sane at times of great torment and it is the only thing I find personally fulfilling, regardless of what, or to whom, it is that I am communicating. Was I born this way, or was it something that I learned to enjoy?

My mother is a writer – a poet (an example of her work is in the postscript). She has self-published a book of poetry in Greek and had some of her work published in local and international (Greek) newspapers. Initially, I thought that my own need to write might be inherited; however, she is the only writer on her side of the family. So, if it is inherited from her, then it seems to have started with her.

I believe my mother has passed on to me some other qualities: compassion, strength and fairness. It is these attributes that led me to become a ‘healer’ and a legal studies student. Even though I have not pursued long-term careers in these areas, I am still interested in writing about my experiences. For example, as a law student I discovered that the law has very little to do with justice in the Western world and everything to do with wealth creation for governments and multi-national corporations. Thus my desire to write – outside of therapeutic journal writing – is largely related to educating people about what is really going on in the world. My mother, on the other hand, writes about her personal experiences and other peoples’ life stories. She is nowhere near as political, or as radical, as I am.

Even though my mother always encouraged me to write, there were some negative experiences which did have a much more profound effect on me. Her writing was a constant source of irritation for my father, since he felt she was neglecting her duties as a wife and mother, which she never did. My mother doted on him, always cooked, cleaned, etc. He was afraid that she would run off with another writer, or artist, so he always discouraged her. I later discovered that he had a few traumatic experiences with women before he met her and that his insecurities stemmed from those occurrences.

When he discovered that I wanted to be a writer, he was again very discouraging but this time for different reasons. I was constantly told that I couldn’t make a living out of writing – at best it was a hobby. He was trying to protect me, because he had experienced hunger as a child during the Second World War and he equated being an artist with starvation. He had told me many stories about the struggles during his childhood: how he and his family had to live on bread and water, or milk for months on end, and how he wore the same pair of shoes until they were beyond repair.

My father’s words influenced my behavior by restricting me to writing only in my journal and for school. The anger that resulted from his lack of support didn’t surface until my early twenties when I began to understand how important it is for parents to encourage their children to fulfil their potential, rather than expecting them to fulfil their own unrealized dreams.

Even though my father wanted me to do well at school, he didn’t understand that writing and homework weren’t mutually exclusive. He was a traditional and practical man. He thought that I would get a well paid job after completing my degree, marry a professional man of some sort, have a few children while living somewhere in the suburbs of Melbourne. However, these are not my dreams. I am grateful to my teachers who encouraged me to write and even read some of my creative writing pieces in class, even though this was excruciatingly embarrassing for me.

All of these experiences left me with many conflicting messages about being a writer: fear of starvation, praise, lack of emotional support, attention and embarrassment. Consequently, I didn’t learn to enjoy writing during my formative years as it was something that represented struggle for me.

This inner conflict ended when I attended the Darebin Writer’s Festival (Melbourne, Australia) in 2004. On that day I could see myself in the writers presenting their work. I could relate to the look of exhilaration on their faces – they seemed fulfilled. This rendered my father’s thoughts on writing and even my own thoughts about where this desire originated, irrelevant. After many years of trying to find fulfillment in other areas I realized that I am, and always have been, a writer.

This article is a slightly modified repost from my Self Help Articles page.

P.S. It is now two decades since I wrote the article above – I have learned so much more about my heritage during this time that I will now add to this post. My ancestors (i.e. the Hellenes/Pelasgians) were the first writers on planet Earth (learn more here). It was the women who were responsible for the Written Word (learn more here). I find it interesting that both of my grandmothers were not taught to read and write because it was not considered necessary for them to know these things. After thousands of years of oppression and destruction by invaders from a male-dominated Tribe, the knowledge was taken from Hellenic women, inverted, and used against humanity. However, something happened around the time of the Second World War – when both of my parents were born – which indicated that the tide was about to turn so that all that had been taken from my bloodlines would be returned to them. And with this return, Universal Knowledge would be handed back to humanity.

My mother only has a primary/elementary school level of education which is enough for her to be able to demonstrate her talent as a poet. I have a degree which only partially helped with my writing skills – the real gift of my education was that it allowed me to unpack what was in the original Hellenic Bible (i.e. law, genetics, biology, psychology). My niece is a very talented artist in many fields. Our artistic abilities are inherited but they were dormant for several generations due to trauma – not lost, only buried until the time was right for them to be unearthed again, or more accurately, RESURRECTED. Nature will always find a way to not only create balance, but to maintain the existence of all that is Holy unto the ages of ages.

Here is an example of my mother’s skill as a poet – she wrote this poem on my behalf last year as an expression of the way that I feel about my ancestral homeland. I published it here. If you cannot read Greek, there are many ways for you to translate it online.

Ελλάδα Όνομα Γλυκό 

Εγώ γεννήθηκα στα ξένα

απó Έλληνες γονείς

μα εγώ όμως το νιώθω

έχω γεννηθεί εκεί

 

Την Ελλάδα την λατρεύω

την Ελλάδα αγαπώ

και ελπίζω κάποια μέρα

εκεί θα εγκατασταθώ

 

Η Ελλάδα έχει πλούτη

και πολύ πολιτισμό

είναι πρώτη στον πλανήτη

και γι’αυτό την αγαπώ

 

Έδωσε το φως στον κόσμο

γενικά σε όλη τη γη

για αιώνες όμως κάποιoι

χρόνια της πατούν τη γη

 

Έκλεψαν και σκότωσαν

δικά τους να τα κάνουν

η ώρα τους πλησίασε

ανέμοι να τα πάρουν  

 

Η Ελλάδα είναι μία

μία και μοναδική

γέννησε σοφούς προφήτες

δύση και ανατολή 

 

Όλοι οι λαοί το ξέρουν

το γνωρίζουνε καλά

όσο και αν την τυραννούν

η Ελλάδα δεν λυγά

 

Η Ελλάδα είναι μία

μία και μοναδική

και στον ύψο της μία μέρα

η Ελλάδα θα σταθεί 

 

Έχει τον Θεό κοντά της

δεν φοβάται τα θηριá

η Ελλάδα μας σε λίγο

θα απελευθερωθεί ξανά

© Αφροδίτη Koυτρουμáνου-Παπαδοπούλου 2023