For a while writing was my little secret. It was the one thing I had to myself that I didn’t have to be judged for. I could write a long story or a poem that meant nothing to anyone else who read it. My writing wasn’t meant for anyone else but myself.
Now that I’m publishing my work I fell so much better about what I do. I don’t think I ever realized I wanted to share my stories with the world until I actually published my first book. Back when I graduated high school, one of the first things I tired to do was write a story. The story line itself was interesting, but I had no sense of what I was doing. I plotted it well and I can thank my former teachers for the hundred billion out-lining lessons for that. My characters were interesting, but flat. I didn’t know how to organically write chemistry. So I stopped. It wasn’t until a failed attempt at a semester of college and another summer that I started writing again. This time I had confidence and for some odd reason I knew what I was doing. I don’t know how or why, but I managed to write a book.
To this day I think about what I would be doing if I hadn’t started writing again. Maybe I wouldn’t even be here. Someone once told me they wanted to be an artist but everyone told them they’d never eat again. I thought about that for a while. Despite the questions about what I’m planning on doing with my future, I come up flat. Because I’m doing exactly what I want to be doing. I like the solitude of writing even if that makes me weird.
I’m not even sure why I’m writing this post today, I just kind of slipped out of my finger tips from my keyboard. Next week I’m going to write a post on my editing/proof reading process since that’s what I’ve been working on.
Until then, lovelies.