I have been a writer my whole life.
I know, that sounds like something you say. “Oh! of course, I’ve allllllways been a writer. Comes naturally!” ((Note: I totally said this in one of those put on wannabe British accents in my head))
Really though, I have been a writer my whole life.
When I was young, I would make up stories about my stuffed animals or the posters on my sister’s wall.
As part of a project at school when I was maybe 8 or 9, my Dad took me to a couple of cemeteries and I wrote stories about what happened to some of the people there based solely on their headstone or plaque. I enjoyed it so much, it became one of our things.
In school, I always loved the assignments that included essays or get creative in them.
On my own, I filled books with my daily journals. Another book was for my random pieces of stories, a lot of them based on dreams I’d had. Yet another was for my poetry.
I’m fairly certain that poetry itself saved my life.
I was not a happy teenager. I laughed a lot and I loved to have fun but I was not happy. Not even slightly. I was ashamed of my own coping methods. I was afraid of being abandoned by my friends (a common theme in my chosen group of friends). I was not a good student so I was constantly stressed that I was letting my parents and their notion that I was a smart kid down. I was not a happy teenager.
So I wrote. I wrote all the time. In classes, on the bus, at the dinner table, in bed. All the time.
It was my way out. Writing has always helped me organize my thoughts. It’s why I loved the notion of blogs. (I started my first at 15 on Diaryland). You get to organize your thoughts and let out whatever you want to and HEY! you may connect with someone else too.
So when I say I have been a writer my whole life, it is sincere.
I used to dream about writing books or being paid to actual share my poetry.
For a good decade I was actively working on a book about my dating experiences.
I am good with words. Sometimes, I feel that I am better in writing. I mean, seriously, if you’ve had a conversation with me you’d totally get that.
I’m not caught up in the dream anymore and I’ve recently been thinking about pulling out the old binders and the slew of spiral notebooks and just reading them again. Seeing what’s there.
I feel like it could be an adventure. There are things I’ve written that I read back and can’t place in a time line at all. Things I read and I go, hold up, who wrote that?
I’m sure the adventure of going through my writing means I’ll be sharing because I never did have a problem with sharing it.
I have always been a writer so why not write and come by it honestly.