…Yeah – I do. I did, when I was 14, when I was 15. I wrote stories – fiction – about the amazing person I would be when I grew up. I filled spiral notebooks with my fantasies of being a police detective (like Starsky and Hutch) or a Secret Service Agent (think Wild, Wild West). I used both sides of the paper, wrote in pen, and poured out my ideas, my thoughts, my aspirations, my perfect mate, and my brand of justice on those pages.
I’ve written things since then – I’ve penned a family newsletter when my children were small, I’ve written poetry when my heart was breaking or my soul was in darkness, I’ve submitted thoughtful articles to recovery newsletters and I’ve sent the occasional insightful email to a friend.
It is difficult to find time to write – to really dig deep and pull up the authentic from one’s depths. I’ve been an avid reader all my life and when I think about what I want to write today, reality comes to mind. My life, the experiences I’ve had and grown from, and my ideas for the future, my future. I lived a life of fiction and writing about it is not as appealing as it once was.
I recently discovered some stories my mother had written – drafts, all – and they are good. Interesting, anyway.
I recall listening to Stephen King’s audiobook – On Writing – and his advice: “If you want to write, then write. Everyday, all the time, whenever you can. Don’t talk about it or dream about it. If you want to write, do it.” (I paraphrase, of course).
I want to write. And this is the beginning. Of me, writing. Prepare to be amazed.