I’ve wanted to be a writer my whole life.
Sure, I’ve had other career plans; cowboy, pharmacist, archer, etc. but I’ve wanted to write consistently the entire time. I even wanted to major in journalism when I started college. (Goodness, that feels forever ago now.)
This online thing is nice, but nothing beats pen and paper in my book. Pretty pens and nice stationery get me all excited. I guess the words have more meaning if I write them down. A kind of old magic, I think. Saying things aloud gives words power but writing them down gives them more strength.
I have had lots of journals over the years. Hardcover, softcover, hell even loose leaf. My early writing was mostly random daily thoughts and some poems. I entered one of them in a contest when I was in middle school, I think. It came in second place if I remember correctly.
I’ve tried to keep up with all of them over the years, but Life has a funny way of getting in the way from time to time. For example, there was a blue binder I used to have that was full of my writing from my high school days. There was also a draft of a play I was working on. (Now that I remember it, my idea would have worked better as a novel.) I left it at my mother’s place when I moved out amongst other things. That house has since been destroyed by fire and things that I once thought were invaluable are lost forever.
Time passed and I kept writing. Fanfiction was a way I could work on my craft and get out some of my fangirly feelings. I wrote X-Men and Bleach stories for years. I even wrote a few erotic stories. (Those feelings needed to get out too, you know.) They’re still online if you want to be bothered to read them, but I don’t think I’ll go back and finish. My heart just isn’t in it anymore. Marvel is trash and Bleach is finished, show’s over.
I have a nasty habit of collecting pretty journals. If one catches my eye, I’m hard pressed to not purchase it. I have lots of them just sitting on shelves in my space. Totally empty. Untouched since I bought them. It bothers me from time to time. I used to have so many stories to tell; so many words that I needed to get out before they escaped me permanently. Now, I’m lucky if I manage to get a hundred words put together every day. Being surrounded by all these empty pages is kind of like being reminded of my shortcomings. I bought these things with ideas in mind for them; ideas that have faded into the ether of my memories. I have mental illness to thank for that, but I’ve been using that as an excuse for too long.
My goal for myself is to stop being passive with my writing; to stop being lazy and letting my ideas fade away. It doesn’t matter anymore about how poorly organized they are or how depressing they might be. It doesn’t even matter if they never form into a real story. I have to keep flexing my creative muscle or it will die. Its come close a few times already. Losing my ability to use words is something I couldn’t live with.
I’m putting all this into the universe. Stepping out on Faith, as the church ladies say. Writing it down and giving the words the power again. I’m finally ready to do the work. I’m ready to watch doors open in front of me. I’m ready to move forward.
