I haven’t told anyone, and I mean ANYONE (unless you count my dogs), but I’ve actually been writing lately. Its all just random stories, whatever happened to come to mind at the time. But even so, it feels good. I never thought I could really write. I mean, I’ve written countless paper in my lifetime, but that’s not the same thing. For years, I’ve the loved the idea of writing. And I hoped every time I finished a great book that I could someday do that. And for years, I didn’t feel I had anything worth while to write about.
Then, one night, after a particularly awful day, I was just sitting in the middle of my living room floor (in the middle of the night, mind you), bawling my eyes out. It was one of the times when I just felt alone. I knew I wasn’t, of course, but it was how I felt. When I felt I had exhausted every ounce of moisture in my body, I turned my head and saw my laptop top (affectionately named Lappy Gilmore) lying on the floor. And i just turned on it on and started typing. And, like magic, words started pouring out of me, something that’s never happened before. It wasn’t a masterpiece or anything, far from it actually, but I was writing. And I’ve been writing since.
I don’t write every day, more often than not I’m too tired. But have kept doing it. It’s hard to put into words how it feels. Liberating, definitely. But so much more. It’s like I’ve tapped in to a truer version of myself. I know I have a story, MY story deep, down in me somewhere. Now, I’m just waiting for the day that it decides to start coming out.