I’m just a regular girl whose big brother gave her a diary when she was 9. A girl who fell in love with English classes and reading; a girl who took Journalism and Creative Writing in high school. The words she wrote would mesh together on the paper – always handwritten or pounded out on a manual typewriter. Those words told stories, sang songs, rhymed or jumped; they took on a life on their own.
Behind those words there was a girl.
That girl was me.
I got through the boredom and anxiety of college courses not related to writing and brightened at the thought of the next class when I’d be able to create. Poems, stories,, articles, descriptions, scripts… they all fell from my brain, traveled through my fingers and those appendages tapped them out on little keys connected to a computer… like magic they appeared on the screen.
|Oh how I've changed over the years.|
|My oldest was just a lil tyke when I was in college.|
Lately there are times when that experience seems to wash away from my mind. When I sit holding my laptop and I stare at the white space wondering if all the words jumbled in my head will swirl around enough then finally decide to land in a form that I recognize. Something I can put to paper… uh, screen. There are periods of time like this, right? Where as a writer you wonder if you’ll ever be able to write again because of some blockage or fog that has kept you from finishing a thought.
|Around the time I began blogging more. (2007)|
I’m freaking out because I’m trying to get back to work – trying to make money by doing the thing that I love most… writing. At least I’m writing, I guess. Now if I could just get past the writing to creating and finally be the paid writer I want to be; was born to be. Like that little girl who received a gift of a diary for her 9th birthday.