A fellow writer mentioned to me in passing this afternoon that she was glad to see someone (read: me) truly excited about writing.
Then, I started to realize just how LONG I truly have been enthusiastic about the written word.
We’ve had our ups and downs, writing and me. I do know our relationship has been life-long because I can pull out my very first journal (dated 1996!) and see the threads of our young love. I still have my very first “book” I published (brought it to Office Max or some such place with my mom and paid for the binding myself!) subtly titled “My Broke Finger”. And, yes, it was a “broke” finger not a “broken” one. Poetic license. I did go on to have a few pieces published here and there, Children’s Literary Magazines and my college’s Literary Journal.
Writing carried me through those melodramatic and awkward teen years that I’d rather not remember. And, yet, I can’t forget because I still have all of those journals – just can’t seem to throw them away, a little piece of me was poured onto those lined pages. I still have my first manuscript began in 8th grade and finished when I was a sophomore, a feebly written novel that may see light one of these days. Other people’s writing are a treasure to me, I’ve kept countless letters and cards I’ve received over the years.
And now I find myself blogging, introducing my writing to the 21st century.
Writing nags at me. I love it. I fear it. I dread failing. I desperately anticipate succeeding. I miss my words when we’re apart and am deliriously happy when we’re together. I fear grammatical errors. I fear loosing my creative edge. I have big plans for my pieces. I have no idea where to begin.
So, maybe that’s where you all find me this Wednesday evening. Knowing I have something creatively unique to offer and scouting out ways it will be revealed.