It Is Who I Am

Just so we are clear, I am writing. I am always writing. I am writing even when I am not writing. Writing is my life. I live, breath, and bleed to write. When I dream, I am conjuring new thoughts, new ideas. When I wake, I am contemplating stories, plots, and deciding to make it real.

When I was young, I decided writing is what I was made to do. It wasn’t a hard decision. It was a decision that came naturally.

I long to sit at any writing device and bleed the words plaguing me. My demons scream to be released through an outlet, but preferably words flowing through these fingertips.

When I was thirteen, I sat and started writing a novel about a young girl chasing a boy who said he would never leave her, who would always love her. This novel was always with me. I wrote in between classes, during classes, and at night when I was supposed to be asleep. I still have those notebooks.

I have all my notebooks. Hundreds of them filled with words, with random thoughts. I sometimes read the past to see how I have grown as a writer. I have watched my skill blossom and I have often watched it die.

There have been brief and often prolonged periods in my life where writing was lost. I gave up. I gave in. Somehow, writing seeps back into the motivational part of my brain and screams for me to write. Often, reluctantly, I sat and wrote whatever nonsense I could. Some of it is gold, some of it is trash, but it was always a treasure.

I had a dream many years ago. It was a brief idea turning into a great process. I pitched my idea to a few friends. I later pitched it to a website. After 8 long weeks of waiting and knowing my idea was garbage, it was accepted. I was beyond thrilled.

However, my dream turned into a waking nightmare. I wrote the first chapter. I paused. My dream started turning into a weird reality. News articles mocked my dream. Small portions of life became history and writing this idea became something I was sure I would never accomplish. How could I write about what was taking place in reality and turn it into some fictional nightmare?

I couldn’t, so I quit.

I thought about it every day. I was asked about my progress by friends who were excited to know. I longed to keep it going, but writing this possible dystopia was not something I could do.

Months passed. Every once in a while, I would log into the website eager to host my dream, and I would update when the next chapter would be posted. I prolonged it as long as possible – wanted to delete all accounts associated with this untouchable task.

This was just another piece of my life unfinished.

A long night at work sparked a thought about how I would proceed with the next chapter. I fought the urge. I didn’t want to write the next chapter. I was going to trash my idea. It was garbage. But this nagging thought kept at me. I assumed I would forget the opening line as the night drug along and I went home to sleep. I would forget and the idea would turn to ash.

It stayed and grew into a raging fire. I typed 1400 words until the idea became embers – waiting for a new breath to bring it to life.

I am a writer.

This simple dream is meant to become something I will finish. It is liked and accepted because it is possible gold.

There are times when I write for myself, and there are times when I write for others. This new novel is a little of both. Despite what is going on in the world, this novel must be written. My inner demons would have it no other way.

If you want to know more, please check me out on

Happy reading and thank you for following me.

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