In the beginning, there was a girl who had big dreams of being a poor, impoverished writer. Along the way, she got dragged down by life and expectations for what to do with it. Get a decent job, be responsible were drilled into her head by her parents, who simply wanted the best for her. What kind of life would a writer have, they said. Only a few writers in a field of thousands would ever be able to make enough to live decently.
After being encouraged to move out on her own, she tackled learning how to be a responsible and upstanding citizen. Yes, she thought as she struggled with the menial tasks of maintaining a house (poorly) and paying trivial bills such as rent, being an adult was overrated. Part of her longed to be that girl with dreams of being a wordsmith.
But there was also joy in her life, meeting her wonderful husband and purchasing a small house to live in. One job was replaced by a better one, with better people. Her hobbies such as WoW, Sims, and cats brought happiness as well.
Still, there was a lingering thought that made her think that she was neglecting something vital to herself. Her creative outlet. Her connection to life, vitality and a soul nourishing element to her well-being. She knew she had to write like a bird needed to fly. Maybe she couldn't get much writing done in a day, but she knew she had to do something or stagnate like still water.
I'm not a blowhard, really, I just thought I would try a different writing style and try to make my bio more of a story than a series of cold, hard facts. I am that little girl who grew up into adulthood. I still have a touch of the sense of wonder that inhabited my childhood, of the secret darkness of night.
That wonder is hard to keep hold of, it is slippery and elusive, threatening to slither through my fingers. But I am managing.
Anyway, thank you for reading! Leave a comment!
