Sometimes Writing

The first story I remember having written was a choose-your-own-ending involving Heaven and Hell. That was in the third grade and though my attitudes, thoughts and writing styles have changed, my love of writing has not.

I used to long to be a writer. I would be praised for my skill and would win awards in every imaginable genre - except, of course, for romance.

As I collided head-on with puberty, my self-confidence plummeted and I came to realise that my dream was nothing more than that: a dream. I did not write for several years and only spontaneously wrote a story early one morning in an attempt to beautify my sadness, to turn it into something meaningful. That story, the Goddess Called Rain (Cranberry Winters, issue 4), so accurately conveyed my emotions that even now my heart aches to read it.

Over the last few years, I have written spuriously. Some of those stories have made me cringe, but the majority have made me aware that I do possess some degree of talent.

I write now for different reasons than I would have suspected seven or eight years ago. I write while clearing paths through the uncharted worlds in my mind. I write because I have been angered by an injustice, or because I need to unburden myself of some of the depression that frequently overwhelms me. I write because a silly image pops to mind and I have to create a story to match it.

Above all, I write to heal.


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