I’ve wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember. An amazing teacher in third grade helped me tap into my ability and my love of the written word. I already sought solace in reading. By the time I started third grade I had already attended 7 different schools. 7. I’ve never quite forgiven my parents for the trauma all that moving caused me. They deny it, but honestly they aren’t me and so they can’t even imagine what I felt. I was traumatized. I didn’t know how to make friends, at least not for long term, because as soon as it seemed like I was adapting and making friends, we were gone again. So, reading was the place I could go, find adventures and make friends that couldn’t leave me. Third grade brought many, many writing assignments and so something I remembered dreading before that, suddenly became a new escape. In my stories anything was possible. I could be anyone I wanted and go wherever I wanted. Oh, the worlds I could create.
My writing continued to develop and I improved. I entered contests, winning awards, attending writer’s conferences, sucking in all the information I could to be better. I dreamed of becoming famous and writing a Bestselling Novel. I definitely improved over the years, but then I began to be self-concious of my writing and shared it less & less. Of course, it doesn’t help that when I would share my writing would be torn apart without being constructive. Warning: Don’t say anything that isn’t constructive criticism to a writer. If you can’t do that, you have no business judging someone’s work.
I’m still dreaming of being a famous writer. I’ve become more cautious with my writing. If you are lucky enough to be given the chance to read my works of fiction, you’d be numbered among a small few that I’m willing to share with. I still love to write. I’ve been suffering from Writer’s Block, maybe this blog will help me find my way around.
If you’re here reading this, you are numbered with those I trust with my writing and my secrets. Be kind.
A Writer is born.