I started writing when I was a child, earlier than I can now remember. I threw myself into it when I grew too old to play with toys. That was a bitter transition for me. As a teenager I wrote prolifically, my notebooks a constant companion. Then I hit university and it sucked the will out of me, like a slit vein, all the life drained out. Eight years of that drudgery. If I ever go back, I think it would only be to learn more about writing. In making the safe choices, I don’t know if I made the right ones.
I want to write. It’s absence has festered like a wound in my soul. I’ve started again. I try to spend half an hour writing a day. Sometimes it’s a battle, eking out two hundred words. Yet through the struggle it’s always a joy, a reward in itself. There are characters inside of me begging for life.
I don’t know if I can finish the works I started so many years ago. I hate to leave them incomplete. But I’m not the same person I was at fifteen. I’ve tried to pick them back up but it’s so hard: my beliefs, my style, have fundamentally changed. I can barely force myself to cringe through a re-read.
I’m not sure yet what I’ll post on here. I’ve been out of the community so long, I have no idea what the cool kids are doing. But I think that’s a worry for another day. For the moment, I want to focus on the writing itself.
Now to go and do just that.