I started writing because I could. I loved story and story begged to be set free. Between my thin fingers a pen is usually found, clutched, held tight. Ink splatters my fingers, eternal rainbow of blue, black and green. The feel of ink on paper, of keys pressed, the excitement of random letters formed into cognition. Ahhh, there is nothing like it.
I fell away, as so many of us do. From writing, not from story. Other dreams, delusions if you will, took precedence and writing fell away. I devoured books, as usual, and characters crept into my dreams. Then a light shone and again I took up my pen to craft story, to craft life.
There are days when I feel I could rule the lands I write about. Then (most days) I feel like a bottom dweller, The Nothing. Writing pulls me out, saves me. I am free to be myself, no matter what the world tells me. No matter how I'm seen on the outside, through writing my truth is set free.
We're surrounded by normal, in our jobs, our families, at the grocery store. It inundates us. I hear a lot, "What a weird person" regarding someone who calls the office or comes in. Sure, they are eccentric or loud, annoying or strange. They aren't normal. But neither am I. I am not pressed khakis and collared shirts. I am not stare blindly, eye balls pulsing, fluorescent light tanned or, rather, not. Funny how when you're quiet people label you as normal. You open your mouth and people say, inevitably, "You watch baseball?" Like a girl isn't allowed. "Are you sure you can carry that?" It's a box of postcards, barely 5 pounds. I think I can manage. What would these people think to read what I write? Of dragons and sunken cities, of quickened bones and wandering souls. Of dark and light and the necessity of both (and the sometimes confusion between the two).
It is in writing we are free. Sometimes it's our only breath in a day filled with floating, face down, in a pool of "now" and "when" and "hurry". Breathe deep the words that flow from your pen. Let go and scribble unhindered. You are you and no one else can do what it is you are here to do. Find yourself through your words. Let ink become your blood, flowing through your veins as words become your meat and marrow. We have a job to do and once found, we can not, will not, shall not be held back.
Got a moment? Wander over the The Manor for a delightful romp through the woods :)