Sometimes I ask myself what exactly made me want to be a writer. If I'd been a confident little girl who made friends more easily would I have not needed to read and write to escape the real world. If I wasn't so sensitive to the reality that is present in our world, would I not need to escape then? What put me on this path? My mother encouraging my love of reading? The imaginary friends I basically put on paper to make their presence feel more acceptable? When did my soul decide that there were too many random and intricate thoughts in my head to stay in there?
I don't try and show off on this blog, I guess because this is merely my easy and convenient way of talking to nobody, I merely write as I'm thinking and have little to no editing process. My book has come along so slowly, there are others I've written that have flown out, but my one treasure of a story line is still trudging along, I think because I'm afraid to mess it up. Its got so much of me in it, I'm almost scared to finish and let it go.
I swore to myself I'd rise above the life I was born into, keeping it short-that's really not going to take much, but its still pushing me, I want a better life and I want acknowledgement. Some therapist one day might say I was driven by the formation of my family, always fighting to be heard above the towering pillars of my brothers, always wanting to be noticed, to be wanted. Well whatever, but I admit I desperately want some sort of recognition, some proof that I'm worth while in someone's eyes.
How does anyone ever know that they're on the right path? Is it engraved in our skin what we're meant to do, and who we're supposed to be? I wish it were in stark black ink so I could read it. Sometimes when I get a block and can't progress my book I wonder if I'm kidding myself, if I'll ever get this book in someone else's hands, I have to kick myself hard and drink some tea and remind myself of my promise. Because if I don't have that, I have nothing. It's not just a hobby, it's my way of life.