Yeah, I write
Like many writers, I’ve been writing since I was a kid. It’s not my first passion: I prefer to draw. I use to have a sketchbook filled with loose pieces of paper I doodled my princesses on. Yes princesses, yes I was that girl. Fascinated by the puffy dresses--interestingly I never imagined myself in one as a bride—flowing hair and a sparkly bling bling crown. There always was a prince and a white stallion. Except I rode the stallion. The prince just gave me pie-eyed looks. That’s as far as that fantasy went. My mom thought it was funny as hell that I wanted to be a ‘pincess’ but couldn’t wipe my nose. Kirsten Dunst as ‘Marie Antoinette’ is my fave queen. Only because of her style and tendency to escape into daydreams, not because she couldn’t reign to save her life.
But writing is much harder then twirling my pencil on paper creating intricate underskirts. But I still tried. I had visions of a glamorous life as a writer, getting paid disgusting amounts of money, being famous. Ehm…ya I know, with the exception of King and Rowling, it ain’t like that. Most writers get paid peanuts for giving birth to exquisite tales that cost them several months’ maybe years of their life and who knows what size of their soul.
So, I wrote little tales about horses, teenage girl angst and what not, even squeezed out couple of poems. Later in life I wrote the first two chapters of the novel that was going to make me fat cake. I wrote a children’s tale about a boy and the moon, starring my darling three-year old. And that was it.
Years later I began to keep a journal. I know what you’re thinking. What?! You haven’t kept a diary all your life, you writer wanna-be?? No, I did not. I thought it the most boring exercise. Dear diary…am I actually talking to a notepad? Ya, no. But this was different. I got sick. It seems I buried some stuff and it was rattling around in my skull making a mess. It was suggested to me that I write it out. To get at the bottom of it. And I did. But it was horrid stuff. It had no beginning, no Dear Diary, just mental diarrhea of ugly emotions too bloody to share with a human being. I have many thick books of this stuff. I never go back and reread, I think I should probably burn it. You know just in case I get famous and my estate decides to publish it post-mortem. But it worked. And I began to emerge from this a little healthier and little bit more realistic. I went back to school so I could learn how to write. For real. And I began to write stuff and even got published. Some people even liked it.
And so yeah, I write.
