It’s no coincidence that I seek an escape from writing. The way that my hand freely pours my thoughts onto paper. As a young girl, while the kids were out playing in the streets, I was busy creating my own short stories, poems, and over ten journals about my daily life. I remember having my friends engage in my journal entries. We wrote stories to each other. One of my old friends and I had an idea to write letters to each other in one journal as we were separated from school at one point. It was our therapy.
English was my favorite subject, often I wrote too much when writing essays. Teachers trusted me enough to tutor those who struggled in that area as well as grade their papers. I read for fun, I used to be picked on or joked about how I sound “white”. I never understood what sounding white meant, but that never stopped me from what I love. I continued to teach myself many things.
In theater, before you perform you are told to “Tell the story”. Once you’re on that stage, you’re now the character that you play. It’s a different world on that stage, you are bringing that story to life.
I realized that this is not a hobby, but a gift. For years I have thought of an idea, but it never quite worked out until now. I have been writing a story for weeks now, my story. Some of the personal things that I write on this blog need to be written in my journal, except they will be elaborated. I cannot say much nor share what I write until it’s complete. I now have material, a few stories that I must share with a step at a time. I am currently writing one of them. I’m no Hemingway or Coelho, but if I can continue to inspire and motivate more people, then I know my job is either complete or the beginning to many opportunities.
Sorry in advance as I will try my best to keep up with this blog as well.
Photo credit : Dylan Furst Photography