Unfortunately, in my opinion, I am a writer. I was born with thoughts in my head that wanted to be written on paper. I set to work as a young girl, creating an office from upturned plastic tubs, giving myself deadlines, bringing my copies to anyone who would read them. I wrote about dogs, and birthdays, and the animals I met on the farm. What is there to write when you have yet to live a life?
As I grew older, the thoughts, wanting to be written, remained. But a pen would not fit in my hand, the cursor would not stop blinking, the sight of a notebook turned my stomach. I could not, would not write. Yes, I wrote for school, and always received good feedback. But that feedback never felt right.
I don’t write for feedback. I don’t know what I write for. Yes, I write for feedback. Of course, I want to affect with my words. But there are so many sometimes, and then there are none. How do I capture, organize, remember?
Unfortunately, I will always have to write and there will always be a storm in my mind. I am learning to capture the inspiration, to reign in the winds of words, and put something down, finally, after so much time of blank paper.