I always wanted to be a writer.
I’ve spent most of my life writing – diaries, short stories, poems, letters. Before I had the words to write stories, I would draw them out (just ask my parents – I’m sure they spent a small fortune on notebooks and pencils for me). I just love it. I love words. In spite of spending hours and hours writing, I never considered myself a writer.
Now I do.
Since my first steps back in September, I’ve pitter-pattered down the path to where I am today. To being a writer. To finally being me. A year ago, I couldn’t see it but now it’s all I see. Words.
I remember being a teenager – maybe even a pre-teen – and telling Dad I was going to write a book. He recommended I go all J.K. Rowling and become a household name. I swore I was going to, but that conviction walked out around the same time my belief that I was going to marry Brad Pitt left. A hundred times, I’ve sat down and typed out pages but I’ve fizzled out, losing interest or direction. Years passed, and I didn’t care if I wrote again. After churning out academic papers in university, I lost my love for writing. It had become a chore.
When I started writing again, the fire that I used to feel was reignited. The urge to write a book came back, and while I often joke that I can’t write it as long as Mom and Dad can still read, the truth is that it’s coming. In fact, it started 24 years ago when a then 18-year-old woman kissed me goodbye.
I don’t know how long it will take, but you can safely hold your breath. It’s coming.