It’s funny how words can both inspire and stump you. They can challenge you or comfort you. It’s as if one word, holds the power of all words, and in that power the writer can choose whether they will find strength or weakness.
I was five years old when I began to write, it happened before I had uttered my first words. My parents worried, teachers asked questions. I had become an anomaly, creating doubt in the adults around me. Why wouldn’t I talk? Could I?
“What’s wrong with her?”
I never knew, never found out, hell, I never asked. I grew up hearing stories of the days I sat in my room scribbling the ink out of pen after pen, the floor scattered with crumbled mistakes and eraser shavings. I recall the feeling of utter freedom while locking myself in my room, on a blue and white checkered comforter, leaning against my pink pillows. Knees bent, eyes focused, I distinctly remember loosing myself and forgetting all the senses around me.
Engaged. In a new world entirely, not my own, but someone else’s. Someone I had created with the pen and paper held before me.
Entranced. Under the spell of words and phrases and pages. Pages. What was in my head had to be let out, unleashed onto the unsuspecting world.
Ecstasy. I felt it after each finished piece. To this day I chase the feeling of satisfaction after filling yet another journal, finishing yet another page, closing the book on yet another world I’d created all on my own.
At a certain age it became a choice – my desire to speak had dissolved – anything that needed to be said could be written and I knew:
I was none other than a writer.