I’ve been writing for about … well okay I have to back up. In the third grade I had a lovely teacher who assigned us some short story assignments. I have no idea what the assignments were for but I remember that as being my first time of putting on paper my imagination. I LOVED it. I fell in love with it.
For as long as I can remember I was very imaginative. I would put myself to sleep by telling myself stories in my head. As a kid, I would imagine all sorts of adventures. Reading helped to feed that imagination, as did parents who told me I could be anything I wanted to be.
Fast forward 20 some years and I’ve gotten married, had three kids, and countless jobs (none of which made me happy)… At 30 something I begin journalling again and discover (or is it rediscover) my love of writing. I write some pretty bad poems.. and then some not so bad poems… and then I start writing essays… and on it goes.
Now here I am nearly 10 years later thinking why does work have to interfere with my writing? I go to work four days a week. I work to have insurance, benefits, retirement, and a regular paycheck. But my heart, my soul.. the very essence of my being is in telling the story, in sharing information in whatever format and putting it out to be enjoyed (at least I hope it is).
When I’m working I think about writing. When I am sleeping I dream about the stories I’m working on. When I’m eating I think about how the next scene in my story should go a particular way. When I’m supposed to go to sleep for more than four little hours, I am writing… I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop. I want more….
So obsession or passion? Which is this?
Well it doesn’t really matter because no matter what I’ll probably be writing on my death bed … can’t you see it. I’m laying there and my last words will be to ask for a pen and paper….