Writing

Once upon a time, back in my immature, self-loving, self-loathing days, I fancied myself a writer. As embarassing as it is to admit, I piled up pages and pages of over-the-top poetry and dreamed of the day that I would see the melodrama of my teen years in print.

Some perspective, as well as some major distraction in the form of marriage and children, caused me to shelve my writing aspirations. Aside from an outrageous number of college term papers, I haven't written anything in over ten years.

This blog, some reflections on my recent life, as well as the comments of a few friends, have all combined to compel to explore this writing idea again. I love books; I love words. Could there be a book in me? Frankly, it sounds preposterous, but I'm going to humor myself for just a bit here and see what comes.

Three times this last week I've sat myself down to write and each time I was surprised by where the exercise led me. Small thoughts and faint memories have opened up vast storehouses of observations and emotions that I was unaware I possessed. I let myself be honest and raw and it felt wonderful. If no book ever comes out of my efforts, I will have at least experienced some healing in the nooks and crannies of my heart.