26 April 2006
Full. I am full to overflowing. Full of words, stories, thoughts that need to make their way to paper. Ideas take shape and begin to develop. Thoughts roll around in my mind until I can no longer contain them. I need to write.
From a young age, I wrote poetry. Sometimes rhyming verse, sometimes free form. Sometimes humorous, but often dark. Then time rolled on. Perfectionism took hold. The desire to write was pushed back to somewhere deep inside. But it has always been in me. Waiting.
Through my scrapbooks, the words have begun bubbling up again. I scrapbook primarily because I love to write. With a scrapbook, I have a reason to write. A subject to write about. An opportunity to weave meaning into my work. Through scrapbooking, I’ve mustered the courage to write more and more freely, expressing things that have long gone unheard. And the more I do it, the more compelled I am to continue.
Two separate conversations with editors have given me confidence. The first editor hugged me close and whispered, “You need to write.” The second editor, when I suggested that I’m not a real writer, asked me how writing feels. I told her that the more I write, the more I want to write. “Oh,” she smiled. “Most people find writing challenging and frustrating. If this is how you feel, you’re a real writer.”
So here we go. I have no idea where this may take me or what words may come forth. But I know that they are inside me, waiting for me to shape them into something of meaning.