Me, a writer?
How can I be a writer?
How can something that feels so good, so right, something I have within my grasp as often as I feel that I do, slip away from me so easily as if my thoughts turn to vapor, nearly never to be realized again. That is, until the thoughts return and fill me with energy, with the desire to get the pen and paper out, reminding me that writing is more than just an option.
So, as a result, I am crossing the bridge. Stepping into things of which I know nothing. Except dreams.
A few days ago, a photograph reminded me of many things that I hold dear to my heart, my fingers went to the keyboard. I posted a comment on (my own) Annie’s Goat Hill Facebook page,
“As a child I always loved the little “getaway” places in my grandmother’s houses. The french doors that opened to a spare bedroom. The back porch where grandmother did all of her canning, circled in windows and light. The upstairs door that led from a bedroom out onto the roof of the front porch of the house. The little alcove at the top of the stairs where the single rocking chair always sat. My dream places. I am still dreaming. This photo reminded me of that.”
I hit return and stared at what I wrote. I realized that it was time to add the first post to this blog. Stop the self-talk. Self-talk, by the way, is one of our own worst enemies. Guess who is the only person capable of stopping it? Me, you, the person who allows it begin with.
As I begin the journey of writing more freely (instead of trying to direct what I have to say towards a business), I plan to continue making soap, operating my business, and growing it (and myself) each and every day. To write means I am fulfilling the only dream that I can think of that I have not yet began to work on in my life.