I've always had a love of writing. I knew this as a four year old when my parents handed me a pile of paper and a variety of coloured crayons with which to write my stories and draw my illustrations. That's right, I said stories, for there were many. What did I write about? The usual nonsense – princesses, witches, oh and pigs. Giant pigs. I filled the pages with pictures of this giant pig army and surprisingly of armless girls with flowing blonde hair and enormous blue eyes. Girls I looked nothing like and that looked like none of the girls I had known. As is often the case with all great prodigious talents, these works received great critical acclaim (from my Mum and Dad) but remained unpublished having never been picked up by the big book houses. Could it be that the world was not yet ready for giant pigs and disadvantaged chicks? I suppose it's a good thing though, going mainstream would have totally ruined the raw depth of the characters and the anguish that the poor armless girl would have surely faced.
Throughout my adolescence I spent hours at my computer completely enamoured with the worlds I had created in my mind and I was so wholly consumed by every keystroke on my keyboard because every word typed, fed my story and made my characters big and strong. It was a time of complete devotion. It was a time of dreams.
While I never let go of the passion (I cringe as I write this word because it is so acutely over used) I held, it slowly became secondary to my studies, my job hunting and then, my work. In other words, growing up got in the way.
Never along my path have I lacked encouragement. My parents always nurtured my ideas and thoughts and promoted the outpouring of my adolescent musings through writing. My now husband also urged me to pursue the path that I felt drawn to follow. Through great love he has been patient, he has been sturdy, he has been unrelenting in his support. He gave me a deadline two years ago. He gave me a deadline two years ago and he has been kind enough to extend it. I have been a slow learner, fearful of all that might stand in my way, but I am finally starting to get the message. Time as always, is of the essence.
I recently read the book “Bossypants” by one of my idols Tina Fey. If you haven't read it, I urge you to do so. Mid way through it I was overcome with feelings of regret, remorse and envy. Tina Fey was only 27 years old when she started writing for Saturday Night Live. It hit home. I had to get a move on. No more lamenting over words full of promise that fizzled into nothingness becoming part of the ground that I now walk on. No more procrastinating. No more talk of desires. From now on, I would only have time for actions and attempts. Because trying and doing is all that matters in the end. What comes of it all is not for me to worry about; by trying and doing I will have done my part.
A short while ago, I told my Mum that 2014 was going to be the year that I tried to make something come of my writing. It would be the year that I would strive and push because I wanted to show that I had something to offer. I told her that I wanted to leave something of myself behind for the future. An idea, a thought, a question. Something that was me.
I have started the year with renewed purpose. My husband set this blog up for me because he is a star and because I was incapable of doing so on my own. He made me promise that I would write every day. I'm going to try. And with your help, I might have someone to write to.