I have always loved stories. Before I learned to read I would tell myself stories by the pictures in the books. I have always felt a desire to write stories, to write period, in my teenage years when you feel no one understands you, I would write letters to my parents in hope I could express what I was really feeling but couldn’t manage to get out of my mouth. It has always seemed to me easier to speak my mind on paper, to really feel like I could say what I wanted, what I needed to say. But it wasn’t until I was grown with kids of my own did I work up enough courage to try and work on something bigger. I still don’t know what it had been that held me up for so long; lack of confidence, schooling or maybe my hideous spelling, but it was while reading a book, a book I didn’t even like, that I realized I could do better than them. I could write a story much better than this and if this person, who had written a whole series that sucked could get published, why couldn’t I? And just like that I knew what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.
I love to write for many reasons, but the reason it has had such a positive effect is because like reading itself, it was an escape hatch to life. Like one of those black holes cartoon characters would throw up on a wall to escape his nemesis, and I can take it with me anywhere. I can make a world of my choosing, shape it ,form it, make it my own, just like when I was a child staring at those picture books. I can be whoever I want to be, say whatever I want to say, feel how I want to feel and I have to make no apologies for any of it. It makes me feel almost powerful, in control of things that in real life I am have no control. I can also use it to release all those thoughts and feelings and frustrations that are always floating around in my head begging to be set free, but become lost between my brain and my mouth. It is, in short, a cheep kind of therapy, a way to let go and be free and sometimes I think it is the closest I will ever get to truly being so.