Even as a young girl, I was compelled to write. More than just silly poems and stories, I had also discovered that writing might help me make sense of things. My beloved grandmother died when I was in the second grade, and I demanded that my sweet father drive me into town, to buy me a diary so that I could write it down. When my cat went missing, I created a picture book explaining her disappearance. I rather enjoyed creative writing assignments throughout school, even when they occurred during high school detention. When I found myself in the depths of mononucleosis-induced depression in college, I discovered that writing about misery proved cathartic. I wrote myself out of that rut.
As an introvert, I often felt that most people didn’t understand me. So I wrote about that. I read books and articles on diverse themes, perceiving similarities. I happened upon a Call for Papers, and I realized that I had a story to tell. Every time I thought no one would understand, somebody said, “Me, too.”
I created stories in my mind. I developed characters, imagining that I had fashioned them from lessons learned in my own life’s journey. But my characters visit my dreams, singing their songs. And sometimes, it is I who learn from them.
Writing is gut-wrenching, and healing. I write to reach others so they know they are not alone. And I write for my children, that they may know that this magic exists within them.