I've recently been thinking about what I should do with my life. I've always considered myself a writer although I've gone weeks without writing and been okay. I don't want to do that anymore. I have stories in my head and I need to stop being selfish and share them.
Every great writer suffered. Stephen King had a drug/alcohol problem. Sylvia Plath was mentally ill. Mary Shelley fought tooth and nail to have her books published. The only thing I have in common with these great writers is the desire to write. When I put a pen to a piece of paper or my fingers to a keyboard the world makes sense. Call it a back/white thing but my life and thoughts are clear here. I can spit everything out and rearrange it until it makes sense. But I'm not going to explain my writing process or routine because I don't have one. I'm like a little kid saying I want to be a ballerina and not doing anything to make that work. I don't do shit towards my dream. Writing a novel isn't something that falls out of the sky. Like any great relationship it has to be constantly tended.
Many people I know are doing great things with their lives, or plan to accomplish great things. I don't necessarily feel that way. I'm a very proud person and I aspire to do great things, but I'm going to put my fingers where my mouth is. I've decided to do something towards making my dream a reality. A small step on the road to discovering who I am and who I can become; I'm going to spend the next 100 days posting on this blog. Now I know a lot of the people who followed my blog were just high school classmates that were supposed to, but I don't care. I don't care if what I says offends someone, I'm going to do this for me. Gone is the polite girl who hesitates about saying what she feels. Gone is the person who is afraid of a shadow of reality. For the next 100 days I'm going to bear my soul to the Internet and find out if I'm really cut out to be an author. Wish me luck!
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