version 2.0 (the original just didn’t cut it anymore)
I started writing when I was 7. Writing and designing fashion. Somewhere along the way, I dropped the design bit and continued penning my thoughts. I thought I’d be the next Tolkien or Blyton or Christie, I truly did. But writing for others is very different from writing for oneself from the heart. It was stifling and frustrating, to say the least, but as a single mother, it was what fed us.
The problem with being commissioned to develop pieces for other people, in their voices, for over 15 years, is that it led to my losing mine. I could no longer write. I simply could not hold onto a single genuine thought. Everything I produced was, well, fluffy. Not me, not my thoughts, not my voice. I abandoned all pretense in attempting to write and moved on. I was convinced it was simply not meant to be.
A little while back
few weeks ago (13th September 2014, to be precise), a startling realisation came out of nowhere – I had to write again. I simply had to, in order to feel that I had (finally) accomplished something worthwhile. That I myself was worth something. I can’t explain it.
I started blogging again. I joined a community of like-minded journal-keepers and inserted myself into a roomful of writers. I made time for reading (hello there, old friends) and started playing catch-up with news-related websites. I wrote.
I have never been happier.
I have never felt more alive.
And I have never ever felt more inspired to write.