Once upon a time I played with the idea of being a journalist.
I did dream of writing, one day.
Imagined myself in places filled with fear and violence. Giving light and life to those that needed it and those that didn't know.
I suppose this fascination of sadness and misery manifesting itself in true, easy, form has always been an excuse to hide my non-formulary demons.
Or perhaps a way for them to grasp onto something to be created and seen when it otherwise lives inside of me without a say.
This is a secret I keep with me, even from myself.
That I would like to try my hand at being a writer.
A writer.
In a sense, I've always been one.
Since I was 7 years old I've left myself notes, pages and pages of inner monologue written out for me to look over again one day. Or maybe not. Just to get out.
I've always had trouble expressing myself in voice, but when pen comes to paper.
Easy.
Done.
There's always a way.
But I never thought of the fact that maybe, perhaps it might help. As books once did with me.
I grew up in stories. I grew up loving characters I never laid eyes on other than inside of the eyes in my head.
Imagined scenarios where I would be taken and held.
Now I have been taken and held but I put myself outside of a book I would have loved to live inside of.
How to start.
