And so it begins

Allow me to introduce myself. Ever since I was a single digit munchkin, I always aspired to being a writer. I began writing a mystery novel around the age of 8, maybe even 10, but after the main characters in the story heard the blood curdling cry deep in the woods, I stopped writing the novel. Why? Because my imagination couldn’t stretch far enough to come up with a clever ending as to what the blood curdling scream actually was. Of course I could have made it into a murder story, but my parents may have wondered why their 8 year old daughter was having such morbid thoughts at such a young age. I considered making it a kitten stuck up in a tree, but that just didn’t seem like a suitable ending for all the suspense that had been built up in the story. So, I stopped. The notebook is still in my closet. It brings a smile to my face every time I see it.

After my attempt at writing a novel, I decided to be like Joe from Little Women and write a story about my life. So, I began to journal. I had about three different journals. I had my everyday life journal, my sermon notes journal, and my prayer journal.I still have calluses on my right hand ring finger and pinky finger from where my pen would rest while writing. I figured after filling out all three of those journals, I could come up with SOME sort of appealing story.

(For the record, I must confess, I never have been good at using proper English or knowing where to place commas, but I figure people could look past that… besides, that’s what editors are for right??)

In the end, I never did write a story about my life. My many journals sit dusty in the deep corners of my closet. I don’t like to open them or read them. A lot can happen in 10 years and a lot has happened in 10 years. My journals wouldn’t reveal that though because I stopped writing. I stopped writing altogether shortly after the age of 14 or so. Writing meant having to recap the unfortunate events that occurred in life- my seemingly picture perfect life. I didn’t want to recap. I didn’t want to remember. To my dismay, however, I have discovered that just because you don’t write, doesn’t mean the memories will just go away. They are always there. They always stick.

I should have just kept writing.