Tuesday, June 18, 2013

Musings of a Writer

I’ve been to Paris, I’ve watched the sun rise while walking through a shady, misty forest, and I’ve seen it set again on the same day on a park bench on a wharf. 

I’ve died. I’ve watched others die. Maybe I’ve even killed some of them, but I wouldn’t really remember that, now would I? I’ve fallen down a lot. I’ve lost more than I’ve won, but I got back up every single time. Some of them took longer than others, but I’m still standing, aren’t I? I watched my best friend fall from a roof to his death, had to let a love go, got my heart broken, mended, broken again, and who knows what else. 

I bought a large animal once, just because I liked him. That was a bit of a mistake, but not really. He almost killed me. About fifty times. Then there was this other fierce creature that I picked up on the way back home from work one day. He had bright, fiery orange striped fur and…who are we kidding? It was a tabby kitten. But I’m not fond of animals. Don’t look at me like that. 

I've messed with therapists just to see if they’d recognize their own questions, gone on spontaneous road trips, yelled a lot, cried a lot, wondered why I was doing whatever I was doing a lot, went through high school, college, jobs…not always in that order. Met some bullies (actually, a lot of them), visited an alternate universe, lived in a different world and have thought about jumping off a cliff (more on that later). 

I’ve had the displeasure of dealing with what is known to humans in this world as “superpowers”, brilliant villains, whiny heros, and way too much drama. I’ve been adopted, abandoned, one sibling, two siblings, three…four…was there five at one point? Not sure. I used to live in the place where all green things go to die but then relocated where all green things never ever seem to die. 

I’m a writer. I don’t just write my characters, they invade my head and attempt to take over my thinking process while telling me all about themselves as I try to write their history. 

It gets annoying sometimes, but it’s far worse when they suddenly shut up. That’s never been a good thing. That’s how one of them ended up dying. Off a roof. Yeah, that one. 

It’s a long story.

How does writing impact you? What do you think of it? Why? Write to me.


  1. Writing is my voice when I can't speak, my heartbeats when I'm not strong enough to carry on without em, the blankets to my cold body, and the warmth of the sun in the crevices of my insides. Writing is part of who I am. Which is why I made a writing blog. Which is why I write. And I write to inspire and to impact and to create and to make ugly things beautiful.

    1. Darling, your words are beautiful.


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