I have always loved to write. When I was a kid I would write short stories, usually consisting of a girl (me) embarking on some adventure with an animal or two. By no means were they good, the grammar was appalling, but my imagination was so vivid and expanding, I would create multiple tales.
I can still remember how I would clearly envision the sequence of events to the point where it it felt as though I had lived it. I would get so excited just thinking about my story coming to life that I wouldn’t stop until it was finished.
However, my childhood innocence has since disappeared and real life has been experienced.
While my passion for writing has never died, my willingness to do has. For writing brings things to life and there are some things that I would rather leave dead. I am scared to write certain things for the sole reason that once the words have escaped my mind they are no longer safe. Not only from prying eyes but from myself.
I want to be able to write uninhibited; fearless of what my hand will scrawl onto the paper. In short, I want to tell my story but I am not ready to read it.