Nine years ago I wrote my first blog post. Reading it now reminds me how it felt to be without a tribe. My tribe. The storytellers. It also brings back the rush of realizing my passion for writing fiction.
Here is an excerpt of the post I wrote as I began my journey as a writer.
All my life I have been the oddball. Not quite fitting. Different from the rest−the rest of the family, the rest of the class, the rest of the co-workers.
Yes, my fascination for people grew .
My daydreams and imaginings− those minute scribbles on scraps of paper− became involved stories written longhand on yellow lined pads; the kind sold ten to a package to offices−are they still?−long before computers became the norm. Those yellow sheets were then rolled and secured with elastic bands, and hidden in my cardboard memory box.
There was never time to consider writing on a regular basis. I wrote to ease the anxiety of not writing. There, I would say, I have scrawled fifty pages. Of course, it was only temporary relief. My addiction to storytelling was never truly cured.
I questioned why I needed validation. Did I enjoy writing so much that I felt guilt over time frivolously spent? Whatever the reason, I had finally revealed my passion. Go write a book he said.
I wrote. Words appeared on my monitor faster than I could read them. Characters took on life: so much so that they took over my story and created their own. They ignored my development of the plot, seeming to have something different in mind.
I laughed over their shenanigans and wept when they grieved. They became important people in my life. My laptop friends. I was immensely satisfied when the last line appeared in black and white. However, I found it was impossible to type The End. I hated for it to be over.