I love to write. I love to imagine and create and edit and pull others into a reality I spin just for them...and me.
I love the jolt of fear that courses through me when someone tells me they have read or are reading what I write. It comes with the territory...I have a blog. It's public. I'm a word exhibitionist. There's no room for fear in this place. So, the fear fades quickly and my demons recede. My demon. Singular. The one from my past. The one who took a red pen to the journal he found nestled beneath my mattress. The one who said that you're either born with a talent or not...and I should go to nursing school since I was obviously in the not in the born with it camp. When I was first paid for my writing, I kept waiting for them to realize their mistake...to see me for the fraud I was and pull out of the deal.
They didn't pull out of the deal and the red pen is long gone. I didn't go to nursing school and I most certainly AM a writer.
I write from the heart and it binds my heart to those who are my kindreds. I want YOU to be my kindred. When I fall in love with your heart, your smile, your words, your path with all of its struggles and triumphs, it becomes supremely important for it to be a mutual falling. I want to laugh and cry over how amazing it is to connect with one another. It doesn't matter to me if it's over one story or poem or blog post or facebook status or if it is something that develops into hunger for more.