So, one day years ago, I’m sitting at my computer and I’m writing. I was on FIRE; furiously typing away at the keys as some fictitious happening flowed from my brain at velocities faster than my WPM speed and onto my computer screen. My wrists ached, my eyes grew dry and my fingertips wept for themselves as I pushed myself to finish documenting the thoughts before they flushed away to oblivion. It was mental ecstasy; as deep and naive and true as the dreams kids fathom as their adulthood. I was a real writer. After the flames receded, I stopped a minute to catch my breath and read over the organized miracle of lines that I had just so passionately sculpted. It was then that I realized, teary-eyed with reverent awe, “This is just too beautiful to keep to myself! I must share it!” A that moment, a writer was born.
Except, of course, reading back, that same jumbling of butchered grammar, sappy prose and two or three half-baked characters welded together into a sculpture from hell wasn’t anywhere near “beautiful.” Contrarily, it was an eye-sore that could scar retinas with a single paragraph, or snap unsuspecting minds with a solitary plot twist. But that was where my love affair with writing began. Just like so many others in the world who one day wish to be published authors, it took just one “Ah!” moment of addicting clarity to hook me to the craft. And I never looked back.
Yet, years later, though I’m still as passionate about that dream of sharing as I have ever been, I’ve become too… lettered. With so much research and reading and edits, I know that my writing is better but still not what it should be. Or, at least, what I deeply feel it should be (a literary masterpiece that could move Shakespeare to his knees… something along that line). So I hide it away from prying eyes until I could deem it ready. And that has equaled to several projects begun but scrapped or simply dropped and never finished. That’s not to say I’ve wasted my time in trying to better myself, nor that I’m ungrateful as to where that’s gotten me today. I’m saying that I’ve been concentrating too much on the image to make the art. Rather than doing the creating part, I’m still making preliminary drawings. My projects have become more thought out, more work hardened; but I’m not yet casting. Something I will never accomplish, ironically, if I don’t leave the schoolhouse and enter the forge.
And that’s why I’ve created this blog. Well, one reason. It’s really as a means to two ends. I want to better myself (naturally), document my journeying and learn from it. This way, I can gain the understanding and experience I need to perfect the craft I’ve been attempting to wield since high-tech was an ink pen. But the second thing I wish to do is to help, if in any way, others like me who want to do it but don’t have the confidence (yet) to setup their portfolios and start smelting too. I want to blog, not only helpful tips I come across, but challenges and prompts that will get ideas going and exercise those tricky muscles that just won’t fortify. I want to journal my experiences so others can know that if a shy, introvert like me can step out into the light of day and show off my work, anyone can. And, hopefully, I can keep it fun along the way. I’m putting on my big girl gloves and following my dream. Here’s my first step into the heat, my first blog post; my second beginning. A writer reborn.
photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/cauzinha/2478636962/”>Cláudia*~Assad</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.0/”>cc</a>