Before I ever learned to type or put pen to paper, I told stories.
My toys were the characters to the stories I wove, sitting up too late. When my mother read to me, the words infused my soul and I drank in everything. And when the lights were off and my mom had left, new stories whirred through my mind and came to life in my dreams.
Since my earliest memory, I can remember being compelled to tell. Falling head over heels in love with words and events and drama and truths wrapped in letters.
There are many ways to tell. Acting. Singing. Painting. Dancing. Filming. But I soon discovered that my favorite way to tell was to write.
And so I wrote. Journal pages worn thin with pencils scribblings of dreams and hopes and tales. Novels and stories and poems composed but almost always hidden away, released to the page but not the world.
Because writing, great writing, bares the soul.
And now the little girl with her stories of bravery and truth and courage is grown up. And I am starting a blog and working on novels that will see the light of day. These words that I love will be released to reach the world, to grab hold of other souls.
Some days it hurts. Some days I want to hide them away in safe little cages, in dusty little files on my computer where the world cannot see.
But whatever comes of the words, whatever bleeds onto the page, I will always write.