I have gone back and forth, back and forth. I have known since I was in middle school, around the age of 12 that I wanted to spend a great deal of my life writing. Maybe it was my way of dealing with my past and childhood trauma. I’m not sure, but I know that the muse pushes me away and then pulls me back and holds on for dear life and lately, I just hadn’t even been in the mood to write. Was it because I had little time to do so? In the past I have made time to write, so why did I suddenly stop? Perhaps it’s that my li fe is so much different now than when I was twelve, or twenty, or even twenty-five. I am now thirty-one years old and I am discovering that what I want out of this life is to forget about what I “should” do and focus on what is best for me.
I have been talking about this book that I wanted to get published for far too long and though I have submitted my manuscript to a few places, it seems that my manuscript just hasn’t found the right home. Or I haven’t found it the right home? So I am jumping off the proverbial cliff here and putting myself out there for the world to see. Perhaps, if some kind agent sees me and likes what they see in my writing, the best home for my manuscript might just find me. So here I am, jumping off. I can feel the cool desert mountain air on my skin. I can see the rock solid bottom coming closer to me. I know that with any luck what so ever, my parachute will open and I will be lifted up, gently floating in the air.
Here I am. I refuse to be ignored or forgotten. I write because I am. I live, breath, feel writing. It is who I am and who I will always be.