I noticed when I logged in to blogger that my last post was January 17. Disgraceful. Actually, not disgraceful, but it does give you some small indication of the amount of fear I experience about being/writing anything less than perfect. This blog is yet another part of my lifelong battle to actually achieve rather than just float around in my own head where everything is cozy and warm and interesting (well, to me it is!).
I want to be a writer. I really do. I've been an avid reader ever since I was six. I vividly remember feeling relieved when I was taught how to read in grade one. Now I could read for myself, and didn't have to rely on others to feed my inextiguishable thirst for stories and other peoples lives. I was the kid who read at breakfast, lunch and dinner. I was the kid who read under the blankets at night with a torch. I was the kid who had a special arrangement with the school librarian that allowed me to take sixteen books out of the library at holidays when everyone else could only have two. I was the kid who sometimes had a vitamin D defficiency.
I still love reading, and still do it
all the time whenever housework/work/child/cooking/husband/pets permit, but I want to add my voice. My voice. My thoughts. My not perfect and voice and thoughts, but mine all the same. I constantly think about things I could write; stuff that happens in my life and in my head, and in this amazingly beautiful and sad world around me. So I will add. I will write. I will not be scared of writing. I will weave my own stories, whilst still enjoying the stories that others weave. I will. Big breath. OK.
