Deciding to write wasn’t, and still isn’t, an easy journey for me. I suppose journeys are supposed to be life altering and full of adventure. But at what price does adventure come at, and what in the hell does me deciding to write have to do with anything remotely important? That is what I initially thought.

 

I now think that writing was always what I turned to. I wrote poems, so many poems, and was even acknowledged for a poem I had written in the 4thgrade about books. It was hung up somewhere or printed for display for all to read in the small school of Hatton Elementary.

I decided to write because I had no idea who I was. Of course, I had my story – and even the stories that I could only assumed of those around me – but half-ass stories don’t create books. And I wanted to create books.

Deciding to write was much like how I felt when I rejected Depression – but she still comes around.

Deciding to write was personal, and I protected my writing likes scars that only I had seen because of the story that traveled with them. As someone who doesn’t have much to say in most situations, I found myself wanting to speak up.

Deciding to write meant that I had to devote myself to telling the whole story, and not just the parts that were pretty enough to show the world. I often forget what a terrible place that the world can be – and I decided to write because our stories are linked.