I’ve written ever since I was young, and I’ve kept doing it because it’s pure escapism for me. My life hasn’t been the most pleasant of things, and writing for me has allowed me to put myself into situations where the world isn’t so scary and sad. I can create characters are who I wish I was, and have them do things I wish I was able to do. Maybe, in some small way, it allows me to deal with my own crap too. I can have a character handle something I’ve faced and perhaps see something I could apply in my own life.
It’s been hard for me to deal with my reality. Life hasn’t been really easy or all that fun. So, I poured it out into poetry and plays. Songs and stories. Most of it, thanks to my overwhelming sense of no value to the universe, was thrown away when I turned 17. I wish I hadn’t done that. 20 years later, I’m starting over. Sure, it’ll probably be a simple beginning. Yes, my poetry won’t be all that special. But, at least it’ll be mine. I spent over 20 years giving away my joy to someone else. Now, it’s my time for joy and wonder in the weavings of words. I have stories again. I think they’re good ones. Now, I just need to set them free.
