On Writing...

Few people know or remember that I was a writer once upon a time. Writing once was a safe haven for me. I used it as a tool to rid my soul of all the angst and horror that filled me. When the angst left, so did the desire, the need, the ability to write. It was almost as thought my writing ability was housed in that bitch of a cancerous ovary.

This poor little neglected blog was supposed to get me back into doing that. However, there was zero accountability other than my half-hearted promises that I would do better at it. And I never did. For a couple of years, this little dark blog has hung out on the interwebs, waiting for me to fill it full of the anecdotes that used to flow from me so easily. I've paused momentarily throughout the years to reflect on how writing used to soothe me, and promise to try again... with no results. I do miss writing. I have friends who are publishing things now and I can't help but think, "That could/should be me." And it should. I shouldn't have let dying stop me from pursuing my goals.

So, where I'm going with this is that I've been writing again this weekend. Really. Not on this blog, but on my other online journal. A certain person suggested I get back into it, and his praise has really freed me to keep going. I have written outlines for a couple of stories, and it feels amazing to be writing again. I can't promise that I'll be writing here on the regular, but I am making progress. I feel obligated now to do this, since he has asked everyday if I've written anything new. And it's more obligated to ME. To my own growth to keep at it. I'm hoping to get back to the point where it's second nature again.

Who knows what this may lead to? I might actually be happy in my life someday if I keep making progresses like this.