writing the story

ever since i was a little girl, quiet and determined among a mop of bouncy brown curls, i have loved books. the feel of thin pages against my fingertips, the weight of a story heavy in my tiny hands, the smell of a book brand new, shiny and unblemished:: these things have been my language, words and plot lines as common to me as my mother tongue.

it should come as no surprise, then, that the little girl who loved books would grow to become a woman who dreams of writing one.

yes, if i could have had but one wish come true, it would be for the time and space and money to do nothing but write. to curl up with paper and ink and put words to the story that has always been living inside of me.

i’ve started many times, and i’m ashamed to say i’ve given up many times as well. life became busy. work and bills became my new language, and that does nothing to mention the five long years during which my words were locked away.

the thing is:: now i’ve got my words back. and this story within me grows fierce, and i can feel it beating heavy inside my chest, a caged beast that roars to be let out, a feral animal simply never made to be tamed.

i need to write this story. i must. i don’t know how long it will take. i don’t even know if it will be any good, if anyone could ever care to read it.

does that matter? i am not sure it does. this story, you see, has a life of its own, and i feel it will seek out the ones who are meant to have it, whose fingertips were destined to turn its thin pages, the hands in which this story of mine will be a perfect fit.

and so it begins. today, this moment right now:: this is conception. i share this sacred and private moment with you because i know somehow, you have a part to play in it too. some of you will pray for the perseverance i will need to keep my pen to the page, no matter what. some of you will utter motivation and encouragement, and you will spur me on when times get tough. some of you will read the words carefully, thoughtfully; some of you will judge them, critique them, change them. and when the story is written, pieces of you will be woven into every line of it, your fingerprints felt and seen by all who will pick up the book and read.

and so now, i lift my glass, and i give thanks. for a better story. for inspiration to live it out, to write it down, to share it with those who need it.

i give thanks. and then i begin to write.

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