I was a writer from the beginning. I was pretending to write a fanciful script well before I could write my name without the odd scribbles.
We become writers from the moment we pick up the pen, pencil, crayon, or quill. The need to write, the desire to tell stories are with us always.
The shame I have regarding writing is from being subjected to negativity early on.
Why would anyone want to read my story? Why would anyone care? What makes me so unique?
The thing that stopped me for so long was people internalizing what I write because yanno, it must be about them. These strangers and loved ones alike felt like I was writing about them. It became a real issue with some people, and sadly instead of telling them to get over themselves, I stopped writing altogether.
Slowly, I started writing again, but publishing and putting it out into the world was another thing. The one good thing that I can see from 2020 being the shitshow that it is, I have realized that I care about writing. I care about getting thoughts and ideas off my chest and releasing them into the ether. It helps me to write the stories that expose the feelings and events from my past. Writing helps heal me, and that is all that matters. After all, we are nothing but a blip in time, and if you don’t do what you can to give yourself peace and some sliver of joy, then it is a life wasted.
The Universe doesn’t care one way or the other, and it is undoubtedly true that people don’t care about my story, but I care.