In some way, I felt as though this initial post had to be something epic, something amazing… I don’t know. Anyway, I couldn't really figure out what that should be. This will have to suffice.
If you take a look at my ‘about me’ section, you’ll see that I am basically just an average woman working a full-time job. Nothing spectacular about that, or me. I went to school, went to uni, got a job and basically did not stop since.
As a university student, during a session of intensive procrastinating, I found I was formulating a story in my mind, more of a ‘what if’ scenario. At some point, I began jotting it down on my laptop. And whenever I found myself in a similar state, needing to distract myself from the facts needing to be memorised from my lectures that day, I returned to that story. Jotted some more thoughts down.
Over the next few years, I continued to use my ‘down time’ as a writing expedition, though time was scarce. Hey, I didn’t even know what I was doing. I used to wonder “what if someone read this stuff?” and then I’d shake my head. The things I wrote were in such a raw form, there was no time to make it readable, and besides, writing ‘proper books’ or ‘real stories’ were for people who knew what they were doing. People deemed real writers because they had worked hard to perfect their craft, people who were disciplined. Me? Hah. *scoff*
Yet I could not stop. I continued to write almost every day, scribbling in my notebook to and from work, then transcribing it later that evening. Things remained rough, because I could not see the point in polishing it. Once I told someone that I was writing. They thought that was great – until they realised I didn’t mean for a magazine, or with the hopes of publishing.
Around the same time, I decided to take a couple of art courses. As an awkward fifteen year old, I had absolutely loved drawing and sketching. but pretty much had not touched the pencils since then. As an adult, the reception I got for doing that was so different to what I got when it came to writing, and I could not really understand why. People thought it was great I had an arty hobby, even if I didn’t plan on commercialising on it.
With a shrug, I continued. I experimented with portraiture. I learned how to paint. And then I stopped. I don’t know even know why, but one day all that art simply stopped. Yet the writing rambles continued.
Finally, in recent days I bit the bullet. Now here I am. Finally brave enough to write something which may actually be read by someone else. Limbering up my fingers to get them used to the feeling of a pencil, stick of charcoal or a paintbrush between them once more.
Let’s see if it all falls flat on its face…
If you take a look at my ‘about me’ section, you’ll see that I am basically just an average woman working a full-time job. Nothing spectacular about that, or me. I went to school, went to uni, got a job and basically did not stop since.
As a university student, during a session of intensive procrastinating, I found I was formulating a story in my mind, more of a ‘what if’ scenario. At some point, I began jotting it down on my laptop. And whenever I found myself in a similar state, needing to distract myself from the facts needing to be memorised from my lectures that day, I returned to that story. Jotted some more thoughts down.
Over the next few years, I continued to use my ‘down time’ as a writing expedition, though time was scarce. Hey, I didn’t even know what I was doing. I used to wonder “what if someone read this stuff?” and then I’d shake my head. The things I wrote were in such a raw form, there was no time to make it readable, and besides, writing ‘proper books’ or ‘real stories’ were for people who knew what they were doing. People deemed real writers because they had worked hard to perfect their craft, people who were disciplined. Me? Hah. *scoff*
Yet I could not stop. I continued to write almost every day, scribbling in my notebook to and from work, then transcribing it later that evening. Things remained rough, because I could not see the point in polishing it. Once I told someone that I was writing. They thought that was great – until they realised I didn’t mean for a magazine, or with the hopes of publishing.
Around the same time, I decided to take a couple of art courses. As an awkward fifteen year old, I had absolutely loved drawing and sketching. but pretty much had not touched the pencils since then. As an adult, the reception I got for doing that was so different to what I got when it came to writing, and I could not really understand why. People thought it was great I had an arty hobby, even if I didn’t plan on commercialising on it.
With a shrug, I continued. I experimented with portraiture. I learned how to paint. And then I stopped. I don’t know even know why, but one day all that art simply stopped. Yet the writing rambles continued.
Finally, in recent days I bit the bullet. Now here I am. Finally brave enough to write something which may actually be read by someone else. Limbering up my fingers to get them used to the feeling of a pencil, stick of charcoal or a paintbrush between them once more.
Let’s see if it all falls flat on its face…