I’ve always been a storyteller. I should say, “I’ve always told stories.” This was to the chagrin of my elementary school classmates who hid from me because they couldn’t stand to hear yet another story.
You would think this would clue me into my lifelong dream of writing fiction especially when I have a blog all about finding your purpose.
But so it is with things that are precious to you. You build walls around it as you get older so no one can touch it.
As I began taking writing courses to fulfill my degree in English literature, I started hearing the words of my classmates or people I deemed real writers. My words paled in comparison.
I gave up on fiction because I didn’t trust myself. I didn’t have faith that I could create from my imagination. Nonfiction, on the other hand, could be proven with facts. I could rely on the words of experts instead.
This is why I’ve been a nonfiction freelance writer for ten years only barely dipping my toes in fiction.
But when you ignore an essential component to your being, you get sick.
If you’re a writer, you know this.
The worse thing you can do to add illness, and drama into your life, is stop creating.
The older I get, the more imperative it is to at least try to tackle my dreams. I started with picture books and then something magical happened.
Writing fiction began to heal me.
I’m still working at it. I don’t know what the future entails. But I know I love it. I know I feel better when I write a story and build emotions, and layers of language and depth around it.
I don’t worry about anything except the way I feel when I write.
I’m in the flow, zone, a sublime presence.
To think, it’s been hidden under years of insecurity, self-doubt and a paralyzing fear that I wasn’t good enough. There it rested, the antidote to my pain and struggle, waiting until I had the courage to trust in my instincts, and believe I could write if I allowed myself to do it.