I’m not entirely sure how to start. Usually I’m quite good with beginnings, and yet…this time I find it difficult. Perhaps even frightening. Certainly anxious.
Most of my life, I felt self-assured that I would become a writer. It’s what I always wanted to be, since the first day I strung words together into a story for a third grade writing project. Well, that, and a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle. But that’s a different story. This story needs something else. Something just as fantastical, and yet different.
I remember back in High School (not the best of days, for me and most, I’m sure) being the outcast, the loner, who was chosen to be featured in the Yearbook as a “Future Author.” I remember fretting over how to dress, how to pose. Eventually, I settled on my usual: a band tee (Zeppelin this time), old jeans, and my trusty red skater shoes. It was my usual attire, and there has always been a part of me that defies convention. Perhaps I should have worn something more “professional” or “nice.” Not that it mattered. It was all a sham, anyway (or so I believed at the time).
Notebooks upon notebooks of writing stacked up in my room over the years. Many half-finished, most not even that far. I always had ideas and I was desperate to get them out. When times were tough, I wrote poetry: that dark, apathetic, angsty stuff that I think most pre-teens and teens dabble in from time to time. It helped.
But no matter my cynicism or my apprehensions, writing was always a place where I could escape. It listened without judgment; it comforted without guilt. The art has always been, and will always be, my dearest love. My closest friend.
And it’s time to re-connect with that old friend. So here we are. Let’s start a new story.