Instead of giving myself reasons why I can’t, I give myself reasons why I can.
While gathering myself and evaluating my writing and what it means to me, I was struck with a sense of not knowing where to go next. What to do, how to write, how to translate my thoughts into the words on the page. Stepping back from my desk, feeling the wood, the softness of chair I sit in every night, I began to wonder who am I, what am I doing.
The feeling was a rush of disappointment, and feeling of total chaos as my mind tried to deal with thoughts that were circulating inside it. Why do I do this? Why is that I choose to write? What makes me better than someone else? I found the answers to all of these while staring at my notes: the world creation, character bios, drawn maps, races, capitals, towns and everything I remember about geography and why things form in certain places. Everything came back to me in a feeling of satisfaction that I could not believe or understand. I felt myself shake things off from the notes and realize I imagined all that I have written, all of my notes, all of them were taken from my imagination.
Most adults do not use their imagination as they should. For me it took watching my son to keep my imagination going. Seeing everything before me I feel as though I have awakened from a dream that lasted the last twenty years, and finally the nightmare is over. I am truly awake, feeling my life before me and suddenly thrown into if with everything before me. I am the guardian of my thoughts and it is I who command the legions on the battlefield. I say who lives and who dies. I can say with certainty that I am a writer now, I am not published, but I know it as I sit here typing that I am this person who creates with sentences pulling my readers farther down the proverbial rabbit hole. Waiting to come out the other side and stare into an abyss that only I can see, only I can describe. I see the forest now, and the trees are only a backdrop to it.