Who am I? I am a girl with a opinion, standing on a soapbox saying the things other people thought, but were too afraid to even whisper. I am no one, but me, and that is all I ever aspire to be. I a girl with an idea, who loves to write, and has the rare trifecta of intelligence, street-smarts and common sense.
If you know me personally, I am the woman who crosses the room just to say hello; whose most consistent accessory is a smile. A woman who loves a good laugh, loves a good game, and gets overly excited by witty repartee. A woman who loves a good meal and loves it even more when I cooked it. A writer, an avid reader, an education enthusiast and an overall collector of good people and great experiences.
If you enjoy this blog, please share it with others. Please leave a comment, like a post or rate the blog.
The first poem/story I remember writing was at the age of 10 years old. It was an in class assignment where the teacher gave each student twelve words and directed us to create a poem out of them. I wrote:
In the twilight of the exquisite forest
I saw my dreams passing by me.
The floating sun was shining on me,
As the cool breeze returned in tender midst of the season.
In the distance I saw a changing silhouette of pain.
As the mysterious silhouette drifted by me,
My wisdom left me and I could not discover its secrets.
But when the radiance of the sun was replaced with the delicate moonlight
And the murmurs of the pained silhouette tried to entangle me,
The teacher looked at me in astonishment. “Where did you copy that from?” She asked. Then quickly realizing the flaw in her logic, (that this was an in class assignment and that my poem had the exact 12 words she had assigned me), she retracted. “That’s very good, I mean really good! You should enter that into the poetry contest?” I was hooked. From that moment on, and with the nourishment of my dear aunt (God rest her soul) I was a writer! I spent hours locked in my room as a child in complete solitude. I wrote and I wrote forgoing sleep at times. I needed words. I needed paper. I needed pen. I wrote for myself, and I never shared with the world.
Over 20 years later, I still need words as much as I need air. And over 20 years and several boxes later, I still fear sharing my passion with the world. Each day I sit and contemplate my actions. Each night I lay and reflect on my decisions. Like most people I am bound by my experiences, defined by my actions, and controlled by my thoughts. And day after day I write them down…blog them, poem them, short story them. Not just scared, but petrified that someone actually reads them. That someone can read the flowery prose and clever sayings and through them see me in my purest state. I find myself petrified that someone can read between the lines and see the ME that I often hide from myself…see the woman who besides the pretenses often times cares what other people say and even more what they think.
Yet despite my fears I have finally decided to share my thoughts with the world and lay my thoughts on this website. Vulnerable. Available. Subjecting myself to your thoughts and your conclusions. Hoping I won’t be judged…knowing I will. Each time more nervous than the next…and seeing my readership grow, more cautions than before. Will my words come back to haunt, what’s too much information, what’s not enough. A thin line. I jump like I’m playing Double Dutch. Trepidation overcomes me, it’s time again …my hand shakes as I weigh my options. I don’t know why I go through the motions…the decision is always the same…I hit publish post. The rest is up to you.