It is wearing a ball gown while wading through the thickest waist-high mud for miles and miles
Needing to light a hundred feet tall candle with one little match and no ladder
A thousand bees inside a small, metal box with one coin-sized hole
Seeing the finish line before the starting gun goes off
Trying a particular lipstick and it changing into another shade by midday
Sticky notes that keep falling off the wall and disappearing between the floorboards
Your dad’s heavy denim jacket that you will never grow into
Turning the volume up as high as it will go and still straining to hear the music
Eating until you are full and still feeling like you are starving
Waiting for the knock on the door when you’re sitting in a meadow
It is reaching the other side of the bridge before you have set one foot on it to cross.
I always want to write, every minute of every day, and I always have ideas in my head. Ideas that might be big, and they might last for no longer than two seconds. They’re all still there, and they’re all very loud and blinding.
When they are small, it’s hard to justify the effort to put them onto paper.
And when they are big stories that are bouncing around in my head, that are so complicated, I would need to sit in silence for a week to even grasp them with both hands.
Sometimes there is no motivation to write anything, fictional or otherwise. Sometimes this site goes neglected and unloved for weeks at a time. And sometimes I can’t stop. Sometimes it’s unhealthy when I stay awake until the small hours, scribbling by lamplight.
All to often, the desire to write plagues me but my body refuses. Together, we make the decision not to pick up the pen and notebook. We can’t even use an app on the tablet. But the stories are there. The characters are screaming at me inside my head to let them out, but I can’t always release them.
I have never finished a project. Starting to write so young meant that my language was soft and poor. Looking at it now makes me cringe and I could never submit that anywhere, so it is added to the pile. I’m sure that pile is taller than me by now.
There is a colourful rush that comes with writing and a relief, as though eliminating a headache and making room in my head. I’ll never stop, no matter who comes along and degrades my work, because I write for me and no one else.