As a very young girl I remember writing stories in our living room on Heathfield Road in the Northwood suburb of Baltimore. I would hang my stories around the living room. It was an escape. I don’t think anyone ever read them. I wrote a bit in college – creative writing – trying to work through incredibly intense damage from my childhood. Writing did something for me.
I began writing again when my sister was gravely ill. I used writing as a vehicle to give people information, but it became the thing that got me throughout the daily grind of caring for her. It wasn’t only the writing but the responses I got from others. I am what some would call extroverted. Therefore when I write, I do like people to read it. I’d love to write more. I’d love to write a book. I’d love to write for a living. Except – – -writing is very difficult. If I want to be a writer – I have to write.
This past January, I committed to writing on here everyday. It was kind of cool at first. It felt like a spiritual discipline. It is becoming more difficult, but a loved one reminded me that this is my blog. If I don’t write everyday, it is okay. I’m the only one that will be disappointed. We’ll see what happens.
Around the time I committed to write everyday, I also began submitting some of my writings for publication. Yesterday, my first piece was published on this very cool and quirky website called Henry Harbor. Some of you may have seen this in a similar version about a year or so ago on here. Check it out: http://goo.gl/t14NQh