Being me....

Discovering Me.....

We are brought into this world screaming and cold after just being removed from a nice warm, safe place. We are handed to our mother, who in turn probably thinks to herself that this slimy creature just came from inside her, and stares in wonderment upon our now squishy faces. From this point on we are someone's child. We belong to someone who is supposed to care for us, love us, feed us, clothe us, and nurture us into normal, successful adults.

Somewhere between the birth canal and adulthood we change at least a hundred different times, morphing into something we think we are. Through our lives, we seek to find our inner selves, and fear what it is that we will someday find.

For quite some time I quashed my true self behind many facades of rousing young adulthood, party going, and prancing around in mini skirts and tons of makeup. I spent so much time dutifully stuffing the real me behind a series of masks, one for the teachers who saw a promising young professional to give credit to their teachings, one for my parents who saw a slightly rebellious yet upstanding daughter who worked hard and took care of herself, and one for my friends who saw the happy-go-lucky bouncy girl who had no secrets nor a care in the world. I spent a lot of my time spitting into the wind only to have it come back into my face.

At some point I threw up my hands in dispair and gave into the me that was screaming to become a person in the world, and show herself to all who can see. She escaped like a new born child, squaling and cold, but took a firm grip and held on tight. She became a wife, a mother, a friend, in a whole new sense. She showed herself to her family, her friends, and found that some wouldn't always be there or like the person she'd become. Yet, even with her losses, she found inner strength, and love of people who became closer to the real her, rather than the actress she'd been. Somehow, it was liberating, and somehow it was freightening to face the future in a new skin.

Time Tip-Toes Along...

Closing my eyes I can hear all that is going on around me. My senses seem to become stronger in order to make up for the lack of sight. Perhaps that is why I dream so vividly. My eyes are closed and my brain creates images and ideas that only I can see, only I can hear. I can see characters, and their hopes and dreams come to life inside of me. I feel their joy, hopes, pain, and longings. I can hear them telling me to let them belong, let them become real, and my mind begins to see their lives, the way they would appear to the average imagination. I want so badly to bring them to life, and yet a part of me is afraid to let them become. A million "what ifs" run through my head, pinning me helplessly in a state of silent fear. I protect them like invalid children, yet they continue to fight against me to become as real to others as they are to me.

Sometimes....

I'm a big dreamer. More often than not, I have my head lingering in the clouds, lost in a dream world only I can understand. One of my passions is writing. I have wanted to write a book since I was 10 and discovered a whole new world created in the art of romance novels. Yes, 10 was a bit young to be introduced to Harlequin, yet I had read all of the "younger" books and they bored me to tears, and I needed something new, and craved more and more. My first attempt at writing was a horrendously written "novella" about a young girl falling in love with an American Indian in the early 1800's. Okay...so obviously I needed more experience under my belt, it's true that a 12 year old girl, no matter how worldy she believes herself to be, knows anything about the mental and physical attraction between man and woman. My next attempt at writing was a more complicated story of young love, and the highly overrated "first time". At the tender age of 16, I felt I had it all figured out, yet I still didn't posess enough actual knowledge to write something believable to the average reader. No matter how much research I did, or how much I thought I gained in reading myself, I hadn't quite reached the point where I could actually tell a story and know the drama and heartbreak, as well as the adult humor was being received well by the reader.

I am now 27 years old, and the things I have lived through, and discovered over the years makes me feel more confident that I can write something and honestly have a reader think to themselves, "hey, been there sister." I've discovered the miracle of birth, as well as the lovely contractions that acompany it. I've lived through an abusive situation, and came out on top. I've felt young love, lust, and real true love. I've been married, been through a divorce, and been married again. I've traveled to wonderful places, and seen amazing things, and lived through the sadness of 9/11. I'm at a point where I feel that I can now sit down and focus on a story that not only relates to humans, but that will reach people and make them feel sorrow, laughter, joy, pain, and love. So, now I'm faced with just what do I write about? A very good friend of mine says, "Just sit and write...let it flow out of you." I'm too flighty, I need a goal, and I haven't quite figured out how that goal should be accomplished. It's funny how I can sit here and "just write" a blog, and it makes sense and it sounds good, yet I can sit for hours in front of my computer with a story in mind and I'm lucky to get chapter one written. Maybe I'm too hard on myself and constantly sit there thinking, no, that sounds stupid.......DELETE.

One step at a time. I must now make a goal to START a book. We'll proceed from there. I'll keep you posted. :)