I love writing. And for as long as I can remember, I have put my pen to work on those familiar white sheets of smooth and unblemished paper. On those sheets: I create. I imagine. I dream. I am...the author of my own story. A story that is originally and uniquely me!
For hours I sit at my desk contemplating on what I shall say and how I shall express myself onto the paper before me. So many feelings bottled up inside--how can I use them all?
These feelings fight to be free; but, alas, my pen can only flow so fast onto the paper, that I often struggle to grasp a hold of every word, inclination, and idea that threatens to flutter away before I have had the chance to reclaim them.
A story is my world; it's my life.
It is a place where I am at home, at peace and free to create those images that often swarm in my head. New and uncharted worlds and oceans have yet to be discovered. Characters have yet to be named. And indescribable and unidentifiable creatures of the deep dark ocean have yet to be imagined.
They beckon to me to release them from their solitude to greet the paper with graceful beginnings-- only to end up in a slow and miserable existence, to die a honorable and notable death, or to end in a peaceful serenity of a happy-ever-after.