Where do I begin when I think back on how writing changed my life?
I suppose like most, I started out staring at a blank page, wondering how to take that first leap.
I was fascinated by how small black squiggles on a page could create whole new worlds out of thin air.
I hoped to capture just a little bit of that magic myself.
What I didn’t expect was how much writing would come to mean to me.
As I put pen to paper, I started peeling away others’ expectations to uncover my own voice hidden inside.
With each new sentence, I felt myself gaining courage and shedding old doubts.
Writing gave me a way to make sense when my feelings became a big tangled mess. I could spill those emotions out onto the page, then rearrange them into neat little piles to understand them better. Funny how doodling with words could calm my anxious mind!
When inspiration struck, words danced vibrantly for me. Sentences began stepping together to create a catchy rhythm and flow. Ideas wove themselves into rich stories that came together in a satisfying way.
I’d stay up late into the night, totally absorbed in bringing my ideas to life, watching the candlelight turn to sunrise.
I welcomed the cramping hand as a badge of honour for my hard focus.
I tended my work gently each day like caring for a growing plant.
Writing gave me a steady foundation through life’s ups and downs when I felt cast adrift.
My journal became a wise friend, lighting my way forward.