I want to write. I have done since I first held a pencil. Before smudge came home my plan was to use my evenings in with a small child and a shift working husband to write my bestselling series of novels. They were going to make me richer than J K Rowling. Although I am completely unashamed to plagiarise her kick ass awesome approach to taxation.
Needless to say becoming a parent to a toddler, dealing with social workers and getting completely tangled up in a web of depression, self doubt and anxiety left me feeling like a hollowed out shell of myself and incapable of anything creative. In brief, I barely picked up a pen in 5 years.
Last year, still crippled with anxiety, I did something brave and went on a creative writing course at Strathclyde University. Despite having now completed both creative writing courses, 40 weeks of study, I am unable to put into words how transformative this was for me. I got a bit of the old me back and it was the bit that writes. I try to write everyday, even if it's just for half an hour. Somedays I even haul myself out of bed at 6 to write while the house is quiet, admittedly not very often though.
I write this, short stories, a ranty journal and ever so occasionally I fight with stubborn characters and try to bully them into a novel. I fail spectacularly, throw that notebook in a drawer and sulk with them until the next time. But even when I'm getting frustrated the scratchy noise of my fountain pen on the paper soothes. The sight of my handwriting filling up a page makes me feel empowered. Whether, I'm workshopping some of my creative writing or just hitting publish on a blog the mere fact that I am sharing some of my words blows me away, I'm invincible.
Maybe one day I'll be brave enough to consider putting myself out there and seeing if I could actually make some pennies doing something I already love. But not yet. Right now I'm still practising.