I had a diary. Most young girls do, I think. It was red with a satin finish and a lock on the front. I still have it…somewhere. I should pull it back out and reintroduce myself to my younger self. Although, it is entirely possible I wouldn’t like me very much. Most of the teenagers that live around me are annoying and I doubt I was any different. Although, it is ironic that I love reading YA books. Huh.
When I got a little older, I still kept a log, but it was no longer called a diary. I kept journals. I was older, more mature and had put away the childish names of things. Can’t imagine why. The journals were no better than the diary entries, full of drama and angst and boys and he said, she said. The world was always coming to an end in my high school years, well, my world anyway.
In college, I set aside the daily journals in favor of song writing and poetry. Oh, I dabbled in high school. Wanted to move to the Colorado Rockies and make music like John Denver. His words and music were true. It was only years later I found out what a jerk and up himself he really was. That was a shocker. But I digress.
Yes, the college years, found me writing short stories and poems filled with love and angst, most often depressing, but it was my creative outlet. I was also keeping a dream journal for a semester for a creative writing class. (That was some weird imagery. I wonder if I still have it somewhere???) I still had my trusty guitar and I still wrote songs, but I started dating a paid musician and I let his music speak for me. And I found photography.
After college, I still continued to write. I wanted to be an author, but I was never brave enough and eventually my words became silent. I found other creative outlets from time to time, custom framing, travel photography, painting gaming miniatures, and I used to tell stories at work. I finally settled on an insurance job and one of my responsibilities was reporting the numbers. Well, I found that to be extremely dull. So what I started doing was writing stories, stories about where we were with our numbers. Sometimes they were horror stories, sometimes fairy tales and sometimes song parodies or an original poem. But no one understood what I was doing, or why or even what I was saying at all. Most people thought it was nonsense, but it gave me a sense of accomplishment, let me know I could still create, but that too eventually fell to the wayside as I just didn’t have enough time to keep it going on a daily or even weekly basis. Work just got in the way of work.
That left me in a creative drought until I started this blog. I feel as if I have come full circle. I know it has been quite a while now since I lost wrote and while writing book reviews gives me a way to still the voices in my head, it is also a chronicle of where I’ve been as it pertains to the books I read. And perhaps, just perhaps, that is what draws me to a book. I have to be able to relate to it, to find the parts of me I’ve left behind.
And that is where we start. With a word. One word becomes hundreds recorded in a book, but not just any book, a wonderfully magical book that can make wishes come true. But be careful what you wish for.