The writing monster

I have always wanted to have my words create an emotional impact on others.

I started writing when I was eleven, then that desire quickly morphed into the adolescent dream of becoming a rock star. I imagined rocking out to packed arenas, and whipping my hair around as I strummed vehemently my six stringed multi-colored guitar.

I never became a rock star. I became a teacher. I tell my students that being a teacher is better than being a rock star because they have to listen to me and I don’t have to stress about them buying my music. It makes me chuckle. It makes them chuckle.

I recently ignited my passion for writing because I got tired of dreaming about it. The universe created a set of circumstances where I had to focus on myself and not on the uncontrollable surroundings that were whirling around me in tornado like speeds of destruction. I decided to finally become that which I dreamed I could do and be. It was the beginning of the end.

I’ve started writing, and now I cannot stop. I’ve started before, but this must be the potent time in my lifeline. I recently went to a psychic card reader and I asked about my writing. She made the remark that I had to write; to immerse myself into every aspect of the process: planning, drafting, editing, perfecting, etc. If I didn’t, that which I could not express in written word would come out in the negative verbal word.

The dam of written expression has been broken and the dammed up river is flowing full throttle from an inexhaustible source of my human, searching soul. There is no damming it up anymore. The monster has been unleashed and is ravishing the countryside of written possibility. To cage it, or to dam the river is unthinkable. The pressure would destroy those innocent bystanders in the path.

So, I write. I write when I can. Sometimes brilliantly, sometimes pathetically. But, I must write for my own personal mental and spiritual sanity. It is the least I can do to safeguard those around me.


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