If you've made it this far you must be curious enough to need to know why you're still roaming my blog. My name is Amy and I am a writer. I have been writing for as long as I could string words together on a page and read them aloud. I was eleven years old before I decided that this is what I wanted to do with my life and apart from raising a family, all I aspired to be. So I wrote everything I could and all the time. Many a night was spent holed up in my room, hunched over at my little laptop, tapping away at the keyboard. I had more ideas than I knew what to do with. Stories, poems, essays, book plots, characters, descriptions, all would find their way to my scattered notebooks and trusty word processor. Anyone within reach was in danger of having a page or two thrust into their hands for critique.
Then, alas, I grew up and the demands of life began to wield its jealous fist over the time I would spend writing and I slowly, slowly...stopped.
It was a sickening realization when I happened upon a notebook and found that the last entry had been more than six months prior. Where was that little girl who dreamed of having her words in print, who couldn't be pried away from the solitude of her desk and over worked laptops? I had drowned her in the makings of a young women who yearned for a social life and couldn't balance the two to save her life. The dream had not died, however, of seeing my stories come to life before me. I had simply turned down the volume. I realized I could no longer call myself a writer simply for what I had written. It's a present tense and it was beckoning me to write once more.
It took a few more years to get back to the swing of creating. I had silenced the voice in my head with meaningless hours of empty entertainment. At the end of the day, I needed to be a writer for what I was writing. I had to relearn how to sit in thoughtful quiet and allow my mind to wander.
After all this time, I feel confident in calling myself a Writer and this is why I write.
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