I wrote my first story when I was six. It was about a magical horse that was owned by a horrible farmer. I typed it on lined notebook paper with a portable brown typewriter that my mom taught me how to use. I only typed on the top of the paper so that I would have plenty of room on the bottom of the page to illustrate, which I did with my best Crayola’s. I even made a cover page. I’m pretty sure my mom still has it in her treasure trove of memories.
I continued to write on and off as I grew up. I always took advantage of the Young Authors competitions at school, although I never received any awards until I was in Junior High. I wrote about dinosaurs, mysteries; I even wrote a story with a young Sherlock Holmes and Watson searching for missing ice cream. I branched into poetry for a time as I worked my way through High School, getting published in a couple of small pamphlets through online competitions.
Then I went to college, and writing became a luxury. Life became about studying, finals, and friends. Some poems trickled out even now and again, but nothing like the waterfall that poured from my mind a few years earlier. The flow grew smaller and smaller with each passing year, until my thoughts and musing were completely dry. With it, a part of my soul.
A few years ago, I began to hear a small voice in the back of my mind, much like Horton’s Who down in Whoville, asking to be heard. That voice became louder and louder, until, screaming, I decided to listen. Find the flow, it was telling me. Find your flow, and find your soul.
That is why I am here. I am here to find my flow. The need to write is so strong that I feel I must or else lose my self for good this time. Some of my writing will not be awesome, but that is just fine. There are many times where the grating words of unconventional thoughts are just paving stones for the path to a wonderful collection of ideas.
So welcome, and I hope you find some things pleasing to your eyes in the weeks to come.