I know we haven’t met, but if you’re reading this, it means we have something in common – a love for words.
You see, I’ve wanted to write since I was 9. That’s the age where I began to read everything I could find, from newspapers to my mother’s Mills and Boon novels. I would dig them up from wherever she had hidden them. I would search through her things and read all of the letters I found from her friends, about things I was too young to understand. I was a handful, but I loved to read.
As a teenager, I always kept a journal. I’d write in code so nobody could understand what I wrote. All they saw was a bunch of mathematical symbols scribbled neatly, and the adults were never patient enough to bother about it anyway.
Fast forward to the present , and I still keep a journal, I still read like it’s going out of fashion. So much so that in my head the words take up a personality of their own, like they are alive. I know it sounds weird, but seriously they look to me like what they are called. Also, I’ve grown into the woman who just must write. I do it for a living, I do it to commit things to memory, I just always write, and read.
I’m hoping there’s a part of you that connects with this, and feels the need to reply my letter, and maybe share a few of yours as well. I’ve built a home for unsent letters, words we just must write but the post master doesn’t ever need to see.
What are your thoughts on this? Is writing also your O.C.D? What is? I’ll wait to read from you.
Be great, do you.