Ever since I was a little girl I have wanted to be a writer. With a capital W. But life got in the way. Other things happened. My own words reared up and turned against me, and I was no longer able to find any redeeming value in them. They became merely tools I used in my daily life, in my work, to advocate and try to change things for other people.
Now I look to them for solace, and find they have left me. Now, to borrow a line from Edgar Allan Poe, all that I see or seem is merely a dream within a dream.
I'm reading The Secret and don't say don't. Say you will. Who knows.. And even if you write just for you that is just as special.
ReplyDeleteI'm writing again. my second book. just for me.
And I'm enjoying it and will try to fit it in. I did introduction and chapter one......