The last time i wrote something non-academic and had someone read it was when i was a little girl. Writing was my passion, my outlet, my "thing". I would write poems, short stories, unsent letters, newspaper articles, even books. And then something happened. Nothing dramatic actually, just life. And growing up. And with every birthday cake, i grew farther and farther away from my pen and paper.
Thinking back, i don't really know why i completely shut this part of myself out, but the fact that i'm writing this right now, after researching tutorials on blogs, forcing myself to try again, is just proof that i've been mourning. Mourning something that was a big part of me, that defined me in some sort of way. Now that I feel at a stage in my life where growing up is becoming more palpable, with the number 26 branded on birthday cards, and the married status that i look forward to in a year, i mourn the part of me that made me who i am. The part of me that my fiancé doesn't really know, and that my family keep urging me to bring back. The part that i've been eager yet terrified to find again.
So.. after almost 10 years of sleep, i'm taking a first step. A step that i owe to myself, where i will freeze time for a little while every now and then, and write. Just write. Write about the little things, that are so small and simple, that are so ordinary...and yet under the proper light can be nothing but extraordinary.
Being a psychology instructor and a child facilitator, motivation has always been my weapon of choice. My magic. I use their motivation to reach them and teach them. Somewhere along the way, i forgot to reach myself.
Time to use the magic on me. On the little girl with the short stories. On Meg. And who knows? Maybe i'll get to be the "pen and paper" girl once again.
