I have always had an intense and complicated relationship with the written word. At times, it has been my saviour, at others, an instrument of self-loathing. It tempts me, promises redemption and mocks me. It warms me, gives me purpose but often leaves me feeling vulnerable and unsatisfied. It has always been a part of who I am but I have to admit that it is a part that I have not always been quick to embrace. I have kept it at arms distance by either not writing at all or protecting myself from writing too much. I have dreamed of being a writer and at the same time, hidden any real writing away from any eyes but my own. The best writing I have done has been when I am down, restless and moody. Happy days do not invoke the written word.
I promised myself that this year would be different. I would let my writing go where it wanted; I would follow wherever it led me. I feel stronger than I ever had and more able to balance my life and my own mind. I have been writing everyday...poems, short stories, essays, scribblings. I have written dialogue, which is something I have always struggled with, and it has been good. I am enjoying it and surprising myself with what I can do. I am getting better and although I still cringe every time I read over what I have written and still feel like each word leaves my very being exposed and rotting in the open air, I am happy.
And I got a job today as a writer for a marketing and communications firm. Which means I am not just working at home, I am working from home. I like that. It justifies the Banana Republic dress I bought last week and allows for a whole new line in our family budget: Work Clothes.