Writing Becomes Me

I’m a writer. Made, not born. Crafted over several years of floundering and not knowing what to do with this artistic talent within me. I used to play piano – a lot! When I was a child, I would spend many hours at the keyboard, practicing my scales, those dreaded Hanon exercises that I actually came to enjoy, and performance pieces. Ensuring my hands and wrist were positioned correctly. Perfecting my fingering. Working on tone and color and dynamics. And I would compose songs with lyrics, and songs with no lyrics at all. All to satisfy this innate need to create something.

I am a writer. Made, not born. Crafted over a lifetime of success and pain, love and loss, broken promises and dreams fulfilled. Now, my need to create, to write, has a purpose of sorts. It’s more than creating a story. It’s creating another life. With a beginning, middle, and an end. It’s exploring the choices my characters make, and reflecting on my own life choices.

I am a writer. Made, not born. Writing becomes me. It IS me. With all my hopes and dreams and frailties. And I’ll pursue whatever writing, whatever story, whatever emotion, is inside me until the day when I can no longer create.

I can only remember.

How does writing become you?

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