Gathering the chaos

Have I always been a writer? I think so. I know I've always been a reader. The stories I wrote in third grade. My score of 35 on the ACT Reading section. Using my words in senior AP English to try to terrify my teacher. The years and years of typing out words to send into the universe via this blog in its many incarnations. The search for a degree area that allowed me to feel empowered through writing. The books and books and late nights and author obsessions, book hangovers. Words written on napkins in notebooks. The way I observe. All those things and more have met at this one point inside me lately, to turn into words on paper.

And it feels like magic to take the chaos inside and reorder it into something that makes sense of a vision, much akin to the time magic of a bike ride. It's internal, of my production, and becomes something people can see and feel. I'm still finding so much of myself as a crafter of fiction, finding my way slowly into a world I don't yet know and for which I still lack the map and compass. But there's nothing like creating. It's buoyant and buoying and makes me feel like all the choices that led to here make so much sense and I love it.

Today I wrote something deep and dark and real and raw, and it's full circle and full of realization, and maybe a little tinged with vengeance that's secret and soft. It makes sense of a situation, and when I can take a step back and look through this fictional character's eyes, it feels palpable, and full of gratitude and clarity.