I am cheating a little, for this post was taken from my Writer's Journal and written on January 20, 2010, right after I started taking the online Creative Writing course.
How is it that as a child, I instinctively knew how to tap into my creativity? My journal was a yellowed old notebook with experience, with character. The pen had to be the fountain pen, again suggesting the old writer's spirit, the quill in a way. My dream desk, never acquired, was a heavy mahogany table upholstered with green velvet, solid, able to last through the ages.
I had no inner judge then; I just sat down and wrote what came to my mind, just believing that it was worthy (even though I am sure at times it wasn't). I escaped into my writing, I created characters in a new world, I spent my waking life just thinking of my plot and future events in my stories.
Then it all ended abruptly as I had to change my country, my language, my identity. I have to truly breathe in English in order to be able to write creatively in this language, and I don't feel that I've reached this point yet even after 15 years of living here.
I think in metaphors. I feel in pictures. I live like a character in my own novel, my thoughts constantly running and narrating without ever reaching the paper.
Maybe some day my dream will come true and I will write something. An account of my personal identity crisis. A collection of essays on essence of marriage and coping with the overly imaginative mind. A book of inspirational poems.
Whatever it is, I hope and pray that I can do it, that I have the tenacity and courage.
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