I allowed myself to convince me that i could not write. That my hand writing was illegible, that i had awful grammar, i cant spell, and i have no patience. I can only assume i did so because my anxiety over anyone ever reading anything i had to say, i was afraid. Lately i have been overcoming a lot of old excuses, and this is another i wish to fight against. When i was young my dream job was to be an author, and it truly became a dream after reading Hamlet for the first time. The great wordsmiths of the world amazed me. The ones who took there own emotions and put them down on page for all to feel, at a time when i could not even figure out my emotions, mesmerized me.
I may never have my dream job, but i will write. I no longer care who reads, as long as it is read. I want people to feel something by reading what i have put down. Paper has become electronic data, no more ink and quill pens. I live in a age where my hand writing need not be seen. An age that my grammar and spelling can be looked up in moments. The story of my patience is a lie that i told myself, because after all these years i haven’t given up on myself.