Once upon a time there was a girl who liked to write. Scratch that — she was kind of obsessed with writing. She did it all the time; on screens, on paper, in her head while doing the dishes. She was the sort of person who would look at random strangers in a restaurant and wonder what their story was because everyone has a story.
She was writing a novel — actually had written a novel, and was in the process of rewriting great chunks of it. (Although she told people she was editing, because non-writers don’t quite get re-writing. It sounds far too much like work than the fun aspect of making up a whole story.) She was having such fun re-writing her novel and hanging out with her main characters, as if catching up with an old friend, that she didn’t want to do much else. (Except take occasional breaks to check on the relationship status of fictional characters on a new TV show obsession.) All desire to blog escaped her, and even social media seemed an unnecessary drain on her time; all she wanted to do was perfect dodgy sentences, and find the right metaphors.
In her non-writing time, she searched writing tips. She read all the ones she could find, even though they were full of conflicting advice, and so many rules, it seemed only sane that some should be broken. (And break them she did.)
Grammarly was her best friend; informing her of typos and sending weekly word count updates, that made the nerd in her grin with pride.
Her You Tube inspirational playlist was constantly on repeat, with new songs being added when they helped her move the story along; making her fingers itch in the process.
Yes, the girl was completely smitten with the story and the art of writing the story, and that was all there was to it.
It was lonely sometimes though; when real life people asked her what she had been up to, and ‘editing’ was the answer, it was generally a conversation ender. Hearing a writer talk about their work is much the same as hearing them talk about their dreams; a little dull. So she just stopped sharing, and kept it to herself. Her own private little world of euphoric freedom.
But the writer did have some friends; good friends who proofread stories and suggested ideas. Who could be called on at a moment’s notice to discuss just how the rest of a sentence should read. Friends who were immersed in their own imaginary worlds as well, and so understood just how crazy beautiful it actually was. A writer needs friends like that, as anyone with a passion does. And this writer was grateful for them.
So much so that she wrote a schmaltzy blog post to say thank you in a round about way to all the people who didn’t think she was a weirdo, for wanting to do nothing more than spend a winter day cuddled up on the couch with a blanket, a cup of tea and a laptop.
Once upon a time there was a girl who liked to write.
And so she did.