I used to write, and write well.
I fancied I’d be an authoress someday.
I liked painting characters and weaving stories. They were my art form for so much of my childhood.
Writing taught me, in a backwards way, about emotion: joy, pain, success, loss. I had to feel these emotions alongside the characters I created. As a preteen and early teenager, this was difficult. I knew shades of these emotions, but hardly the spectrum. I winced any time someone reminded me of this. Writing real literature takes an experience of life.
I disagreed. I could see life in other people. I watched them. I was very observant and very emotionally perceptive and advanced despite my youth. I didn’t like being told, “no.” I wanted to be told, “how.” So I watched and learned, like a painter notes his surroundings and tries to record them.
I don’t write any more. I know those who read the poetry and short stories I wrote throughout my adolescence typically enjoyed them and praised me. I just don’t feel like I have the knack for it any more. So I wonder if I ever did.
I started blogging again almost two years ago on tumblr (a godawful site, so I quit) with the intention of stringing thoughts and words together, and little else. I started again about a year ago with the same intention, but have largely failed. I record events, not my search for meaning. I interpret more often than I ask.
I despise my writing.
I no longer consider myself an authoress-in-the-making. I’ll never write a book, as much as those who read my childhood stories still prod me.
I don’t know what I’ll make of myself now, but I’d at least like to try to go back to observing the world and asking questions.
The thing I miss the most is my toughest critic, my childhood companion, my bosom friend. She was always hard on me, she made me earn her love sometimes, and I adored her. She was my greatest inspiration for writing, as well as my biggest supporter, despite being so critical.
I lost her friendship inadvertently years ago, but I’ve never forgotten her. I have to admit I attempted to stalk her, read her blog so often, and wished I could do something to mend the past. I had a thousand fantastic ideas that she likely would’ve loved for their melodramatic nature, but never had the guts to go through with my plots.
I’ve noticed, in my listless and depressive state these past few months, that I need to expand my friends. So instead of trying to meet new people, I’ve attempted to resurrect my old friendships that have laid dormant these years. She was first on my mind, always. But I couldn’t find her.
When I think of her being back in my life again, I fancy myself a deep thinker, even an authoress, again.
In desperation, I commented on her neglected blog, attached my e-mail address that sports my full maiden name, which she would recognise.
She e-mailed me back less than 24 hours later.
I’m afraid to hope and afraid to write, so writing I am. And crying over the lost years, afraid to hope that maybe we’ll be able to pick up where we left off.
If Anne Shirley is to be believed, with bosom friends, it is possible.