I now interrupt your regularly scheduled Tuesday-and-Thursday blog schedule with these messages:
The lovely Lynn over at Written Reflections has started a “Words on Wednesday” linkup for writers which I’m hoping to be able to participate in whenever I can. It’s basically just a way for writers to share what they’re up to, along with spewing words out on a suggested topic. But I’ll leave the details up to her, as it’s explained nicely on her blog, and I want you to check it out anyway.
All that to say that you may be seeing the occasional Wednesday post from me from now on, starting with this one:
A Brief Introduction to Elisabeth Bridges.
Ugh. Introductions have never been my strong point. In fact, this whole post/possibly self-indulgent journal entry will most likely find its natural habitat on the “Growing Up Shy” social media hashtag. I’ve never been one of those people who could talk comfortably about themselves. I end up forgetting my entire life history, apart from little things that I cannot imagine anyone wanting to hear about.
That confession out of the way, I will do my best to explain how I got here. At five years old, I decided to write a Curious George book, complete with illustrations. I stapled together some sheets of paper, drew what might, with a bit of imagination, be construed as a monkey-like figure, and wrote: “onc there was a monky called curius Georg.” After that effort, my mind went blank, and I set the project aside for “some other time.” So much for that.
In a way, that experience could well sum up my writing life ever since. I’ve never once lost the desire to write, but the motivation and moxie have ebbed and flowed unpredictably. I went through times when “to be an author” was my main goal in life, and other times when it seemed more like a pipe dream. The times of discouragement reached their height during (predictably) my adolescence, at which point, due no doubt partly to the usual litany of teen anxt and self-loathing, as well as what I now know was a major trough of depression, I gave up on any serious writing beyond academic requirements. Yet even when I was most convinced of my inability to write, my lowest points were always accompanied by a frenzied bout of word-spewing. There was, and still is, no better way for me to express myself than through the medium of pen and paper.
This state continued until October 30, 2013, when I decided to give NaNoWriMo a try. At the time, I thought it wouldn’t amount to anything more than a casual fling, a sort of literary one-night stand.
Well, I was wrong. On Thanksgiving that year, I emerged triumphant, with 50,000 words that were all my own. Terrible, sloppy things they may have been, but I had breathed them into being, and I realized that no matter how I might “feel” from one day to the next, this was something I had to do. Ever since then, while my output still ebbs and flows almost as erratically as it did when I was five, my resolution has only strengthened. I am a writer, and I will drown myself in ink, bury myself in paper, until I arise newly born on the wings of my own words.