Every now and then I feel the urge to clean. I hate a cluttered workspace and for the most part a cluttered home (which is funny because I was always a messy person at my mom’s house and then my dad’s). Today happened to be one of those cleaning days. The object of my obsession? My office.
I can now see my desk, my chair can swivel around without obstruction, and I somehow found a way to free up some needed shelf space in one of my three bookshelves (without placing any books into the used bookstore bag/box). During my cleaning, I found some things that are dear to my heart: previous works.
In the sixth grade, I took it upon myself to write a book and get it published. Every free minute, I would write the book nonstop. I would only let a few people read as I went along. Naturally, the reason was that I wanted validation that what I was doing was important. And for that year, it was.
I didn’t finish the book nor did I write any of the intended sequels, but I still have it. I still have a short story that I wrote for school, it is filled with my own edits and I have the rewritten copy with it. I have numerous first chapters from numerous fantasy start ups. I have two spiral notebooks of poetry written in a time where I felt the most alone. The only thing I don’t have, which saddens me, is the short story I wrote in sixth grade for Halloween and a short story I wrote in the fourth grade. I also don’t have anything before that, though Mom says I was either writing or reading.
It is absolutely amazing how much I’ve created and how little I’ve shown to people.
You hear people wanting to write because they want to be published. You hear people wanting to write never intending to publish. And then you hear about the people who live and breathe the written word. Where the very thought of having your words read by a total stranger is terrifying and thrilling at the same time.
It is absolutely amazing how much I’ve been immersed in the written world and how much I’ve accomplished today. Sure, I only have one short story published, a poem published by a vanity publisher, and a second draft of a book in the works. But, I’m at that second draft.
It is times like this that I realize I was born to do exactly what I am doing. I am meant to be a homemaker. I am meant to be a writer. But, most of all, I am meant to be who I am every day of my life. Today, I love myself.