I am writing this for the contest ‘How Writing Has Postively Influenced My Life’ hosted by Positive Writer http://positivewriter.com/writing-contest-how-writing-has-positively-influenced-my-life/#sthash.lKiCckuh.dpuf

Writing has been a positive influence on my life in so many ways. It has been my friend for most of my life. It was my friend when I was a child who had learnt to read. Books opened up my imagination, enticed me to dive in and swim up to the surface with my own ideas exploding. It was there for me then, poking me in the back, winking, telling me I could do it too. I could write a story. And then my head became full of them. They were with me all the time; the stories and the people that came with them. Thanks to writing, I have never been lonely, not once. Writing has been behind me the whole time, urging me on, winding me up, filling my head.

It was there for me when I was an awkward teen, full of self-doubt and negativity. There was always somewhere to stash those feelings when pen hit paper. Words would pour from me like blood being washed from a wound. Every word was a gasp, a letting go. At the same time though, I was holding on. Because I had something that was all mine. Something secret and precious, something that saved my life in so many ways. Something that more than anything else in my life, made me me.

When I think about who I am, I think of writing. When I think about what sets me apart, what makes me stand tall, what makes me smile, and dream and hope, I think of writing. It is something I can never part with, it is something that can never be taken from me.Without it, I would be empty, or I would explode.

I once let it drift. I was so busy with work and children and being exhausted. It was there in my head the whole time though, looking sadly on. Silenced, but still needling. It didn’t let me forget about it. Every time I thought it had gone forever, it would jump up and remind me, sending me off into a dream, a trance, conversations spiralling inside my head. People watching when I did not mean to. Plots weaving slowly between the voices that were piping up.

I got it back before it was too late. I had the urge one day to write and it was like something alive inside of me, clawing at my eyes. I found a notepad and pen and didn’t stop writing for about six weeks. Could I do it? Could I really do it? Rewrite one of my books, one of my stories from long ago? Did I have in me? Did I have any talent? Writing did not give me a choice. Once it had me back in its grips it was not going to let go again. Not a chance. Not ever.

Writing reminded me that I had books inside of me. I had people living inside my head. Actually living there! Knocking on the walls, banging at the door. They were fed up to the back teeth of this; living inside a prison, unable to speak. They wanted to tell their stories, and not just to me this time. They wanted to get out, right out, and into the open. They had all sorts going on, this lot. A real rabble. I’ve had to quieten them down, tell them to be patient and wait their turn. The thing is, some of them have been waiting so long! I don’t think I can write fast enough to keep them happy!

But they will get heard. They will get out. There are readers. I will make it happen. I won’t waste any more time.  Writing has been my friend my entire life. It has made me who I am, it has helped me deal with pain and confusion and desperation; it has taught me how to speak up for the people inside my head, how to make their words dance on the page. Writing is my addiction. It’s how I make sense of the world, and how I keep myself anchored to it. In conclusion, writing makes every single day of my life an exciting one.