As I typed this out, I can't be sure if anyone will read it, or if I empty fragments of the unfiltered brain into nothingness, however, I feel this post is kind of important. For me, it's life-changing. Despite how painfully obvious it is in hindsight - it's taken me 26 years to figure it out. I was searching in the corners of darkness, ignoring what sat flashing directly in my eye line.

I want to be a writer.

I am a writer. 
By all means, I write, therefore I am a writer. 
There is no difference between a writer, an aspiring writer and a real writer. They all write. Which is both what I intend to do, and what I already do. 

Since entering adult life, I've felt lost. I have known creativity flows through my mind, through my being, and maths not so much, or at all. But that's all I've known.

Blindly I've entered adulthood I felt the door viciously slam behind me, leaving me stranded.
"What next" I silently cried as I tried to make sense of the eery fog.

And then I found clarity in the depth of the misty air, and now it's time to move forward. Let the fog settle and clear. 

I completed a degree in Fashion, which I loved, which I am proud of, but still to this day have no idea what my intention was beyond getting on that hat and gown. 

I've worked for years at a job, which I got given, without applying. It gets me by and sometimes makes me smile. Also fuels tears and encourages me to hope for more, to work for more. I always felt more than that job, not because I am too good for it, simply because it's the wrong fit. I always felt incomplete knowing that was my 9-5.

I was remarkably average at school. You're talking to a straight C grader. Once, I received an A. It was a creative piece of writing which didn't count for much, but I remember sitting on the school bus tuning out of the other children's chitter-chatter, feeling excited to go home and do my homework.  It wasn't due for weeks, but the ideas were flowing and unlike all other work I should have prioritised, I wanted to do it. It was worthy of my immediate time. 

At Uni in our first year, we had one essay to write. I spoke to my lecturer, managed to twist the brief, as long as I included the theory I could be creative with it. I was joyful typing in the library, writer's block was a foreign mystery to me. I received my only First for that project.

Those are the only two projects in education, which I remember how completing them made me feel.

Since I've graduated. Time has flown. I've watched it fly past, like a child looking, waving to an aeroplane in the distant blue sky. My career has not moved. I have not felt pride, in fact, I've hit myself with the stick of disappointment. I've wasted years, on nothing.

Of course, blogging brought me purpose. I found joy through my camera lens, and a confidence I'd never experienced as I typed on my thoughts for the world to read, knowing full well, it would be few who would choose to.

I applied lipsticks on a counter, sold shoes, wrote about wedding dresses and changed endless nappies, and work felt like work. I felt stranded. 

A while back, me and my friend Jaynie we're having the important discussion of Instagram bios. I told her writing Blogger didn't feel right - we settled with a writer (funnily enough, now it says blogger, and writer - I am valid as both after all). For my birthday she brought me a print
"You don't write because you want to say something, you write because you have something to say" F Scott Fitsgerald.

I decided I want to write a book. I wrote a chapter.  Then, I got scared. I was no longer saying, I had started doing - so my character and her world, sit on my MacBook almost unwritten, incomplete. I can't help but think she deserves more than that. 

And then Laura Jane Williams changed it all. 

I signed up for her course 'Don't be a writer be a storyteller'

Whilst doing the course, I also realised I had a copy of Becoming which sat, unread. So I began to turn pages. 

I wrote more. I wrote fiction, explored language and played with characters. I felt an adventure at home. 

I found my Becoming.

I found what I always knew. I want to be what I am. I want to be a writer. I will on the day, get paid to write, and I will finish that book I started writing, and find a way to get it published, somehow I'll manage it. I'm keep typing and keep finding a way.  I'll write more until people read.

The snippets I share might change, might evolve. I want to practise my craft at every opportunity. On my Instagram, and on this website. There may not always be photos of my posts. Because, I am a writer, and words will be enough. 

So sorry if you stop by the for the lipstick chats, or if my words make you cringe. But I pride myself on honesty, and I want my work to be raw. I want to leave my soul behind in the letters, allowing the reader to capture it. 

But I intend to this to become I place I practise, a place I share, and I'm sure beauty will sneak in occasionally, but this world is for my words to flourish. 

They may need room to grow, that what this is. Allowing my words room to grow - You can't edit an empty page.