Who am I?
What do I want to be? Who do I want to be? When will I do what I want to do, be who I want to be? What? Which? Who? How? When? Where? Why? The list of questioning pronouns and adverbs is endless!
When and how did I decide to be who I am, what I am? Do you know, I don’t recall.
As far as ‘the what’ or writing is concerned, I’ve always had a deep love of books and words. Always had a runaway imagination and a deep desire to make up exciting and fantastical stories. At five years of age I was writing stories about marrying pop stars. At ten I was writing poems about the sea.
Did I always want to be a writer? Not that I remember. If memory serves me I wanted to be a singer and musician, back in the days when I could hold a note, before I strained my vocal chords. Stories and poetry were always a big part of my life but music consumed it.
When I was twelve or thirteen, I started sending poetry off to youth publications in the hope they’d publish it. Some did, some didn’t. It featured in schools publications as well as national magazines. And then, it stopped. The poetic flow literally dried up.
Luckily, the creative juices continued to flow in abundance when it came to writing essays and stories. Write, write, write – the bigger, the bolder, the better.
My attention started to be drawn to music reviews and features articles, and at some point around the age of fourteen, I hit upon becoming a journalist. Sadly, no-one ever encouraged this quasi-subversive choice. And it was a bit of an off the rails choice of profession at a time when women were still pretty much seen and not heard. A time when men reigned supreme over newsdesks and female journos were predominantly agony aunts, cookery columnists, or fashion writers.
Every time I was asked what I wanted to be, my unwavering response was “journalist”.
And yet I didn’t become a journalist.
A series of twists and turns, bad if well intentioned advice, and life swerves led me down a very different path. It wasn’t until several serendipitous chance events occurred that I came back to writing many years later.
No longer a girl, but still holding dear the same ‘wordful’ dreams.
Who am I? That’s probably one for a different day. What am I? A writer. At long last. I’m not the journalist I dreamed of being, but I’m a wordsmith of many guises. I blog, I review, I diarise, I summarise. I write for a living. I also write for the love of it.
A professional writer. I sometimes say it out loud, just to check that it’s my reality. Becoming a writer for me was like a jigsaw falling into place, all the bits fitting together to form the perfect picture.
What I wanted to be and what I became, while two different things, are not exactly poles apart. Not all of us can fully realise our early life choices, but we can choose to make things happen by taking matters into our own hands, which I did when I set up my own blog.
If life has taught me anything, it’s to never give up. Never say never, because serendipity, belief, karma, dreams are all magical things.
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