When I walked into my new bedroom, I saw an earthy-toned paisley rectangle that held together a stack of empty cream lined pages, lying on my lent queen size bed. I looked behind me where my aunt’s ocean blue eyes met my hazel ones.
Then, she said, “I thought it might help you to write things down during this time.”
For a little over 12 years now, I have filled a drawer full of beige leather bound, pink canvas covered, green ribbon wrapped, purple spiraled metallic journals. These authentically handwritten books contain the deep, rich and organic stories of my own journey through womanhood.
But two years ago, I noticed a change in my secret writing; my main audience was not me anymore, it was the world, but more specifically, women. Shortly after, I started putting my personal narratives, article/blogging ideas and the start of my memoir into my brown Sony Vaio laptop. A year later (i.e. this past July), I was sitting in writer’s workshops at a local university. It wasn’t long until I was signing up for another writing seminar and realized that I don’t just want to be a writer, I am a writer (and have been for quite some time).
