Ernest Hemingway said, ” There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
When I was in the sixth grade, I started writing a novel. I was obsessed with the newly revamped Nancy Drew Files series, and I wanted to be a girl detective with a cute boyfriend named Ned in a convertible and go around solving mysteries all the time. Each time a new book came out, I begged my parents to take me to a bookstore and buy it for me. Since I couldn’t be Nancy, I decided that the next best thing was to write my own mystery with an awesome Asian female detective as the heroine. I filled an entire notebook, but when I got to her relationship with her boyfriend and her feeling and emotions, I got too embarrassed to write about them and soon lost interest altogether.
The only other writing I did after that was research papers and book reports on books I never read. It wasn’t until I was teaching fourth graders to write that I actually realized that I was fairly good at writing. When I started the photography business, I blogged and enjoyed it, but it wasn’t until recently, when I changed this blog to write about my adventures and such, that I really felt a passion about bleeding onto (virtual) paper.
Some days, I feel as if the words are trying to burst out of me and I can’t sit still until I release them onto paper. Those days the sounds of the clacking of keys fill the house in rapid secession. My fingers can barely keep up. Those days my heart is overflowing with the need to express itself and release whatever I am thinking about. Sometimes, a conversation will trigger a memory or thought, and the words just come to me, ready to march themselves onto the page.
Then there are days when I sit and stare at a blank screen, at the blinking cursor and draw a blank. Those days, I wonder why I committed to writing daily blog posts. Today was one of those days. If I owned a typewriter, I would be surrounded by crumpled up balls of paper, all the near misses while aiming for the trash can.
It’s funny how life is so cyclical and ironic. Twenty-four years later, I am writing a suspense novel again. And instead of being embarrassed writing about relationships, it seems all I do is sit at my virtual typewriter and bleed.