I’ve been fighting this strange addiction for as long as I could hold a pen. Even before I knew how to read or write, nothing thrilled me more than filling a crisp, white page with squiggly script.
When I was young, and my friends were caught up in the throws of the latest steamy romance novel, I was writing them. They starred me and whatever my freak flavor of the month was and no Victorian era romance could hold a candle to my creations.
As I aged and the terrible word “politics” entered my vocabulary, my words became weapons. Right down to a piece I wrote regarding the era’s drug culture and my right to partake of it. It ended up plastered over walls and shared on school buses, but because I didn’t have the balls to sign my name, no one believed I wrote it.
Then came adult-hood…and I still fight it tooth and nail with words. For every notebook I filled with the angst that comes with aging, every plea written in the dark, I stand tall and raise a glass. Those words may never be shared, but the fact I’m still here is a testament to their strength.
I’m addicted. I admit it.
And for once…I know no shame.