I forgot about my humble state compared to the world of published authors. I just had to write. I wrote it in notebooks and on scraps of paper. Secretly. But I loved it. I loved writing it, and I loved reading it. I laughed and I cried, and I finally called myself a writer, regardless of any possible future manic laughter at my cheek. Then I had to come out of the closet. But luckily that wasn’t too bad. When I finally decided that I wanted to publish it, I admitted to my nearest and dearest what I’d been up to, was massively surprised at the support I got, bought a computer, went online, and started learning about how to get it published. Since then, I’ve discovered that I am a writer after all. Looking back at my life I see that I always have been, and I’m a little sad that I lacked the courage to start earlier. I believe now that writers are born, not made in schools, and that if you are one, you’ll find out sooner or later. Then all those strange collections of pristine notebooks and hundreds of pens that you just had to buy, even though you had no idea what you needed them for, make total sense.
People who don’t give up, no matter what odds are stacked against them inspire me. Those beautiful souls that give up so much of their own lives to help others. People who really care. And life. The fact that I live and breathe is a constant inspiration to me. I love to look around me, and see it all.
Each tiny detail on a beetle’s foot, or the amazing smallness of the Earth, tiny little fleck that we are, tucked in amongst the rest of the billions of other worlds that are out there in the universe.
These things all inspire and excite me.
I have hundreds of little notes stashed all over the place, from when these things catch my attention every day, and start new stories in my mind.
I’ll need to live a few hundred years to tell them all.
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Inspiration.