I remember the first time I shared my fiction writing with anyone. Years ago… on an online forum where I could maintain anonymity. I thought my writing was good, but I had never gotten a second opinion and I didn’t completely trust my own.

The response was positive and overwhelming. I think I always knew I had imagination and talent, but I never had confidence. I don’t think I ever truly believed I was really good. So I went dark again. I still wrote… it would come in waves… but I didn’t share. Maybe I was just writing for me.

Writing is escapism. I have written what could likely turn into no fewer than five novels, possibly as many as seven. Yet most of them are not truly finished. I am inside those stories, in an imaginary life I created. I love my world. I never want to leave it and I never want to let my characters go. The ending is the hardest part.

Recently, I wrote something deeply personal to share, anonymously again, with a group of forum readers. (And maybe someday I will share that here.) Something happened after I spontaneously posted my personal struggle. Someone responded, to the matter at hand, yes, but also to my writing. She was impressed enough to suggest that I should be writing for others. A few days later, another reader intimated the same thing. The day after that, a very kind gentleman reader told me I had ‘obvious abilities‘ and I should clearly be writing… for myself… for others… for life.

His sentiment was spot on. I need to write for life. I couldn’t live without it. So here I am. Writing. Finally.