writing and how it saved me

Sometimes I stare out the window and just marvel. At rain, or clouds, or how the world keeps spinning. 

Mostly I marvel about how writing saved me. 

Once upon a time, I was a very different girl. A girl who didn't like herself. Or life. A girl who thought maybe if she left for good, off into that nothingness void, no one would mind. 

Today I researched the five stages of grief for a WIP and realized, when I was that Very Different Girl, I went through all five stages. And right on the edge of the last stage, Acceptance, right when I was getting used to the idea of a world without me, writing found me. 

Writing listened. It let me say the things I wanted to, the things I felt, without judging. It just blinked its cursor at me and gave me more page space. Infinite page space. I could say anything. So I said everything. 

Soon, I started looking forward to writing. I woke up happy that I got to write another day. I had a purpose. I could swallow anything life threw at me, as long as I could sit down at the end of the day and write until my fingers went numb. Writing let me create, and love, and hate, and cry, all at the same time. 

I didn't think about leaving life, anymore. 

I'm okay now, of course. Time heals all wounds. 

But writing helped me hang in there until Time could get to me. 

In a way, it's a religion. But writing is so much more than that. Maybe one day I'll be skilled enough to explain it right. 

It is a state of being. A force of energy. The prettiest, quietest supernova you will ever feel the heat of. 

I hope, I really, really really really really really really hope, that the love I have for it reaches you when you read my stuff. My books. There will be many. And I hope, wherever you are, you'll read them and feel my love in a non-creepy way.

Or in a creepy way. 

EITHER ONE WORKS.