I never used to tell anyone I wanted to write. Not even my family, although I underestimated how much other people can know you better than yourself at times; they knew I’d do it one day. I knew I’d do it too; I just needed the right moment in my life.
When I think back and wonder why I didn’t do anything about my writing dream for so long, I’m actually grateful. I took another path, experienced a different life and, now that I’m about to head into my thirties, I feel that I have some worthwhile things to say. I am not implying that no one should write in their twenties; this is merely my perception of my own life.
And now that I have ‘come out’ and made my dream public, I have been surprised. Not one person has scoffed or looked down their nose at me for doing this. I have not encountered even an ounce of negativity. When I really thing about it, my friends haven’t even seem surprised; perhaps they too could read my mind. Or perhaps those champagne-fuelled conversations involving me lamenting, ‘there has to be something more’ are actually making sense to them now. Maybe, just maybe, they have realised they are only now seeing me as I should be, rather than a created version of myself. Maybe they’re even proud of me for chasing a dream.
So, instead of the embarrassment I always thought I would feel; rather than the scorning faces of people around me, wondering why I would bother doing something I might fail at – I have been met with the polar opposite. Excited questions about the things I’d like to write about and what I’m working on, an amazing response to my first blog and again to this one and lots of appeals to ‘remember you knew me before you were a published author!’
As though I could ever forget how incredible the people in my life are.