I have always wanted to write, since I was a kid. I used to hear a voice in my head that was narrating everything I saw (of course I didn’t tell anyone, even now as I’m writing this I realize how crazy it sounds) – the voice was addressing me in third person, as if I was a character in a book. Describing what I was doing, where I was going, etc.
As soon as I learned to read (about 4-5 years old), I started reading A LOT. I read pretty much everything I could find. Thankfully, we had an extensive collection of books at home. I loved books. I adored books. I remember asking my grandpa if he had read all the books that we had at home – and just to note, our bookshelves were stocked from floor to ceiling, seriously! He said “Yes” – and that was something that made me admire him even more. I was trying to imagine how much knowledge and wisdom a person would obtain when he read all those books. I’m pretty sure if he was still with us he’d be so proud of me for writing. He would be one of my greatest fans.
When I was about 10 or 12, I tried writing poems. About love, of course. And life in general. And autumn in particular. Sad and philosophical and romantic, you know the kind, I’m sure.
And then, at the age of 13-14, I moved on to prose. I tried different genres. I even started writing Terminator 3 (I was absolutely obsessed with those movies at the time, and crazy about Arnold Schwarzenegger too.) Who would have known we’d lose count of them at some point… But then again, what if mine would be better? And no, back then I didn’t know that fan-fiction was even a thing.
The problem was, I used to start writing different things, but I would never finish anything.
Next couple attempts to write happened in my early twenties. They again didn’t lead to anything – I have lost some of the self-confidence along the way and was too busy with everything else. One thing I’m really good at is keeping myself busy.
And then at some point – maybe, by the age of 30 – I gave up. Life was a rollercoaster, there were unexpected twists and turns, something was always more important, so eventually I put the dream of becoming a writer away. I hid it in a far corner of my mind for many years. Like those things in old shoe boxes that you put on the top shelf in your closet and leave them there for ages.
So my dream of being a writer had been collecting dust on that shelf until last year. The year when everything changed. When motivated and encouraged by my husband I dug out that shoe box, wiped off the dust, retrieved my life-long dream and decided that the time had come. The time to do what I was meant to do. To write my stories. And before the year was over, I finished the first draft of my book.
It’s not always easy. There are ups and downs. Sometimes I get stuck, sometimes I struggle with self-doubt and imposter syndrome. And I never have enough time – because I’m blessed to be a mom of a very adorable and very active 1,5-year-old.
But it feels right to be writing. It just feels right.
And it means that I am on the right track. I’m finally doing what I should be doing.
It’s never too late to start pursuing your dreams. I’m turning 42 next month. And I have a whole new writing life ahead of me. I have so many things to learn, so many stories to tell. I’ll just follow my dream from now on and see where it leads me.