For as long as I can remember, I've written stories.
On construction paper.
On word processors.
I can meet a person and instantly dream up their story. I can imagine the backstory, the present, the future.
This can be a blessing and a curse. If I'm not careful, I can forget that my story is not reality; and let's be honest--reality is so much better.
On occasion, though, everyone needs to get away into a story. That is my specialty.
In my earliest memories of writing stories, I would sit on the floor in my Aunt Laurie's expansive home office and tell her the story I was dreaming. The office was long and narrow, with a high ceiling and built-in-shelves that spanned floor to ceiling. There were so many books, so many words; but she made me feel like my words were better and my dreams were bigger. She would type it all up, we'd add the perfect pictures, then print them out and add them to a purple, flexible binder. She called it my portfolio...long before I had any notion of what that meant, or that twenty years later, I'd actually need to have one.
And just like that--she created a moody, broody, daydreaming writer.
I could never be enough grateful.
I dove deep into writing in college, but it's one of those things I've shelved for "later".
Later when there's time.
Later when there's an audience.
Later when I have more experience.
Later when I'm older.
Later when whatever I write will be better received.
It doesn't even make sense to me why we--why I--put off the things we love; and like I mentioned yesterday, the gifts we've been given were meant for now.
It's about time we got around to using them.
What that you love have you been putting off?