I’ve always had the feeling that I have a book inside me and I’ve tried to wrench the damn thing out several times over several years, to no avail. That was, until I started writing about myself, my thought processes and the terrible decisions I keep making in my life. At this point, it became clear that my mind does not work the way other peoples do and maybe, just maybe if I write it all out, I can help other people, get a few laughs and ultimately, help myself become less of a mentalist crazy person. Hope springs eternal and all that.
I can’t complain, it’s my unconventional mind that’s got me where I am today, I just wish it hadn’t taken me on a wild goose chase to get here, that’s all. Because of my vivid imagination and Disney view on the world, writing has always been a part of me, I just didn’t realize how deep it ran until I found the right buttons to press to make the words flow. I have been writing poems and lyrics constantly since I was sixteen – the same time, not so coincidentally that I found boys, or “disappointment” as it is more accurately known. It was then that I found my imagination was my gift and my downfall – if I could imagine it, why couldn’t I just damn well have it? Writing fills in the gaps when real life doesn’t deliver and focuses the crazy on something productive. I can write the words I wish I could speak out loud, get things off my chest and make something good out of the bad that I can share. What better gift could a girl have? (Maybe flying, but seriously, how many people can do that?)
