For many years I didn't want to define myself as a writer. For writers where people who wanted the world to read what they wrote. It took me years to even be able to scare pieces of my works with individuals through other means than just cyber space.
Writing a sequel to my first novel, I find it real ironic that after taking a course in creative non-fiction that my writing would have had a tremendous change on my life.
I started this blog hoping to find something that was missing. Trying to get past the loss of my best friend. Hoping that those elusive dreams that have been waved in front of me would be gone.
Those were fantasies, intertwined in the reality of it all. Though, as the excitement of a grand day comes to the end I realize that I feed off some want. Some dream to make my fantasy reality.
One such fantasy is that of me and a professional bull rider. He drives me wild. He makes me nuts, he makes me feel special and he doesnt even mean too. I read into things maybe a little deeper than some would say, but there is also the question of his momma.
Talking to them makes me feel that the years of heart ache that has been sprinkled into my life.
Though what it means to be a writer is being okay with opening up the heart ache. To analyze its repercussions on the enviroment. It means to take moments that seem unreal and make them reality.
Although every great writer must find their muse. I guess I found mine in the darkness which will one day through my writing produce rays of light. Light for myself to guide my winding path by, and light for my readers to chose a different road.
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