The pen's in my hand

I never considered myself a good writer. I still don’t. My vocabulary is never as dynamic as I intend. My words lack the poetry I desire. Often my writing is in need of some polishing. Yet even with all my insecurities about it, shadows of my thoughts are available for anonymous voyeurs of my words.

In the past ten months, I have begun to own the wisdom I often impart to my students. Writing can help you process what is happening in your life - be it change, loss, anger, celebrations, etc… What you do with it is up to you. It is the process of writing that contains the power. What began for me as writing for others, a way to keep those close to me informed of my crazy world, has turned into a part of my life. I now write for me. That others enjoy it and follow along with my life, is a compliment. (I am shocked and amazed by the number of people who read and the many different countries represented. That is an entry for another time.) Writing has become a way to slow down the spinning in my head. A way to process and prioritize the important things in life. A way to get out of the mire of negativity and find the positive. It is my story. My life.

I look for creative and different ways to tell my story; the same way I look for creative and different ways to live my life. I want to keep things new and fresh in both what I put on paper and the adventures in which I engage. The writing will continue as will this craziness that is my life.

I am unwritten

Can’t read my mind, I’m undefined

I’m just beginning

The pen’s in my hand, ending unplanned

~from UNWRITTEN by Natasha Bedingfield

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WABDR: Section 1

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