Sitting in the sun, chatting with a fellow Playgroup attendee recently, I was introduced to a new lady, who’d come along to enjoy a slice of adult conversation, served with a side of sanity.
“Donna’s a writer!” Sharon had exclaimed, after swapping the usual introduction essentials with the new Mum.
Surprised, my first reaction was to scoff into my home cooked slice and offer a hasty retraction from the bold statement just announced. I felt the fraud police might just swoop in and escort me away with such sweeping generalisations used in conjunction with my name.
“I wish!” I exclaimed, before proceeding to explain that while I had the pleasure of seeing my name in print a few times, and harboured grand desires to one day see a book brandishing my love sweat and tears on the shelf of “all good bookstores near you” I was under no illusions I had earned such a title.
“It’s more like ‘wannabe writer’” I’d joked, hoping to clear things up before being asked for the name and title of any imaginary novel.
But Sharon, bless her, was quick to jump to my defence, telling the Mum of the time she excitedly, accidentally stumbled across one of my articles in a magazine.
I was quiet for a moment while the conversation swirled around me. I reflected on the way words had made me feel again, what joy coursed through me when a sentence, a paragraph, a chapter blended together seamlessly all of my own doing. With a vengeance, my love for fiction writing has come bubbling back up to the surface and I am consumed with a need to write that has been dormant for far too long.
Countless times, I’ve discovered I cannot even walk past my laptop without it, much like a magnet, luring me in. The story document stays perpetually within reach, always ready for a quick edit or addition of text.
There was one day recently, when my boy was in day-care, that I sat down to churn out a few paragraphs and suddenly realised three hours had sped by. Other times it is indeed only a sentence or two that can be squeezed in around the daily chores of life. But no matter the size of time I can dedicate its way, it’s never far from the forefront of my mind.
Suddenly Sharon’s voice cut back into my thoughts.
“Are you actively writing?” she asked.
And I thought back to my laptop, sitting on my kitchen bench and felt that familiar itch to be reunited with it, so I could continue to create my make believe world with words that were flowing so freely through me it felt as if there was metaphorical tap that had been turned to on.
“Well, you are a writer” she told emphatically. And I smiled with unashamed delight. For that is all I have ever wanted to be.