I loaded my bags into my jeep as my glance fell on the light post nearest my parking spot. The remnants of an old sticker faded and peeling plastered on it caught my eye. Without a thought my writer’s mind kicked in. A narrative voice began speaking, “her glance fell on the nearest light post as she loaded her groceries into her old jeep. The old faded sticker that had been plastered to it years ago claimed to be able to help some poor fool lose weight if he would dare to call this number.”
“Awwk” I reprimanded myself as I climbed in and turned the key. I wondered if anyone else had this voice in their head, if anyone else had what I called a “writer’s brain”. I don’t even know when it began. Somehow I think it’s been there since I was a kid. Every little mundane thing that happens somehow gets narrated back as if I were writing it up into a fascinating story. Most times it happens with out me even noticing it. I have air written a million situations in my mind. Written words that have simply, silently floated out to never land not to be thought of again.
I began my writing career, if I may call it that, when I was just a girl of 5 or 6 years. When I barely was able to spell, I began writing about kings being mere men with a lot of money. I wrote in all of my five years of wisdom of princesses and kings as if I had first hand knowledge. My juvenile words made my sisters and mother giggle and something clicked inside me. A new-found love of entertaining with words began to blossom. An outlet for my thoughts and emotions took root.
My love of words led me to become a ferocious reader. I admired many an author. Had writer’s crushes on a few. I could be found (or not found) with a book in front of my face any moment that wasn’t filled with some other task. Words were like silk and swirled and flowed as I read them. I loved words. I loved to read them. I loved to discover how others wrote them. I loved to write them. I loved to manipulate them. I read fiction and historical, I read sci-fi and horror and fantasy and love novels. I became hooked on and bored with many authors. I can only assume this is when the narration took voice in my head.
My writing developed over the years. My life can be documented by my writings. The pages have waxed and waned depending on the stages. The more emotional my life the more writing would be produced. Writing was my counselor and best friend. I could cleanse my soul as tears fell and fingers flew on the keyboard.
In my early teen years I fell in love with poetry. To interpret and write poetry gave me hours of pleasure. As unrequited loves came and went, my pen scribbled. As dreams of my future and thoughts of my past presented themselves, I continued to write.
In my later teens poetry flowed as I wrestled with the emotions of my unplanned teen pregnancy, continued to flow as I played out my rocky restless twenties.
In my college years I had poems and articles published in the college anthology and campus newspaper. It felt great to have people stop me and chat about the latest article and tell me what it meant to them. I would read and re read the article or poem mentioned just to try to see what that particular person may have taken from it.
Then came the blogging years. When I began, I believed I would never stop. What an amazing thing to be able to write to your heart’s desire and have an immediate audience. But, alas, I go through spurts where I produce a fair amount of writings and then go for months with nothing at all. I don’t believe I have full knowledge of how blogging really works. I feel I may be the only one that cares about my little blog spot. It’s my own little world where, here and there, a few people may peek in and meander on.
But through it all one dream remains. The dream to release that narrator in my mind. To give her her own unique voice and grasp it long enough to get it all recorded onto paper. Fully producing an actual novel or book is the dream that has never reached fruition.
As I enter my later life that little voice is with me always. Sometimes its fierce and demands to be heard but sometimes she’s meek and speaks only softly. I know I would be lost it if it were to silence. So I continue to blog and type away in order to feed that voice and keep her alive. I am a writer of all things mundane and emotional and joyful and sad. I am a keeper of dreams, memoirs and thoughts and ideas. In my other life, that grand life in my mind, I am an author.
Sara Jane Rauch