Nothing to it
“Lock up your libraries if you like; but there is no gate, no lock, no bolt that you can set upon the freedom of my mind.” ― Virginia Woolf, A Room of One's Own
I love writing. I can do it anywhere, anytime. Scribble. Or type. Think about it. Or pour my heart out. Any way I like it. There are no rules. Maybe you think there are, but believe me, there are not. How awesome is that? I can just think of something, or make stuff up, write it down.
I have a voice. Like you. You may not know it. You may not think it. But you do. Find it. Use it. Like I do.
Do I want to share it? Keep it to myself? It is up to me. I am in charge. And I love it. There are so many options. I can decide. I have control. Or maybe I just let go. Who knows? I just start, just do. Discover how great I can be. Am. Or how bad I suck. It doesn’t matter either way.
I don't need to be a reader. I know that now. I thought I had to, but no more. I just have to want to write. And I do. And I do.
I can look different. I can look the same. I can not be seen. I can be lifelike. Fake. Whole. Or broken. I can get mean. I can be gentle. I can be me. Or somebody else. Anyone else. I get to pick.
I don't have to wait. I can do it now. Here.
I can post. Share. Or not. Now, or later. I can be safe, or seek out danger. For real, or just on the page. And what is real? When I write, it becomes real. As real as can be. As real as I want. As you want it to be. For you. I just wrote it. You read it. It is my gift to you. To me. Take it, leave it. I want it, I have it. You can have it. If you want it.
I can tell a story. My story. Somebody's. Anybody’s. I can be truthful. Or lie. And it is all right. It is all good. Or bad. It really does not matter. But I do. I just do. I just enjoy. I hope you do too.
I wish you well.
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