Tapped in.

As long as I can remember, I've always wanted to write. I'd roam the sparsely occupied aisles of the Gwinnett County Public Library as a heady daydreamer. Imagining myself in the scenarios of The Babysitters Club books I so often found myself checking out. I checked out Herman Melville's Moby Dick at age 10, thinking I could tackle the pages within it's three-inch-thick binding.

I think I've always liked writing because it gave me an excuse to escape from the somewhat dull and unadventurous youth I had. Everything about my upbringing was typically suburban. Okay grades in school. A slightly underwhelming social life. And a curfew that was always earlier than anyone else's.

I put writing on hold for a long time. Mostly because I think I was afraid that people would judge me too soon. My amateur skills being poked and prodded too soon was a nightmare to me. I didn't want people thinking I was some kind of freak who reverted to her computer or notebook to write what she was really thinking.

With the roller coaster ride of leaving high school, starting college, and beginning (and ending) my first really serious relationship, I didn't have any time to really get inside of my own head. I spent too much time over-analyzing situations, thinking of how I'd write about it or describe it later, only to shove it deep inside of my sub-conscious, regretting later that I didn't write myself a few quickly jotted notes of how to recreate whatever script played itself out inside of my head.

Now, with the more time I spend with my own thoughts and no one to really verbalize them to, I've rediscovered that little passion I once had for writing. Being inspired again by the collection of novels I've acquired but have yet to crack the fresh spines of.

Inspiration has been highly sought after. And I'm glad I've finally found it. Again.