by Nicole Trilivas
“I grew ill with misery. One friend enjoys recalling the sight of my wandering pale as wallpaper paste along Regent’s Canal, demented with unhappiness, convinced I had no purpose in life. I simply had not realised how much my idea of myself as a writer was fundamental to my wellbeing.”
— Sarah Perry from her post entitled, Lightening Strikes, which every writer needs to read immediately: (Lightning strikes )
Please promise me you’ll read this whole piece (Lightning strikes) in its entirety? It took me so long to understand that I must write. The first job I can ever recall myself want was to a writer (well, actually it was a ballerina and a princess), but the first actually attainable job I ever wanted was a writer. A poet, actually. It was in third grade, I think. I had just learned that poets didn’t have to abide by the standard grammar rules, and I was sold!
I wanted to be other things as the years passed: an artist; an archeologist (I blame Indiana Jones); an advertising creative (which I did eventually get to be); but the writer thing was always in the back of my mind.
I wish I had the guts to pursue it. I didn’t listen to my instinct and I never even bothered to take one single creative writing class in college. But now as an adult (technically anyway), I understand that I must be writing. I must because it’s fundamental to my wellbeing.