I stare at my blank email page. I have stories to share, stories that need to be heard.
But, I can't.
I'm a weak being. I have notebooks full of stories, I've only told to myself. I can feel my characters nudging me to just send their story in. Who cares if anyone doesn't like it? The different colors of notebooks haunt me. They want to be shared. They don't want to be shut up in a closet, only to be seen by my own eyes. They want to share what's inside the cover blocking them from being shown. They want to have hands, other than mine to flip through their thin papers filled with my handwriting, they want to have different eyes to glance at those beautiful words and read.
I just can't though. I don't have the confidence I used to have, back in '09. The Times Editor's inbox was over flooding of my emails trying to share my writing. I tried to write one every week, maybe two if I could. I let my fingers tap each individual key with confidence exploding out of my finger tips. I didn't care who saw it, I just needed to share it.
Now, I barely send in articles. I don't want anyone to see it. Instead of going right to the computer to write after school, like before, I lock myself in my room and let myself write on notebook. No one will ever see it there. I carry the notebook around with me, every class and even lunch. It's the closet thing I have, instead of typing on the computer and letting myself get carried away. I write in my notebook letting my pen fill the pages with words of sadness, happiness, anger, and frustration.
I used basketball practice as an excuse, I really did have basketball practice, but it was only from 3:00 to 4:30. I had plenty of time between dinner and homework. Sure, I put in time for extra practice, but I never sent aside time for writing, which is what I really needed.
This article will be the first of many articles to come. I'm no longer letting my stories or ideas build up in my head, layer by layer. I'm starting to unwrap the layers that have been build up over the weeks that seemed like months. The layers of ideas that are still continuing to build are my inspiration to write what I feel, and not make anymore excuse of why I haven't written in so long.
I feel like I have two little buddies on my shoulder. One is telling me to go for it, the angel so to speak, the other is telling me I can't, or the devil. I have a war going on inside of my head. A war over words. Blood hasn't been shed, only words. The power of words has taken over my brain. I can on longer think for myself. Two voices are talking for me when I write. The 'angel' on my shoulder tells me, I'm good and I should send it in; the 'devil' just tells me I write horribly and I should hurry and delete it before anyone sees it.
I'm starting to overcome my fear and ignore the "devil" on my shoulder and pay attention to the "angel". Annie's coming back. . . .
I have made a comeback.
