I had a speaking-gig last Thursday, presenting on public speaking techniques for writers to an association of romance writers at their monthly get-together. It went well and I could expound long and happily at what I think was a pretty good workshop – but that’s not the story I want to tell today.
As part of their meeting the leader-du-jour gave everyone a ‘do it right now’ writing assignment – she asked everyone to write for 15 minutes on ‘why I write’, so It seemed appropriate I participate too.
This is what flowed from my pen:
I write because I don’t go to A.A.. I don’t go to A.A. because I didn’t use A.A. to quit drinking 32 years ago. I quit drinking because I was an unhappy, depressed and near-suicidal alcoholic.
I wasn’t an alcoholic because my dad was an alcoholic. Actually I didn’t have it so bad. I came from what I thought was a functional family. I thought we were normal, I thought I was normal – because ADHD and co-dependency were terms that hadn’t been invented yet.
An only child, I grew up in an abnormal family believing I was a normal kid but knowing my family was strange. I thought I was adopted for much of my childhood. I just thought they weren’t telling me, because I knew we didn’t make sense and seemed different from other families.
I write to find out how I feel about things.
I write to figure out what I would do and who I would be if I wasn’t me.
Not sure if they’ll have me back. I only wrote for 5 minutes …
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