How I Knew

It came to me recently. How I knew I was a writer. All the time things happen, good and bad, happy and not so much. And the first thing I’m prompted to do when things happen is write.    

I think about doing, but I’m not a surgeon or a soldier or a builder or much of a maker. And my First Aid was always shaky, for the longest time I tended to feel faint in hospitals. I like crafty things but almost failed sewing in school and I’m not much of a cook. Did I mention I’m a bit clumsy too? Also, I’d rejected being a reporter because I didn’t want to stick my pencil into other people’s horror. Or analyse sport.

At first and last I’m a writer. Somehow experiences get filtered and mix with imagination and inspiration and other mysterious stuff and come out the other side as  a story or a poem or a 200 word advertorial for a house for sale or something else set down in words. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s the same reason some people fight fires or study moss. All I know is when stuff happens and doing is needed, and I urgently want to do, I turn to writing.


About Becadroit

A writer compelled to review Doctor Who episodes and art exhibitions, while also commenting on writing and submitting short stories and working on novellas.
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