I have done nothing but write the past few days. It’s something I definitely love, now I am doing it for a living. I’m kind of in a limbo about how I feel about it. One part of me loves the fact that I am pursuing my passions and making money out of my one true love. Another part of me says that it’s not worth the sleepless nights and the exhaustion, and that I should just stick to personal blog writing. Yet, no matter what it is, the point is clear. I am writing for my life.
Writing has been a passion of mine since I learned to hold a pen. I have always had an overactive imagination and my head would fill up with stories, ideas and random things that I want to record and keep. I kept diary after diary, journal after journal and when the chance came for me to have a blog, i wrote it. My life is recorded in bits and pieces of literary work scattered around the internet and cluttering my room (to the point where my mother asked me not so kindly to throw it all out)
Yet no matter what I do, I could not part from it. It is my personal soapbox, my friend, my comfort and my shield. I write in every mood that I am in. I write to rant. I write to rave. I write to decide. I write when I can’t write. Maybe I was just born with a pen in my hand and I love it.
Just as long as I can write, I am happy.