Since leaving the workforce for good, I had little money and plenty of time to spend. I looked for things I could do without seeing anyone, talking to anyone, or draining my meager fund and signed up for a free blog.
When I woke up in the morning, I put a jacket and a cap on and walked the dogs. Once back from the walk, I took them off and fed the dogs. Then, I sat at the desk in my raggedy t-shirt, my uncombed hair in a disheveled bun. A cup of green tea blew off steam next to me.
Words and images swirled in my head, waiting to come out. They pushed and shoved, urging me on.
“I have nothing to say…” No, no. That doesn’t work. “I don’t know what to say…” What am I saying? “Let me first tell you…”Argh, I suck!
I wrote prose, revised and edited, drew illustrations, and rewrote again before finally clicking the “publish” button.
People read and responded to my posts, and I started to wonder if I had found my place in cyberspace, among the likes and comments of the people I had never met.
“What do you do?” someone, once again, asked.
“Willingly unemployed…and I blog.” I now replied.
The more reaction I received on my posts, the better I wanted to write and draw.
An ad on the paper caught my eye. “Writers’ workshop for beginners,” it said.
I’m not a “writer”… am I…?
I emailed the facilitator of the workshop, and, to my surprise, he emailed right back inviting me to the next meeting.
“…I’m not a writer…English is not even my first language…” I blurted out as soon as I met him in person.
“Do you write?”
“I have a blog…”
“What do you write?”
“…I’ve written memoir pieces and a couple of flash fiction…”
“You’re a writer then.”
Once a week, I shed the heavy cloak of a recluse and crawled out of the cocoon, following the streaks of light.
Continue to part four.