Cichol's Folly
Dreamer
Good Evening.
I've spent the better part of an hour reading through the preceding introductions on this forum, and am beginning to question if I am in the right place. So many of you are here because you have a deep and intense passion for writing as an art form. You are seeking the tools needed to hone your skills to a fine point, sharp enough to carve your name into the analogs of written lore. Some of you have already tasted success, and are here to ensure a repeat visit to the banquet. To all of you, I offer my sincerest luck.
That is not me.
I am not a writer, nor have I ever identified as such. I have never fantasized about seeing my name in glossy raised letters on my local bookshelf. Frankly, the idea of letting others read my work is abjectly terrifying. It is not a hobby for me. It is not a career path, or step to financial gain. For the better part of a year, writing has been the only thing keeping me together. It is a balm for jagged nerves. An outlet for raging torrents of emotion that have no other outlet. It is my soul, writ for the world to see.
I do not write my story because I want to. I write it because I have to. The characters are all there waiting for a voice. I have gotten glimpses here and there, and done my best to bring them to life. But it is like trying to sketch a portrait based on reflections in the shards of a broken mirror. I lack the tools to fit them together, so that I may see the whole image. It is my hope that I will find what I need here. Perhaps I can finally give them the voice they deserve.
I've spent the better part of an hour reading through the preceding introductions on this forum, and am beginning to question if I am in the right place. So many of you are here because you have a deep and intense passion for writing as an art form. You are seeking the tools needed to hone your skills to a fine point, sharp enough to carve your name into the analogs of written lore. Some of you have already tasted success, and are here to ensure a repeat visit to the banquet. To all of you, I offer my sincerest luck.
That is not me.
I am not a writer, nor have I ever identified as such. I have never fantasized about seeing my name in glossy raised letters on my local bookshelf. Frankly, the idea of letting others read my work is abjectly terrifying. It is not a hobby for me. It is not a career path, or step to financial gain. For the better part of a year, writing has been the only thing keeping me together. It is a balm for jagged nerves. An outlet for raging torrents of emotion that have no other outlet. It is my soul, writ for the world to see.
I do not write my story because I want to. I write it because I have to. The characters are all there waiting for a voice. I have gotten glimpses here and there, and done my best to bring them to life. But it is like trying to sketch a portrait based on reflections in the shards of a broken mirror. I lack the tools to fit them together, so that I may see the whole image. It is my hope that I will find what I need here. Perhaps I can finally give them the voice they deserve.