I write good stories. Maybe this is not what your meant to say, but I struggled with insecurities that plagued my enjoying writing and reading for a long time. In the last few years rereading my quick scribbles and thought out pages, I acknowledge, I write good stories. My technique could be better and has gotten better. I have cringey paragraphs like everyone else, but they’re my early signs of a first love. I’m sharpening my pencil and again acclimatising my ears to the sound of a typing keyboard. If you’ll indulge me reader, I’ll share some stories along the way. I can’t promise perfect and I know you won’t enjoy every piece but dear reader, the writer in me is awakening again. I give her permission and space. Too many years later, I am not asking her to be good enough first. Too many years later, I am giving her the safe space the younger me needed. Adult me (thanks to God) is killing the negative voices.
Let the critics and critique come. Because dear reader, these stories are not for you. These stories are for the teen me who picked up a book and never wanted to stop escaping in-between the pages. I am writing again. Tell Seneca I finally got it. Over a decade after making it a mantra and a wall hanging, I have truly begun to be a friend to myself.
V.
after the wilderness 