I’m a head-writing story teller. I wove tales to survive childhood. My first “book” was carefully printed with my best pencil in a scribbler with a bright orange cover, and rough, pulp-paper pages.
In my jangled life leading up to my break-down and jumbled, surreal world after, my head-stories were potential blog posts, and mystery novels (novellas, really). Without a therapist, I wrote for therapy.
The former “Carry-On Tuesday,” expanded my writing from being about me, to being me. Creative writing presented the infinite possibilities my life could not.
Now, my notebooks are full of a different set of head-tales. Moving away from my emotional, mental, and physical chronic pain as topic, to flights of fancy echoes of my childhood head-tales.
This summer, writing again keep me from going over the edge. Faced with new intense pains and hurting to heal mentally, responding to writing prompts distracted me.
And as with my writing as therapy, I met new people, gained from their insights and encouragement, and managed to stay grounded in a landscape of my own making.