Being Me

The clues were there.

Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

As a child growing up in the 70’s I read constantly, and watched too much television, while my thirsty imagination was insatiable. To fill the drought, I crafted novels in my head. I didn’t know that’s what they were. To me they were a destination, an escape from my boring life. My secret garden–my shame, kept my mind engaged, while feeding and fueling my natural gifting.

What I used as a way to cope with my lonely and monotonous childhood was the breeding ground of my anointing.

Photo by Laura Stanley on Pexels.com

Had I understood myself better, I would have studied creative writing in college and gotten more from the experience. Instead I studied business and couldn’t wait to escape.

Once in the real world, I tried to pack my creative toybox away, like old Barbie dolls. The tendency kept cropping up, however, everyday life providing fuel for new stories. I didn’t understand or acknowledge it, but suppressing that part of myself kept me frustrated, and displaced until…

Finally, when I was in my forties, I found the courage to take the story out of my head and commit it to the page.

I found myself and peace and it all made sense.

Photo by Hernan Pauccara on Pexels.com

Published by maryn62

As an author of works of fiction I long to share the gift, God has given me. I enjoy the process of creating and believe I have more to say about it, that goes beyond simply doing it.

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