Fate and Writing

It started a little more than ten years ago when an unnamed event happened in my life. I pulled out my first journal, making each person a character. I had written a few things before then, mostly poetry and songs - I even had one of each published. I liked writing, and this story was inspiring, as I had the same dream for as long as I could remember and here was a way to turn it into real life.

In the summer of 2000, my life took its first unexpexted turn, and it stole any motivation I had to express myself. I put down the pen (yes, I hand-wrote everything) and forgot about it. My life took tumble after tumble - those who know me well have an idea of the corkscrew I was riding, so no need to go there.

In a nutshell (you like that?), my life was not my own for a long time. It was like fighting Fate. What I wanted on one side and the Wheel on the other, pulling at me until I had to give up one side, and Fate won her hand.

But, dear friends, I started to see the surface of the pool I was drowning in. I looked around and wondered What Happened Here? I was scarred, both literally and physically, but I felt strong. Like I could fight Fate again.

And then she came to me. The girl in the dark blue dress who had haunted my dreams so long ago. Her hand brushing along a stone wall in a stone hallway, the only light - candlelight. I can hear her breath as she runs toward something unknown. There's a longing; I feel it everytime. And the dream had always ended with a closed wooden door - the kind with heavy iron hinges and bolts, but this time, the door stood wide open and I gasped awake as she walked through.

Two days later, my writings magically came to me. Physically in my hands. I almost cried at the sight of them. Had Fate herself come to me in the dream?

I dove into it. And I dreamed freely, so unlike me. My fingers found their own way on the keyboard, typing out the visions from the night before. I had not felt so much like myself in years. And the more I wrote, the more I realized it was not Fate who had shown herself, but another version of myself; a side that needed to come out, a side who's story wanted to be told.

This time I will not fight. I will allow Fate to take over without a fight. Maybe she knew what she was doing. Afterall, she led me back to being a stay at home mom so I could kiss my sweet boys all day.

And don't worry, my fans of the needle - I'm still sewing, only now I pause to work on my first novel, Epitropos

EDIT: Shortly after writing this, I grabbed my old yellowed and tattered copy of The Vampire Lestat - the same one I dragged around at the age of 14. The smell of that book is simply delicious. I ran a hot bath and settled in. On the very first page, next to the words, "Here is Lestat" is a handwritten note from the former me. It's a simple note - "p72". I don't remember writing such a thing, but I turned quickly to that page and nestled in between pages 72 and 73 there rested a dried four-leaf clover.
On page 73, the clover had made one paragraph a lime green color - a highlight made naturally over time. And here is what it said:
"'You're the mad one,' I said. 'If you could see yourself, hear your own voice, your music - which of course you play for yourself - you wouldn't see darkness. You'd see an illumination that is all your own. Somber, yes, but light and beauty come together in you in a thousand different patterns.'"
I plan to see myself - to hear my own voice. To make my former self happy.