I've got a story inside of me.
It’s something that’s been building up for quite
a while—more than ten years, actually. I was thirteen when it began. I thought
it had ended in my teens. But it didn't. I thought it had ended when I moved
away from home. But it hasn't.
It’s my favorite story, something that I hold so close to my
heart that I don’t let it out very often. It’s my little pick-me-up piece of
candy that I pull out of my pocket and enjoy on a bad day. In order for me to
tell it to you, you have to be very, very close to me. I don’t want to ruin it
by spreading it around too much. I might break a very delicate, magical spell.
But someday I’ll tell it. I’ll tell it to everyone. I've
tried dozens of times. You have no idea how often I've put my fingers on the
keyboard, poised to write it all down. There have been so many times when I've
started a draft, determined to put it all down on paper. But I never make it
very far. It’s like the story doesn't want to come out yet.
I mentioned this to a friend recently who I've told the
story to before, and she said something that I had never really thought about
before. She said, “It’s not done yet. You won’t be able to write it until it’s
done.” I like that, and I think she’s right.
So someday, I’ll be ready to write my story. Someday, when I
know that the story is ready, it will be born, and it will be beautiful. But
until then, I’ll just dream and enjoy it while it lasts. And then someday, I’ll
share it with the world.
