My mother always told me things happened for a reason.
I never really understood that – it was more or less an acceptance that the mysterious concept of ‘fate’ existed. It was also a way of rationalising unfair events that came your way. Plus, when you finally got to making amends with the fall out of the situation, you could probably still find just as many reasons why it shouldn’t have happened, as you could find reasons why it should have happened.
It was not the way it was meant to be. That’s another one. A way of appeasing yourself, when deep down you knew you probably could have done things differently or handled things better.
That was my general outlook. How could we not have control over our own destiny, our own life-paths?
Some-time ago, I began to see things differently, which is a nut-shell is why I find myself here. Writing was something I enjoyed all my life – the construction of full-bodied lyrical sentences, finding the right word that conveyed exactly what you were trying to say and watching your words come alive on a page when you read them back . I wrote stories as a child and countless diaries as a teenager. I wrote for a student newspaper and wrote many, many scrawled pages bursting with emotion following a break-up or heartache.
Then one day, my whole world as I knew it stopped.
And I began to write – properly. I don’t know if the pages of my half-written book are any good yet, but I just keep writing. And I love it and feel more liberated than I have ever, ever felt.
Maybe things do happen for a reason after all.
NMG.C
Whatsitallaboutandotherstories 