I have always enjoyed writing but it isn’t something felt I was good at as a young person. I wrote stories which I made into books as a child, but when my sister started the same thing, it was hers that my parents held in esteem. I suppose after a while, you sort of get to believe that it isn’t something you should be doing. I came to accept that I wasn’t creative and while my writing was technically good enough, it wasn’t something which would bring people pleasure to read. I knew that if I could choose to be anything it would be a writer, but I put that ambition into the unrealistic dream file, where others might keep the footballer or the pop star, and focussed on trying to find something I could do.
In secondary school I was part of the newspaper team and I did think about things such as journalism. Again, it was not something that was encouraged and my work seemed to mostly go unnoticed next to others. During my final year I studied English and the three hour long creative writing paper which was part of the exam solidified my thoughts. I could write, but not creatively; I just didn’t have the original ideas that seemed to come to others and while I was fine at the analytical stuff, my fiction just didn’t cut the page. What I did discover at this time was poetry. It was no longer the doggeral of the former years and I rejected a traditional rhyme scheme for something more abstract and sophisticated.
The first poem I wrote for myself was written during the night. I woke in the morning and discovered it beside my bed, my mind emptied onto the page, a seeming cure for my insomnia. It interested me that between the words and the lines, I was able to learn about myself. Poetry became my medium and my outlet. During this time I was thinking a lot about things and became quite introspective. What I wrote was dark and it was personal. It reflected the struggles I had with myself and with my thoughts. I enjoyed playing with the images, but it was never something that was meant to be read by anyone else. It helped me, not just as a way to express my subconscious feelings, but as a way to articulate, analyse and understand them.
By the time I had qualified as a teacher of English, I was thankfully in a better place emotionally. But ironically, whilst my job meant encouraging creativity in others, my trade meant that I had to cast the most critical of eyes over even the finest of writing. For some reason I could not apply the motivation I saved for others to anything I wrote myself. I still was not a writer. I think that seeing some of the best writing I have ever come across, flow naturally from the pens of some of the young people in my classroom, cemented my ideas. I no longer thought about writing in anything other than a functional way. My need for the poetic stream of consciousness which flowed in symbolic images onto the page to be processed had passed, and there had never been any stories in my head, other than my own.
I did still write though. I wrote reports, and letters. I wrote lessons and critical accounts. I wrote study guides and instruction manuals. Words became my thing and each one I used took on an importance for me. As I taught others about how they were used, I realised that I used them well myself. As I expressed the importance in learning that words could get you what you wanted, I realised how much I had always made them work for me. I came to see that the value of writing as entertainment or escapism, was only a small part of what mattered. Being able to write stories had been presented as the true talent at the expense of many other forms. It had been emphasised and prioritised and the sort of writing I could do had not been validated in the same way.
I began to write again, mostly when inspired by events in my life that I felt passionate about. My anger, my frustration, my incredulity at things I saw and experienced spilled onto the page, often with humour and an insight that seemed to come from somewhere beyond me. It might not be valued and revered in the same way as fiction, but reflection and persuasion were forms of writing which sat comfortably with my style and my ideas. While my poetry had come from a depth of pain, my reflective writing and observational story telling was so much closer to the surface. I suppose I have always seen myself as a realist and so writing about things which were real for me seemed to be the right outlet to choose.
When I finally acquired the vocabulary to articulate the sort of relationship I wanted, I knew that I needed more than a badly written trilogy to help me on my way. There was a dearth of relevant writing on Dominant and submissive lifestyles such as the one I wanted to follow, and an even smaller number which were well written and real. I read and read anyway, both fiction and non, and devoured anything on the topic that I could find. I learnt most about what worked for me from doing rather than from reading, and it wasn’t until a while after I had started my own blog, that I realised that blogging was where a lot of the real writing actually was and that probably the content, quality and relevance I sought had been there all along.
My purpose in starting my blog was to share my journey as a married submissive in a full-time D/s lifestyle in the hope that others might read and connect with it. Essentially, I wanted to create what I had looked for myself. I also liked writing and was excited about the idea of being able to do that on a bigger scale than I had been doing. I wanted to feel like a writer, and writing my blog allowed me to do that. What I came to realise quite quickly was that more than leaving information for others, I was writing to process and make sense of things for myself. The poetry of the past was gone, but often I would sit down and the words would seem to come from somewhere beyond myself.
In reality I don’t really write for others, although it is always nice when other people connect and comment on what I have said. I write for myself. I write because I enjoy it and it helps me. I like the structure and the routine of it. I like the creativity in playing with the words and shaping the ideas. I wouldn’t call myself a writer although a lot of my time is spent writing. I enjoy the process as well as the product and blogging has allowed me an outlet I never really thought I would have. It has allowed me to explore and experiment and it has become such a big part of me, I am not sure where I would be without it. Words are at my core and to be able to channel them into something I can publish feels good, and it has allowed me to become a little part of what I always wanted to be.