My fingers crave the keyboard like a crazed nymph who’s looking for passion in her myriad of dry lovers. Looking, looking and no one can satisfy that longing within for something that takes her way above her animal acts. One email after another. One enticing profile. The right word. The word that beckons.
Ah email. Can it even compare to an occupation that allows me to write and write all day? One where I can tell you why I love my Tall Vanilla Soy Lattes in the morning, and why I call my newest friend, jazz-muffin. How I can explain to you the days I find my body and emotions weighing in like the tides of the moon? And how bloated I feel after two nights of strawberries with sugar. Whoever thought that you could get fat from strawberries?
It’s like the word “Bingo” went off in my head. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve won “Bingo” in my head. That’s it. I am one step closer to my life calling. I will try that. And then I will try this. And then three years later, I am still trying to figure it out. Yeah, three years is about my average tenure.
I crave words.
Healing words. That’s what the voice said to me one night in bed. Every gift given seemed to have the word healing before it.
So today while beating myself up for lack of chores done once again, I asked myself, “What is it about the Net that drives me so.”
In one word, it came. Communication. Frustration. I want a creative outlet. And so tonight I am exploring what it takes to be a freelance writer.
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