Stories and blogging

For as long as I can remember, without any exaggerating, I wanted to be a writer. From the time I could put sentences to together I've written short stories, and poems, a journal, and even stabbed at a few novels. I love to write, and to read. Words were my life. Paper... Oh the wonder of it. I could look at a blank piece of paper and feel excited for what was about to come. I love to think of things to say, to write them down, to go over it and write it in a better way, and then I became a mother. Slowly I lost my self, and everything that made me me, in being a mother. I spent so much time trying to be a good mom and wife, that I no longer was me. I could remember what it was like to be me, but that's all it really was... a faint memory. And with that loss, I also lost my inspiration, almost my ability to write. I'd take a stab at it every so often, but always felt like there was so much room for improvement. I had nothing to say. Or should I say, I lost my abilty to find the right words. I felt like a stranger to my words.
Then I began to blog, and though I don't write that often, or even that well, it makes me feel a little better. I'm starting to get into the swing of things. I've read two books. I've written a few things, I'm starting to feel like, maybe if I try a little harder I might be able to make my dream of being a writer a realty. So I thank you to my faithful blog readers.... (Erin, Cassie, and Fawn) For letting me clumsly write down dumb stuff! You are the best!