I am 24 and overwhelmed.
I started writing exactly ten years before today - my first story. And the only piece of fiction I have written yet. It was the story of a family of bears living in the woods - the parents and their two children. It was a happy home. They had all their meals together and lived each day fully, there was always honey to share. The story was of the baby bear who lost her way on her way back home. Oh the loneliness the child felt and the fear of not finding her home again. I had no words or experience or idea of how that must of have been. Now, at 24, I feel her. I feel her a little too much. Writing was my way to talk, I started writing in my pursuit of seeking an outlet. I wanted to let go. In the world outside, I didn't know how to, didn't think I could, didn't think I should. But with words, I thought I could have my way. I could plot, plan, write, edit, scrape a draft, submit... I owned what I wrote. With my writings, I felt that I had something to call my own. As I grew,...