Styna

Let me start by saying there was a very limited time of my life when I actually considered being a writer... It directly coincided with the point in time when all my clothes were black, and I wore far too much eyeliner.
I mostly wrote poems about emotional pain that I couldn't have even begun to understand at the time.
At some point, in middle school, I wrote short stories for my English teacher, only to get out of doing the actual assignments. Stories about zombies, and the mafia. Though I enjoyed writing them, it wasn't really something I wanted to pursue.
By the time I was fifteen, I was absolutely certain I would become a famous actress (after having no acting experience at all, unless you count a Spanish version of Chicken Little in fourth grade...). I was so certain, that even my mom was certain. Together, we were so certain that we moved from Ohio to Los Angeles.
As 99% of these types of stories go, I did NOT become a famous actress in the 10 months that we lived in L.A.
I DID convince my mom to buy me a guitar before we moved to Maine, which I taught myself to play. Then I was certain I would become a famous musician, just like my dad.
Well... He never got famous, but he'll always be a rockstar in my mind.
The first song I wrote was about hoping someone I really disliked would choke on a skittle and die...
I didn't become a famous musician, though I do still make music.
What drove me back to writing was pain. Not the type of pain I thought I understood when I was young. No, real physical pain.
After developing Fibromyalgia, along with severe anxiety and major depressive disorder, I became less and less physically capable of doing much of anything.
I spent my days confined to my couch, mindlessly watching movies and tv shows as an attempt to distract myself from the pain, and often failing.
Until, one day, I started writing about a dream I had when I was younger.
That was when I started writing The Energy Room.
That was when my unreasonable obsession with becoming famous ended, and my physical need to continue writing began.
Writing gives me the chance be alive, a chance that I really thought I had lost, and limited only by the boundaries of my own mind.
Maybe limited slightly by the small bladder of my rottweiler... but mostly by the boundaries of my own mind.