Because I'm Not That Girl Anymore.

I'm updating the blog less and less these days, because another writing project is taking up a good amount of my time.
I'm writing a story.
Maybe a novel.
I don't know what the finished product will look like.
While the subject matter is close to my heart, and most of the inspiration can be pulled from my memory and experiences, there are other characters, pieces of the puzzle, who will have narratives.
For that, I need to do my research.
So I have been.
If someone walked into my bedroom and saw my open notebook and books surrounding it, they would imagine something is very wrong with me.
I promise it's not.
I'm simply trying to do justice to a story that needs to be told.
It is my story.
A girl who on an October night, four years ago, saw no other way out.
I made it out.
She doesn't.
It's her side of the story.
Her reasons.
Naivety.
What her existence looks like now.
Insight by the people who weren't ready for her to let go.
My head has been flooded with words and inspiration over the past month, and it's like I can't get it down fast enough.
It's hard for me to verbally explain all the details from that time.
And if I try, I sound like an incoherent rambling mess.
But when it's on paper, it sounds strong, collected.
I hope when it's all finished, it's a moving story.
My favorite books are the ones that stir your soul, make your chest ache, push you to tears.
It's beautiful, it's an art, and a gift.
I hope I have it.
If I don't, then I wish eyes that need to read it will.