As I was plugging away at my “novel,” which is really nothing more than a catharsis of the last three years, I kept batting around this idea of finding myself. I keep muttering to myself that if I keep at the process, I will find my way to the content. I’ve begun to consider that perhaps I’m not looking for someone I left behind three years ago. Maybe I need to discover someone entirely new.
Last night, 22,000 words into this thing, something happened. A sentence and a half into a new scene I scared myself half to death. Something new, but vaguely familiar was there. Perhaps it wasn’t entirely plausible or coherent, but it was there. Even after I got up, walked around the room for 20 minutes, and came back to check, it was still there. It might need a little more coaxing to come out again, but now I know it’s there.
I found my voice.