writing for little me

I grew up a book worm; my parents always read to me and as soon as I learned how to turn pages and follow the words myself I was off.  I grew up reading everything I could get my hands on; adventure stories, animal stories, people stories- everything.  I moved into the teen section of the library by the time I was twelve and was reaching for the adult chicklit section before I turned fifteen.    As much as I did read I don't ever remember opening a book and recognising myself; not a book that I hadn't purposely tracked down first anyway. 

gathering rosebuds

Today - 3rd October - is the one year anniversary of getting my tattoo.  It's been one year since I stopped "thinking about" something I knew I wanted and just went for it.  One year since I decided to stop worrying about getting something seemingly cliche, stop worrying about what other people might think and just seized the flipping day and got it.

Today marks the anniversary of a day when I didn't let myself talk me out of doing something, a day when I just went for it.  It was a small thing but a giant thing at the same time and I have never once regretted it.