My husband asked me last night to write about the life of an Ironworker. I laughed and shrugged him off because I know nothing about being an Ironworker. Yet, later when I thought about it, it dawned on me that the only thing I really know how to write is about pain. Correction the only thing I am passionate about writing is my past pains. I mean I am capable of writing other things but that is not my milieu. I love to write and I guess that is my true passion but when I write it tends to be of the darkest nature. The struggles of the past meet the serenity of my present.

I know he was just throwing ideas out there, as he is in fact, an Ironworker. Yet, it stuck in my head like a rat gnawing on my brain. Yeah, I could write about the life of an Ironworker I have lived with one long enough to know about it and yet my mind instantly laughed it off as not tragic enough to write about. I mean what does he have to do. Get hurt on the job, oh wait he’s done that, or how about have to have surgery because of the wear and tear the job has done to his body, oh wait he’s done that too. He is a story unto himself and yet I balked at the idea because there wasn’t enough horror in it.What is wrong with me?

My writing seems to shine the most when there is talk, of abuse or neglect or just plain old psychological warfare going on.Maybe it is just a simple case of write what you know and trust me I know from which I speak. Yet is this all there will ever seem to be about me. The writer that can only write about the horrors of her past. Am I nothing more than a painful ball of more pain and sadness?  I was so busy trying not to fit into any genre, did I really just fall into one anyway? Maybe only time will tell, but for now, STEPHEN KING better look out there is another twisted writer in our midst.


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