One of my old flames

I wore a dress today with no sweater and went downtown for the afternoon to read, write, and people-watch. It feels like everyone vacated their homes for the sun today. They are all wanting to experience those last rare summery feelings while they can. That's what I love about this town; if it is a day where you can be outside, they are outside doing something whether it's biking, longboarding, or reading outside the coffee shops. Of course there is the odd person who feels the need to wear a bulky jacket along the boardwalk. The breeze is cool on the water.

I met up with Laura and Sophie at the Presse Cafe this afternoon to do some reading and writing. It is part of my list of year goals. I want to finish "The Making of a Story" by Alice LaPlante and write more. When I was really little, I filled up scribbler after scribbler with stories and stored them in the bottom drawer of my white dresser, the drawer that never seemed to stay on its tracks. As I got older, I upgraded to the computer. Instead of filling up the bottom white drawer with stories, I sat at the computer for hours, typing away and filling up the folder, "Becca's stories". Writing was one of my loves.

I miss that. One of my oldest loves became an old flame.

Somehow, when I got to university, my writing habits changed. Instead of spending hours upon hours writing about princesses, orphans, and families; I wrote analytical essays about poetry, religion, and history. Don't get me wrong, I loved writing those papers. I really did. I will never forget some of those papers and the impact that they had on me, such as my paper on Eli Weisel's "Night" (if you haven't read that book, you must). However, as much as I loved researching and writing papers and will probably always have a need to be writing like that, I do miss fiction writing.

I've started doing it again. I have the time and the desire, so I should. Like many situations in life, if you have a deep-set desire and pulling towards something, sometimes it may be worth the risk. Dedication to writing is a risk - because if that dedication dissolves into nothing, then you are disappointed.

I want my old flame again. I will find it.