A girl and her words

I'd forgotten that it's okay to simply write for yourself. A blog is after all a personal diary whose pages are left open for anyone to glance over should they wish. 

It's funny how confidence in ones voice can deplete when not used regularly . . . Yet, this Christmas I was given the most precious gift of all. A typewriter.

She is sat on my desk, in front of my window eagerly waiting for my hands to tap, tap away and create a world for exploring. With Miss Austen sat lovingly at her desk, busying herself with her storytelling from my favourite framed keepsake, I am reminded where it all began.

The feeling that I must indeed find a way to write came to me as if by magic, as I sat opposite the historical home of dear Jane in the enchanting village of Chawton 11 years ago - her cottage is only a short half an hour drive from my home. This has always felt like a sign in my imaginative mind!

I take little lights of inspiration wherever I find them. And my Olivetti Lettera 22 Typewriter - affectionately named Olivia - has just unlocked my confidence from its hiding place, just in time for the New Year. I think I can start believing again. Except this time, it's not just a far off dream from many years ago. It's real.

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